17
Melody sat frozen, only half-concealed, watching as a lone pair of man’s boots stepped into the room. The door closed behind him, and for a moment he just stood there, staring straight ahead. Not moving. Not seeing…
Lurch!
She stopped breathing altogether. The huge man was motionless, his extraordinarily long arms dangling down near his knees. For a minute she was afraid to look at his face, to see his expression, as if that one little act would cause him to glance at her. But instead of seeing her, which he certainly should have, Lurch instead turned his attention to the other side of the room.
He walked with slow, heavy footsteps over to the room’s small fireplace. There he stopped, knelt down, and drew a match from a wall-mounted match safe.
He tried lighting the match. It didn’t catch.
I’ve got to get out of here…
The man’s back was to her now. Melody considered crossing the room, both silently and quickly. She could pull one off for sure, but the problem was she didn’t think she could do both.
Just go now. Before he sees you!
For some reason she didn’t move. She sat watching the man continue lighting matches — or rather, not lighting matches — in an attempt to get the fire going. The fear drained away. It was replaced by curiosity.
Has he ever even done this before?
Match after match, the fire refused to light. Lurch couldn’t even get a flame going. And then she saw why.
You should help him.
The thought made her gasp. Physically, actually gasp. Melody clamped a hand over her own mouth as Lurch’s ears pricked up. He cocked his head slightly, but still didn’t turn around.
Just run. You can make the doorway. Who cares if he sees you? By the time he gets up you’ll be halfway down the hall already.
She rose to a mostly-standing position. She did it slowly too, so that her knees didn’t pop.
Lurch was slumped in defeat now, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Unstruck matches littered the hearth of the small fireplace. He was on his twentieth or so attempt. And then…
Oh my God.
Ever so slightly, his shoulders began to move. They jogged up and down in small, almost imperceptible sobs.
He’s crying!
Melody stood up. She sucked in a breath, threw back her hair… and walked straight over to the fireplace.
The man jerked quickly around, startled by her presence. He didn’t look angry, though. He didn’t really look like anything.
“Here,” she said. “Let me help you with that.”
Melody knelt down beside the man. She was no longer afraid. The house didn’t matter, the egg didn’t matter, this was just one human being helping another.
Her hand closed over his, and his skin felt impossibly cold. She almost winced, but somehow stopped herself. Gently she took the match he was holding.
“What’s your name?”
The man stared at her with his big grey eyes. His face held little in the way of expression. But his eyes…
“Miles,” the man said.
His eyes were kind.
Melody smiled at him, and the smile felt good. “You’re missing the striker, Miles,” she said. “Look here. The striker is all worn out. It’s worn down to nothing. But there’s another one here, over on this side…”
She struck the match. It lit on the first try.
Miles’ face lit up as she very carefully handed the match to him. He took it and used it to light the pile of other matches, just beneath the kindling. A half minute later the small fire was burning nicely.
“Thank you,” Miles said thickly. And for the first time, his lips actually curled upward, into a vague grin.
“You’re very welcome,” Melody told him.
They sat before the fire for a minute or two, just watching the flames. Neither of them spoke. Unconsciously Melody’s gaze became fixated on the growing orange glow, on watching the flames lick upward at what somehow seemed way too fast to be normal. She blinked, and the after-image made her dizzy. It snapped her out of her trance though, while Miles remained watching.
Slowly she backed out of the bedroom, leaving the man to his privacy. He never asked why she was there. She never got to ask any of the questions she wanted to, either. Yet it was better that way, she thought to herself. Somehow it made what had happened between them more… pure.
After another bit of searching Melody backtracked through the hallway, making her way to her own room. She had no idea where Eric was. No clue what was keeping him.
It’s almost like he doesn’t care…
At this point, she was kind of over it already. Since rescuing her from the thing in the hallway, Eric hadn’t been that helpful at all. Whatever his mission actually was — whatever the Order had sent him there to accomplish — he seemed no longer concerned with it.
If he ever was to begin with…
She was totally over Evermoore, too. Whatever game Lady Neveux was playing with the people who stayed here, it was a stupid one. Just because they went along with it doesn’t mean she had to. Guest or no guest.
And then there was Miles…
That the poor man was being exploited, she had absolutely no doubt. As far as Melody knew he was impaired, or disabled, or at the very least slower than everyone else. She didn’t know how he got here, or why he even stayed. But these were all things she planned on bringing up... and soon.
“The Lady of the House is expecting you,” Melody repeated while washing her face. “That’s what I was told.”
She stared into the mirror, taking stock of herself for the first time in a long while. Her hair was a complete train wreck. Her body was sweaty and sore — the latter probably from sleeping in these tiny wooden beds.
“If you’re actually expecting me,” she told the mirror, “I’m coming. So buckle up, Lady Neveux. I’m long past caring whether you’re ‘under the weather’ or not.”
Satisfied that she looked at least somewhat presentable, Melody crossed the little bedroom and grabbed the doorknob.
It didn’t budge.
Ah, shit.
She jigged it again, but it was no use. The old knob was intricate but sturdy. She was locked in.
The key…
The key should’ve been on the corner of the night table, exactly where she left it. She knew without looking what her eyes told her only a moment later… that the key was no longer there.
“FUCK,” Melody swore out loud.