Unforgotten(17)

I start to push myself to my feet but my body is suddenly slammed back down to the earth by a wave of dizziness. My head throbs. The air around me feels alive with electricity.

And then, once again from somewhere very far away, I hear it.

A woman’s voice. An ethereal whisper in the incoming storm. A commandment.

“Find me.”

My gaze whips in every direction, as I try to figure out where it could be coming from. Who could be saying it. But just like last night in the forest, I see nothing. I’m alone.

I close my eyes tight and listen carefully for the voice but now I hear only the wind and the morning crows, hungrily circling the newly planted crops.

Finally, I give up. Releasing a frustrated groan, I push myself to my feet again.

This time, nothing stops me.





8

DEPARTURE



When I arrive back in our room, I’m surprised to see that Zen is still sleeping. He’s usually awake with the morning light. Also, the bedroom seems warmer than usual. And there’s a distinctive stale odor.

I scurry over to the window, shoving it open. The crisp dawn air immediately refreshes the room. I stick my head outside and feel the sharpness of the cold oxygen seeping into my lungs.

But when I turn around, I notice Zen is shivering. A prickle of bumps spreading over his bare arms and back. I shut the window.

I get dressed quickly, stuffing my soiled nightdress at the back of the armoire to be dealt with later. Then I walk back to the bed and sit down next to Zen.

He doesn’t move.

I reach out to touch his cheek but recoil instantly when I feel how hot it is. Boiling. I pat the sheets around him. They’re damp.

“Zen?” I shake him lightly.

He rouses, struggling to open his eyes. And it’s not until now that I notice the heavy purple shadows beneath them. The reddish tint of the whites. His irises, which usually sparkle, have an unsettling dullness to them.

I study the rest of his body. His dark hair is matted against his forehead. His skin is pale, with a pasty yellowish hue, and there is no color in his cheeks. His face contorts in pain as he pushes himself up and swings his legs off the bed.

“Are you okay?” I ask in alarm.

He shivers and rubs his arms. “Yeah,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. His knees give out and for a moment he’s falling forward. In a flash, I’m in front of him, breaking his fall, catching him in my arms.

“Zen?” My voice is trembling.

“I’m fine.” He brushes me off, sounding almost on the verge of annoyance. “You know you shouldn’t move that fast inside the house.”

“I…” I start to argue, but my throat constricts, suffocating the rest of the words.

I move back and let him walk away from me. He steps into his breeches, wobbling slightly and steadying himself with one arm on the foot of the bed. “I’m just feeling a bit under the weather. I’ll be okay.”

“Maybe you should go back to sleep,” I suggest.

But he dismisses me with a shake of his head. “There’s too much work to be done.”

“But—” I try again.

Zen cuts me off. “It’s nothing. Really. I’ll have some hot porridge and I’ll be good as new.”

I watch him stagger out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I follow closely behind him in case he falls again.

Mrs. Pattinson is already in the kitchen working on the bread. I’ve always thought the way she handles dough is telling of her personality. Kneading it with violent, forceful thrusts, as though she’s attempting to murder it.

“Have either of you spotted my bread knife?” she says as soon as we appear at the base of the stairs.

I shake my head and avoid her gaze while Zen mumbles a negation, grabs a bowl from the table, and helps himself to the porridge that’s heating on the fire. Mrs. Pattinson takes one look at his face and her hands fall limp to her sides.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asks brusquely.

I’m instantly relieved to see that I’m not the only one who noticed.

“Nothing.”

“Are you ill?” she presses.

Ill.

The word flashes before my eyes like a lightning bolt as I scramble to find a definition buried somewhere in my mind.

Ill: being in unsound physical or mental health. Sick.

“No,” Zen replies curtly. “I’m not ill. I’m perfectly fine.”

Mrs. Pattinson studies him, seemingly deciding whether or not to believe him. Zen ignores her, shoveling spoonfuls of steaming porridge into his mouth. I can’t help but notice that his hands are shaking.

Mrs. Pattinson goes back to beating the dough with the palm of her hand. “Well, I sure hope not,” she says with a quiet grunt, “because I’m sending the pair of you into London today to sell the surplus of apples and pears.”