He dreams--as he so rarely does--of an angel smelling of cinnamon. She tells him 'everything will be all right in the morning', and he believes her. He wakes contented, well-rested, with a peaceful lassitude in his limbs.
Rae...
His contentment pops like a bubble. Autor gasps, what he said the night before flooding back to him. He sits up--and immediately falls back down, dizzy, narrowly missing cracking his head on the headboard. Autor presses his hand to his stomach, trying to tamp down the sick feeling there mixing with the gnawing feeling of not having eaten.
The boy peels his lips apart. He spots the tea and drinks some--slowly, to wet his mouth. Too fast, and he'd be nauseated. He sets the cup aside, trying not to think on who brought that to him, and what he said to her--but he can't not think on it. Despite its taste, the tea is bitter in his mouth. Citrus-lavender-sage tea, what Rae drinks when everything has gone to hell.
He'd thought he was done with crying. Apparently not. Oh, god, Rae! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The boy leans his arms on his bent knees, tears staining his arms. He can't convince her that he didn't mean it, because he did mean it, every word. How could he not? To be a Spinner was his dream, his safety. Everything in his life had been building to this moment. Now, not only was he proved incapable, he may have lost a friend. His best friend. He was thoughtless, and hurtful--he thought he'd outgrown that cruelty after he'd cut himself on Lohengrin's sword.
I have to find her. I have to tell her that I was wrong, the boy thinks, raising his head. Tears bead on his cheeks and slip down to his throat. He stands, and then falls back on the bed, dizzy. Will she believe me?
Autor cleans his glasses. First, he must order food. The boy vows to find his friend--if she's still willing to be called that--as soon as he takes care of himself. She was right about one thing, he thinks bitterly. The ritual doesn't work. I'm not a Spinner. I'm not... Oh, Rae.
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He dreams--as he so rarely does--of an angel smelling of cinnamon. She tells him 'everything will be all right in the morning', and he believes her. He wakes contented, well-rested, with a peaceful lassitude in his limbs.
Rae...
His contentment pops like a bubble. Autor gasps, what he said the night before flooding back to him. He sits up--and immediately falls back down, dizzy, narrowly missing cracking his head on the headboard. Autor presses his hand to his stomach, trying to tamp down the sick feeling there mixing with the gnawing feeling of not having eaten.
The boy peels his lips apart. He spots the tea and drinks some--slowly, to wet his mouth. Too fast, and he'd be nauseated. He sets the cup aside, trying not to think on who brought that to him, and what he said to her--but he can't not think on it. Despite its taste, the tea is bitter in his mouth. Citrus-lavender-sage tea, what Rae drinks when everything has gone to hell.
He'd thought he was done with crying. Apparently not. Oh, god, Rae! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The boy leans his arms on his bent knees, tears staining his arms. He can't convince her that he didn't mean it, because he did mean it, every word. How could he not? To be a Spinner was his dream, his safety. Everything in his life had been building to this moment. Now, not only was he proved incapable, he may have lost a friend. His best friend. He was thoughtless, and hurtful--he thought he'd outgrown that cruelty after he'd cut himself on Lohengrin's sword.
I have to find her. I have to tell her that I was wrong, the boy thinks, raising his head. Tears bead on his cheeks and slip down to his throat. He stands, and then falls back on the bed, dizzy. Will she believe me?
Autor cleans his glasses. First, he must order food. The boy vows to find his friend--if she's still willing to be called that--as soon as he takes care of himself. She was right about one thing, he thinks bitterly. The ritual doesn't work. I'm not a Spinner. I'm not... Oh, Rae.