*
Boen woke from an uneasy dream, the clouds beyond his window grey and pink. The storm had rattled his pane all night, though now stars lingered in the dawning sky, and he lay for a few moments, trying to remember what had woken him. Eventually he turned his thoughts to the tankard beside him. He reached out for it, grimacing at the pain in his ribs, though he refused to relent. For the past week he had been exercising slowly: lifting books, raising his legs, sitting upright. Ever so slowly he was beginning to notice the difference. His fingers shook as he took hold of the tankard, and he spilt most of the contents as he brought it to his lips, but he replaced it with a triumphant sigh, before collapsing back into his sheets.
Today was going to be a big day for him. He would attempt for the first time since his beating to stand, and from then would begin the real struggle of rehabilitation.
But not yet. Even reaching for the water had knocked the strength from him. He would have to eat more, he considered, even though food made him nauseous.
He turned his attention to the window once again. What’s Eryn up to? He thought, knowing she would still be in bed, dreaming of anything other than him. His cheek twitched, and he reminded himself he was growing angry whenever he thought of her. She had risked everything to go to Lundy, risked everything for a dead man, and yet she hadn’t even tried to contact him.
Again he sighed, knowing full well that Semilion would have forbidden her to visit him, he probably even banned his name in their home, and yet she had known what they risked if they had been caught, could she not do that for him?
‘Leave it alone,’ he said, his voice still full of sleep. He had felt himself grow increasingly bitter as the weeks progressed, bitter toward his family, bitter toward the community, but he wanted nothing more than to keep a part of himself that was reserved for Eryn. A part that was untouched by blame, and spite, and self-pity.
A battle flared in his mind as to whether it was self-pity or whether his anger was justified, and again he was lost to thoughts of a thousand conversations that had provoked him across the years. Baron thumping him any time he laid eyes on him throughout their childhood, George abandoning their friendship as soon as Baron took an interest. He relived a moment in school, when Seb had loosened a stone and hurled it at his back. It had hurt for weeks, but not as enduringly as the verbal torment that had accompanied him throughout those years. Skin-ribs, grease-merchant, cow-son, shit-sniffer; the list was endless, and whilst he had thought the intended effect of angering him had never worked, they had twisted him into who he was today: shy, skittish, retiring, and lacking.
His door opened, and his glowering eyes snapped toward Arabella, who stopped in the doorway. He shook away his thoughts and whispered, ‘Sorry, come in.’
She slipped inside, easing the door closed, then swept across the room to him. ‘You sure you’re well enough?’
‘I’m not going to get any better laying here like a turd!’
She rolled an apple from her skirts and ordered him to eat it before they started, then brandished a knife and cut it into pieces for him.
‘You’ve lost so much weight, Boen,’ she said, her cheek furrowing with sympathy.
He breathed heavily as he chewed and swallowed, nausea stirring in him. He retained some of the apple in his cheek until the feeling subsided, then swallowed more. ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to eat, even if it kills me.’ He replied, meeting her gaze.
‘I’ll tell ma, she’ll be happy to hear it.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ he snapped, grabbing her wrist. ‘I don’t want her knowing I’m getting better. I already told you, if she knows then pa will know.’
She lowered her eyes. She didn’t know what Boen had planned for their father, though she knew, and understood why, it would be terrible.
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
Stone Hill.