Chapter Eighteen: Tea Leaves and Trespassers

'Nessie,' a voice calls, and I turn back to the house. Father is standing in the doorway, wearing his familiar three-day-old t-shirt, and I sigh. He won't ask for help, but as I follow him into the house I know he needs it. The single-room that is all we have of a lower floor is cluttered with rubbish, clothing, empty food containers and liquor bottles, in varying degrees of filled. There fire in the corner of the room has died out, leaving a cold and desolate feeling instead. There's a crunch as my feet step on glass, and I wince.

Dad is oblivious, striding through his mess to the small kitchen at the back, made of a small sink and an old hob. He brandishes a metal kettle towards me, grinning. 'Tea?'

I can't help but smile, it's such a familiar gesture. 'Of course, Dad.'

He pulls out some chipped mugs from a cupboard, before placing tea leaves in a sieve over the mugs. I notice that for his own, he uses second hand tea leaves, but for mine, they're new and unspoiled.

I'm touched. It's something so small nobody else would think anything of it, but to me, it's everything.

Dad fills the kettle with fresh water from a pail before turning to place it on the fire to heat. His expression is comical as he stares at the empty grate, with no flames whatsoever to be seen.

'I'll go get some kindling,' he says, although I can see him really thinking, 'When did that go out?'

In answer, probably several days ago. I sigh again. As soon as Dad leaves, I set about cleaning up the place. Rubbish to be cleared, clothes to be put away, floor to be mopped, sofa to be cleaned from all of the crumbs...

I'm still at it when he gets back fifteen minutes later, leaves clinging to his greying hair. Thankfully, the area is now glass free and hopefully, trip hazard free.

Dad doesn't notice the change. He throws the kindling on the fire, looking pleased as he manages to get a small glow. I'm going to have to wait hours for my tea while he stokes the fire, so I continue to clean. No one else is going to take care of him.

After a while, Dad peers at me from over his large rimmed glasses and realises what I'm doing. Absent-minded, he says, 'Oh thank you, Nessie. Did you spill something?'

I'm scrubbing the floor for him. I don't have the heart to snap, so I smile and nod.

Typical Dad.

Then, he says, stirring the water that was beginning to boil, 'Why don't you come back and live with me, Nessie?'

I pause in my scrubbing, sleeves rolled up, hair flopping in stray curls down my cheeks. I want to tell him that I would come back, if I could. That it wasn't really my choice.

But I know it's a lie.

I don't want to live here, with him, in this hovel. I wanted to be better, to do better. My father was a gambler and a drunk, and as much as I loved him, I was better than that, and better than him.

'Always knew you were going somewhere,' Dad huffs, pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves. They crackle and brew as he moves the kettle to the next cup. 'Nate was good. He would have stayed, if he'd lived. Why won't you?'

I wipe my sweating forehead and place the dirty sponge back in the bucket, gratefully accepting my tea as Dad hands it over. I blow in it, watching the steam skitter from my breath, and say, 'I'm smart, Dad. I'm fairly astute. I know what my future is here, and it's bleak. It's working down a mine, working in a factory, working on the rigs out in the sea whilst the rich stay rich and we stay poor. I want more than that, Dad.'

Why am I even explaining? I'm not sure, but the truth seems compelling to come out from my mouth. But I realise that it's true. When I studied hard, it was for my own gain. When I trained in the name of revenge, a part of me knew that it was because I wanted to be the strongest. And as I realise it, someone else enters the house.

He's a dark shadow, a blur, but I know immediately who it is. He walks straight up the narrow stairs, and Dad doesn't even flinch. In fact, Dad has gone quiet, and he leaves the house entirely.

I'm utterly confused, but I storm upstairs after Hadrian.

Has he finally joined me? I'd been with him before...before when? I rub my temple. There's a blank space in the centre of my brain that's blocking out my orientation. Maybe I should ask Hadrian.

My feet pound the stairs two at a time, nimbly leaping from foot to foot. At the top of the stairs, I whirl around the corner, and there's only two rooms. My dad's room is shut, and seems to fade into the background. All I can see is the dark-haired king standing in the foot of my bedroom, surveying where I'd lived for all those years before him.

I tense. I know how it looks off by heart.

On my side, a collection of scavenged books, the majority on death, tales of the underworld, and the customs of Minoa, which included the ritual of the little saint bride. They're all housed on a small, shoddy worktable where I had allowed the only passion I'd ever known, other than fighting-- and that was sketching.

My sketches were mostly copied from the books I found, and occasionally I would scavenge an art book to copy. They were all in the same grubby medium-- charcoal, dusted all over the bench, and lying in a puddle of ash on the floor for the number of pieces I'd done. The cloud was enough to cover the foot of my bed, making it appear as if the rickety bunk beds were forming the first part of a rotting disease.

Bunk beds-- yes. Because for the last five years, the second part of my room had been left exactly the way Nate left it, the day he died. It's still a raw nerve, and I forced myself to sit in that room and never forget that someone had murdered him, and someone had brought him back to life.

And I would rip the bastards, limb from limb.

Hadrian's face turns back to me, oddly understanding. When he reaches for me, I feel vulnerable; he's seen where I spent all those years hiding, crying, fighting, remembering. He pulls me close, and I allow him to caress my cheeks.

Somehow, he knows that I'm hurting inside. I don't know how he knows, but I see in in the way he strokes my hair and lets my face rest on his shoulder.

He says, 'I can make the pain go away.'

And I don't question what he means. When I look up in pretend meekness, his eyes are filled with that same desire I'd seen in his bedroom, icy blue but desperate for warmth. It would be nice to numb that pain in my chest, the constant grief that pulls my heart in two. For once, it would be nice if those voices demanding revenge and resentment were to fade into the background.

I let my lips meet his, and it's bliss. He moans in surprise as I kiss harder, biting against his lips, pulling at the shirt he wears loosely over his muscled chest. He staggers at my power, and steps backwards, drifting perfectly onto the lower bunk. He grabs my waist, letting his hands roam around my hips and I push him down, knowing where it would lead but swinging my legs over him anyway.

I straddle him, and I lock him down. Laced with a burning feeling, I kiss each and every inch of his neck, making him squirm in delight, his hands raking my hair and mussing it.

Panting, he pleads, 'My shirt. Take off my shirt.'

I don't argue. I rip off the buttons, letting them pop so that I can expose his chest.

It's still a dizzying sight, and I dive to kiss his belly and along his hips where a V-line leads lower...

'More,' he pleads.

I reach for his trousers.

---

I choke. I splutter.

And I emerge from the surface of the pool, coughing my lungs out after inhaling all of the waterfall. The waters churns around me and I blink, disorientated, remembering the beggar, and the school, and the house--

-- and... I turned pink. Had I really...? Was that real...?

'Thank hell you're here,' I hear a low, amused voice. I splash, fighting against my clothing to stay above the foaming water. Behind me, the water thunders to the bottom, spraying anywhere in the vicinity.  A hand comes before my eyes, and I reach for it, allowing it to pull me out of the water and onto the bank.

Hadrian. Hadrian's here, and I'm clutching his hand like it's a life support.

'I thought you'd gone,' he laughs, letting go of my hand. His touch has caused my cheeks to blush so heavily that my face feels like it's on fire. I pray he doesn't notice. 'Sometimes people sin so bad that they're not even allowed into Elysium. They're taken to Judgement.'

'Judgement?' my teeth chatter. The word comes out shakily.

'Yeah, where you get chained to a rock or are coating in oil and burned or--'

'I get it,' I say, shaking my head in fear. I shoot another glance at the waterfall, afraid despite how innocent it looks. The pool below is impossible to judge how deep it goes. 'So I passed?'

'Let me see,' Hadrian replies, and his hands grip my shoulders. Again, I flush with the reminder of his hands gripping me in other places, but he doesn't notice, spinning me to face him. He stares down at my chest and I grow hot again, until I notice there's something around my neck.

It's a chain with a placard on it. A number-- upside down-- and then a series of letters and numbers. I can't make sense of it, but clearly Hadrian can.

He groans.

'You didn't fail outright,' he says, 'But you failed a good majority.'

----

ANY CLUES YET AS TO WHAT'S GOING ON? Poor Nerissa. She's failed SOMETHING, but what?

And what did she get up to with Hadrian...

(Her dad could have walked in though!!)

Larissa

xxx