I know exactly how long it takes to get to the platform where the train stops. I know exactly how long it takes to get from here to the fence, even in the snow. “I’m sure I can’t get there before the train comes.” I make my gaze go soft, like I’m working out the timing in my head. This room could be full of that same frozen fog, for all the hairs on the backs of my arms stand up. My mother breathes slowly and carefully, like that could make it stop, but she clutches the blanket tightly on her other side where she thinks I can’t see. Her eyes narrow, red-rimmed with exhaustion. “Mama-I was about to get more tea for you.” I catch the doorframe with one hand and slow my momentum coming into the room so it looks like I’ve been walking with urgency and not recklessness all along. To prove it I cross my fingers tight and go quickly down the hall.

I’m really, really hoping she’ll be better when I get up to her room. Maybe, if she’s sick enough, we’ll go into the city to see a doctor. I take the stairs two at a time, landing light on my feet, heart beating fast. Our house is quiet enough, always, for me to hear her when she calls.

What those women in that shop told me, with their cards and their prying eyes-it won’t come true. Worry grips me in spite of myself, digging its fingers into the spaces between my ribs. I took her wrist to help her back under the covers. It was when I brought her the last cup of tea. And I think-I know-that what makes her most furious is that I saw her struggling to get out of bed. Grinding her teeth whenever she’s not coughing. It’s not the first time I’ve thought of disappearing into it, and never coming back.Īnother cough, deep enough to splinter wood and rock.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen this trick of water and light. Streaks of sun catch the crystals hovering above the ground. I shift from foot to foot in front of the kitchen sink. November has just turned into December, bringing a cold wind.

What’s the alternative? I could go crazy with it, but I’d still be inside. For a moment the fabric presses in tight against my skin, too tight, hemming me in the way the house does. In mid afternoon, with the sun fighting its way through the clouds, I’m barely there. It’s only cabin fever that makes my face look flushed in the shimmering reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. I feel it in the center of my own chest, even one floor removed. The stairs do nothing to conceal the sound. My mother’s cough rattles the house-the wood and the windowpanes and the floor beneath my feet.

Hades and persephone amelia wilde