Life as we knew it, the kind we had settled into, is gone.
This is our life now—working endless hours getting supplies to and from the makeshift infirmaries, trying to keep the injured from dying of simple things like dehydration. The infirmaries are overrun and understaffed, and the burns from the Others’ venom lick away at the moisture in their victims’ bodies.
I take Cecilia along with me, strapped to my back. My mother keeps offering to watch her, and it probably makes more sense than suffering the knots that develop in my shoulders and neck from carrying her, but I just can’t bear to leave her.
Not when any day now, those creatures might return.
Not when we are helpless.
Helpless.
Wasn’t that why I told Evander I wanted to go with him to the Rip? Because I’d felt useless, helpless?
It occurs to me I didn’t know the definition of those words until now.
My hands ache to do something, anything. So I do what I can, and though that mostly means lugging pails of water from the castle water reserves to the infirmaries where the healers can distribute them to patients, it’s at least something. Something that leaves my palms with the calluses of doing.
I don’t see much of Evander in the days following the attack. While I’m out lugging pails of water around, he’s stuck in meetings with the nobles who escaped death or major injury. There aren’t many of them, but they all have opinions, opinions that seem to contradict. Each of them feels Evander is unqualified to rule, which apparently they make evident at each meeting.
When he isn’t coming up with a plan for rebuilding the kingdom or rallying allies or funding the research of weapons that could actually defend against the Others, he’s busy around town. He’s rebuilding cottages and helping children find their way back to their parents. Holding their hands and finding them homes when there are no parents to be found.
He’s put several of them up at the palace.
Too many of them to be practical, but it isn’t as if anyone is going to say anything.
Even Evander’s cousin knows better than that.
Sometimes I feel a hand brush mine at the wells, catch a faint glimpse of my husband flashing me a smile when we find ourselves drawing water for the infirmaries at the same time.
We almost always arrive home at different times, one of us always discovering the other already passed out in bed.
I can hardly remember the last time we had a full conversation without either of us falling asleep.
But still. Evander leads. And Evander learns. And Evander serves. And I can hardly think about any of it without a lump forming in my throat.
One day, we find ourselves fortunate enough to be at my parents’ at the same time. Mama convinced me I need sleep, and that she was perfectly capable of taking care of Cecilia for a few hours while I got some rest in my old bedroom.
I do feel better, more clearheaded, once I awake from a deathlike slumber. Part of me feels guilty though, like there are people out in the city who might have died of dehydration while I’ve been curled up in my old bed, succumbed to the blissful oblivion of sleep.
My mother doesn’t tolerate me admitting as much, and after I feed Cecilia, she sends me out to see to my father, who she claims is equally dreadful about allowing himself rest.
Indeed, I find him in his workshop, hammering away at a loose board that came off during the attack.
He looks at me and smiles faintly. I don’t say anything as I pick up a hammer and get to work alongside him.
Evander shows up not long after, placing a kiss on my forehead before grabbing a hammer and joining us.
It doesn’t take long being in the workshop for me to transition back to helping my father with his tasks.
As we work, he asks Evander what must be an overwhelming amount of questions about what is being done about Azrael and the Others.
“Papa,” I say, “Evander sits through meetings about this all day. And when he’s not in meetings, he’s out helping like the rest of us.”
Evander rubs my shoulder. “It’s okay. He’s a citizen here, too. He has a right to know what’s being done.”
So Evander tells him. He tells him of rallying support from the other kingdoms and the troubling news of Naenden being overtaken.
My heart lurches for Asha, the idea of her being trapped in a marriage with Azrael, her nightmares coming true.
During the discussion, my mother brings me Cecilia, whom I bounce in my arms as my mother returns to the house.
“And weapons?” my father asks. “What of the problem of the Others’ venom melting through our soldiers’ armor, their shields?”
Evander sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him return to the old habit in weeks.
“Honestly, Jethro, I have no idea. We have all our best weapons experts on it. I’m practically dumping out our coffers at their feet, if any of them can figure out a solution. So far, no one’s been able to come up with anything. They all say the same thing: how do we fight with creatures who aren’t of our world? Who don’t play by our rules, the rules of our elements?”
My father crosses his arms, leaning back against a crate of cast-iron pans as he nods his head contemplatively.
He says something, but I find myself zoning out, his voice muffled in my mind.
Where my father’s shoulders rest upon the crate is a spot—a hole, where the venom that sprayed on the roof of the workshop during the attack has dripped down and eaten through the wood.
“Papa,” I say, scrambling over to where he’s standing, reaching over him to open the crate.
“I don’t know how much good those will do anybody,” says my father. “Though I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. You’re right, there probably are families who could use some cookware right about now.”
I shake my head, my mouth hanging open in shock, in the hesitation that comes before hope.
