The Castle Behind Thorns by Merrie Haskell Read Free Book Online Page A

been born, lived, and grown. Now it was an empty shell, broken in half. The keep was cracked, the earth itself was cracked, and nothing was as she’d left it.
    The memory of comforting darkness was fading. She could barely recall those early moments of wakefulness in the stone niche in the crypt. Those memories slipped behind a door in her mind. All that she felt now was thirst. She stumbled to her knees, forced herself up, and went on. Warm blood—living blood—ran from a scrape on one knee, but she tried not to mind. She needed something to drink. She could not think past that need anymore. Wine—in the cellars—cider—in great barrels—ale—
    Her feet carried her toward the pantries, and she found nothing there to drink, either. Water. Water. Water. She struggled to keep on, staggering out of the kitchen and into the bright sun again, heading down the stairs toward the well.
    Water . She might have said it; she might not have. The word was like a call within her. With the well in sight, she fell to the mud.

8
    Porridge
    A GIRL, DRESSED IN SAFFRON VELVET AND RUSSET silk, with frizzled golden-brown hair flowing from under a small cap, staggered toward Sand across the courtyard. Her hazel eyes were glassy, and her mouth was open.
    â€œWater,” she croaked, and fell.
    Sand had never moved so fast, but still he didn’t manage to catch her before she reached the ground. She thumped sideways into the mud, and Sand felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t somehow been faster.
    A person . A girl .
    The girl from the crypt—yes? She wore the same—
    The dead girl from the crypt.
    Almost, he did not touch her. Almost, he was too afraid of her sunken eyes and hollow cheeks and the fact that she had been dead when last he saw her. But he forced himself to touch her. He turned her over. Her breath was labored, her eyes closed.
    She had spoken before she fell—one word. “Water.”
    He had water. He ran to the kitchen and filled his copper cup. Hand over the cup to catch sloshes, he ran back. He knelt beside her in the mud and dribbled water in her mouth, hoping it would revive her; her eyes fluttered, but did not open. She swallowed the water, though, swallowed all of it, and immediately her sunken skin plumped and brighter colors came to her cheeks and lips.
    He dripped more water into her mouth, until she would swallow no more; then, unwilling to leave her in the mud of the courtyard, he hoisted her awkwardly onto his shoulders. She was taller than Sand but lighter than he expected, as light as one of his sisters.
    He carried her to his bed in the Count’s room, tucking her into his comfortable nest. He built up a fire to take the chill from the air, then hurried down to the kitchen to make her some food. He did not want to leave her alone too long, in case she woke.
    He put a good porridge on to cook in a copper pot. He combined oats with dried bits of plum, pear, apple, raisins, and some carefully picked-over crystals of honey. He heated water for washing, then carried porridge and water up to the Count’s room. He drew up a stool next to the bed. Dampening a scrap of fine toweling, he washed the girl’s hands and face.
    This woke her. She stared up at him with frightened yet imperious eyes.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked.
    â€œI am Alexandre, son of Gilles Smith,” he answered, withdrawing his hands and folding the bit of toweling he’d used to clean her.
    She frowned, sitting up. He pushed back the stool a little, giving her space, while she cast her gaze around the chamber. Nothing broken remained in the room; only items that had been mended had been brought back in.
    â€œWhere is my father?”
    â€œPardon me, but who is your father?”
    â€œThe Count of Boisblanc, of course.” She sat up slowly. “You are here in Boisblanc, and you do not know this, Alexandre, son of Gilles Smith?”
    Sand blinked. “Call me