Evie
Did you ever love her? Do you know?
News has begun to spread of her return, but it has only been a few days since she strode down the middle of the street and opened her apothecary as if it had never been closed. Though she isn’t hiding, part of Evie is reticent to seek out her brother’s bookstore. As the sun sets most days she finds her eyes intrinsically drawn to the apothecary’s windows, in the direction of Wordsworth Books. Considering. And every time she shakes her head and escapes to the back room and the small bed within, ignoring the persistent call. She doesn’t want to have to explain why she departed so suddenly. Doesn’t want to face Sam’s concern, tentative and undeserved as it is. She is a coward. And it will haunt her.
Evie is tucked in the corner trying to encourage a particularly stubborn plant to bloom when the door opens. “I’ll be right with -” she begins to call out as she turns, only for her eyes to find Wessex’s grim expression. Her eyes fall lower, to the unmistakable figure of her brother in the Wraith’s arms, and she stands so swiftly that her hip slams into the table, sending the plant careening and the clay pot shattering at her feet. “No,” a breath. A whimper. A prayer, which is a mockery because people like Evie don’t get their prayers answered.
Her feet carry her to the door, though she isn’t sure how. Soil-stained hands come to cradle Sam’s lifeless face, a tortured moan escaping her as she bows her head over him until their foreheads touch. He is still cold from the waters of the Oasis. And it’s a terrible burden, to have been born and raised in the Grounds, because this is a pain so familiar it both burns and numbs. Tears escape, tracing from her cheeks to her twin’s in hot trails. Lifting her head she stares up at Wessex, expression shattered but shoulders cruelly firm against all odds or pretense of fairness. Eyes bloodshot and cheeks ruddy with grief, yes, but with hands that do not shake. “What happened?”
Evie is tucked in the corner trying to encourage a particularly stubborn plant to bloom when the door opens. “I’ll be right with -” she begins to call out as she turns, only for her eyes to find Wessex’s grim expression. Her eyes fall lower, to the unmistakable figure of her brother in the Wraith’s arms, and she stands so swiftly that her hip slams into the table, sending the plant careening and the clay pot shattering at her feet. “No,” a breath. A whimper. A prayer, which is a mockery because people like Evie don’t get their prayers answered.
Her feet carry her to the door, though she isn’t sure how. Soil-stained hands come to cradle Sam’s lifeless face, a tortured moan escaping her as she bows her head over him until their foreheads touch. He is still cold from the waters of the Oasis. And it’s a terrible burden, to have been born and raised in the Grounds, because this is a pain so familiar it both burns and numbs. Tears escape, tracing from her cheeks to her twin’s in hot trails. Lifting her head she stares up at Wessex, expression shattered but shoulders cruelly firm against all odds or pretense of fairness. Eyes bloodshot and cheeks ruddy with grief, yes, but with hands that do not shake. “What happened?”
Or did you just never want to be alone?
