Page 24 of The Devil May Care

Her mouth tightens for a heartbeat. “No. Not quite.”

She looks down and fiddles with the edge of her wrap.

“She died,” Sarai adds softly, like the words taste bitter even now. “A long time ago.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“She was brave.” A pause. “Too brave.”

Silence settles like a shawl between us.

“Do you want help washing up?” she asks after a moment, too practical to wallow.

I shake my head. “I’ve got it. But thank you.”

Sarai stands. “I’ll be just down the hall. Knock if the room decides to eat you.”

“Wait. What?”

“I’m kidding. If you need help, I’ll know, but you can also think about me really loudly.” She reaches the door. Hesitates. “For what it’s worth, bravery isn’t a bad thing, as long as you know your limits.” she says without turning around.

The room feels bigger after she leaves. Colder, too. I stare at the door for a long second after it shuts. Part of me wants to call her back—ask her more questions, anything really—but I don’t. I still don’t know what questions are safe to ask here. I eat. Slowly. One bite at a time, testing everything like it might bite back. The bread’s a little sweet, the stew tastes like ginger and something earthy, and the drink is warm enough to sting going down. Not bad. But not comforting either. Just different enough to not let me forget that this isn’t home.

Once I’ve forced enough of the stew down to feel human again—orhuman-adjacent—I move toward the basin in the corner. Steam still rises from it, faint and fragrant. Something like lavender, but richer. Maybe a flower I’ve never smelled before. The towels are folded perfectly, tucked into a shelf cut straight into the wall. There’s a brush made of bone and bronze, a jar of thick pale balm, and what looks like a bar of soap shaped like a flame.

It’s almost too much. Too kind. Like the room wants me compliant and polished before whatever happens next. I dip a hand into the water. It’s hot. Not scalding, but close. Just the way I like it. Of course it is. I strip off my shirt and try not to flinch at the dried blood along the hem. I’m pretty sure it’s mine. From the fall. From the desert. From… everything.

The basin’s not big enough to bathe in, but I wash the worst of the grime from my arms and chest, patting it away with the soft towel Sarai left. My hair’s another story—snarled and heavy with sweat and dust. I run the bone brush through it, wincing with every pass, wondering if I’ve ever looked this wrecked in my life.

Probably.

I just didn’t have a mirror to see it.

The balm practically sears my nostrils, the scent is so strong but I smear some along my arms and collarbone, letting it sink into my skin. It tingles. Cool first, then warm. In front of my eyes two bruises along my forearm start to fade. The parting scratch from George, the scabbed line along the back of my hand, fades to the pink sheen of healed scar tissue.

I glance toward the bed again, then at the robe Sarai left for me. It’s simple—black with shimmery gold stitching—but the fabric’s heavy and smooth, like woven moonlight. I hesitate, wondering if I’m giving it too easily, but my shirt is crusty and dirt-stained. The idea of pulling it back on makes me cringe. I reach for the robe. It fits. Of course it does.

I sit back on the edge of the bed, hair damp, feet bare, and stare at the door.

Someone will come for you soon. Caziel’s words echo louder now that the room’s gone quiet again.

Assessment.

It sounds clinical. A test. An exam. A sorting. I wonder if they’ll hook me up to wires or toss me into a pit and see if I climb out. Sarai seemedto know, I should’ve asked her what to expect. Better yet, I should’ve kept her in here. Barricaded the door. Demanded answers. But I didn’t. Wouldn’t. Because I’m still playing by rules I don’t understand, and I don’t fight fear with cruelty.

I lean back on my hands and look up at the inlaid ceiling again. The ceiling glows above me—soft gold inlaid with curling lines like constellations or maybe fractures in the surface of the world. I wonder if they shift. If they’re watching. If they mean something. If they’re waiting for my next move. I lie back on the bed again, the robe heavy on my shoulders, my thick damp hair spreading against a pillow that smells faintly like wildflowers and ash. It’s still tangled, but I can’t bring it in me to care.

I wonder a lot, lately.

I close my eyes and breathe. Just once. Just deep enough to feel the weight in my ribs and the quiet in the room. So, this is what we’re doing. I don’t have many choices. Not really. No weapons. No allies. No working theory about whether I’m dreaming, dying, or lost in an alternate plane of existence. No escape hatch. Just a door that disappears when I panic and reappears when I accept it. Which feels like a metaphor, honestly.

I don’t trust any of this, but I don’t have the energy to keep fighting it, either. I’ll play along. For now. I’ll go where they tell me. I’ll answer what I can. I’ll walk through their glowing halls and let them poke and prod and figure out what kind of weird human static I’m putting out. Within reason, obviously. I’m not about to climb onto a sacrificial altar or let them pull out my teeth just because someone in a cloak says it’s tradition. But I’ll play the part.

Because I want to live. And maybe, if I’m careful, if I stay useful, if I stay quiet until it matters, I’ll figure out how to get home. Or maybe I’ll finally wake up.

Sarai was here for five minutes, and she was the only person here who actually looked at me like I was real. Not a weapon. Not a threat. Not a riddle wrapped in flesh. She called me cursed bread. With affection.

Maybe she’ll come back.