Chapter 12

A/N: Chapters will come weekly as of this update. Right now I'm still on holiday, but my teaching placement starts on Tuesday. Once that placement is finished, I'll be back in classes for the remainder of the school year. I hope you all stick with me.

Thanks for all your love and support.

The days fell like flies, dropping to the floor in a crumpled heap in the exhausting, relentless heat of the blazing summer sun. Nightmarish slumber turned to endless daytime drudgery as Bella sat, weak and exhausted, between the bright, blue walls in the tall tower room. She wanted to move. She wanted to act. She wanted to rise, and triumph, and seek her escape from this island refuge, but try as she might, the endless cycle of restless sleep and disturbed, monotonous waking did not end.

When she rose each morning, her knees quaked like those of a newborn colt. When she laid down to bed at night, the throbbing in her head and the ache in her back flared like fire. When she ate, her stomach rebelled in spasms and cramps, and when she wetted her lips with a cup of water, thoughtfully poured by the healer's wife, she could still taste the salty, coppery tang of blood on her tongue.

Her bruises faded from black to blue, and from blue to a mottled greenish-brown that throbbed all day and itched all night. She scratched herself raw— each healing wound, no matter how large or small, itched like the devil, and though she knew better than to rake her nails across her freshly knitted skin, sometimes, when she was tired or frustrated, she could not help herself. How often had she felt the warm trickle of blood as her fingernails, bitten ragged and sharp, pressed down to ease the itch that seemed to emanate from the very bones themselves? The pain was delicious— such a distraction from the ever-lasting, irksome tickle— and though she knew the doctor would grow sharp and surly, she relished it nonetheless.

She spent her days in bed, desperate to leave, yet incapable of motion. The child was her constant companion— the little, waif-like girl who'd Bella learned was called Alice braided her hair, polished her fingernails, and chattered away so quickly and amiably that Bella, by sheer proximity, learned a few phrases in the Maronese language.

She had learned how to say yes, no, please, thank you, water, ocean, sick, and my name is Bella.

That last one had delighted the child beyond all reason, and she'd stared at Bella with abject glee when those last, stunted words had passed her unschooled lips. That joy had been followed by a bombardment of quick, chirping phrases that were still beyond Bella's comprehension or recognition, but her reignited ignorance had not deterred the girl, who had duly and insistently began her own curriculum of education to bring Bella up to speed.

She taught her sun. She taught her moon. She taught her bed, and pillow, and window. Bella learned that the great, colorful birds who sometimes left plumes of green and red on her window sill were called papagoj. She learned that the proper term for the doctor was kuracisto. She learned to say mi estas varmega when she grew too warm, or mi estas malvarma when the chills took over and she needed another blanket. Alice taught her how to how to say kapo and ripoj when the doctor asked her where it hurt, and juko to explain why she had scratched away the healing scab on the back of her scalp.

But these lessons— lessons for which Bella did not feel particularly enthused— were only small reprieves from the monotonous, daily routine that had become her norm. She woke, she ate, she washed, she slept. She woke again, she ate again, she washed again, and she slept again. The healer's wife came each day at noon. The child came at sunrise. Sometimes, Bella wondered just how things really were here— while the girl sat by her bed from dawn until dusk, performing small duties and rituals designed to keep Bella comfortable, Bella was nagged by the notion that the girl should not be here, but in a school, where she could learn her spelling and her sums. In America, where she'd grown up, and in China, where she'd been headed to teach, children did not stay home and tend to strangers like nursemaids all day and night. They went to learn, to better themselves and build a future, and it bothered Bella when she remembered this during the girl's visits. What kind of future was this child cultivating, sitting here, while Bella slept, and fidgeted, and scratched, and brooded? For that was all that Bella ever did, provided she was not crying.

Bella could not be sure, exactly, why she cried. It would hit her in the mornings, when she woke to the sounds of birdsong and wind. Sometimes, it would strike at noon, when the healer's wife, Esme, poked her head in with a radiant smile to contrast Bella's discontent. It struck her while she ate, sweet pineapple turning to ash on her tongue and the thick, sticky porridge made of boiled milk and oats congealing like stones in the back of her throat. It crept in during the long afternoons spent sitting in that high-seated, wooden chair by the window, gazing out on the lazily swaying jungle in the distance. And, more often than not, it came in the middle of the night when she woke in a cold sweat with the memory of roaring engines and a screaming child still ringing in the sudden and overwhelming silence.

And so it was there, in her bed of sweat and tears, that the healer found her in the early morning hours, curled beneath her furs and blankets with the child perched anxiously by her side. He came in softly— he always did— but when he saw how Bella lay, limp and despondent, he moved quickly, and with purpose.

She understood enough of his slow, deliberate speech to know what he wanted.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, his fingers coming up to brush the tangled hair from her brow. "You're crying, darling…"

Bella, sniffling pathetically, ran the back of her hand over her face. It came away wet, which did not surprise her, and she bristled beneath the sheets, wracking her brain for the right words. She found them on the tip of her tongue— those elusive, yet desperate missives for the impossible— and when she spoke them, the man's face fell.

"Home," she said, struggling to sit up. "Please. Take me home."

"I do not…" The man shook his head and eased her back onto the bed. "I'm sorry, darling. I don't know how."

And once again, like clockwork, she felt the dreaded sting behind her eyes and she curled tighter into herself, her cheek pressed hard against the pillow.

She did not know how to explain to this man that it was not a childish longing that plagued her and pushed her to such desperation— she needed to go home. She needed her family like she needed water and air. She did not know all the right words. She had only those few, foreign missives that lingered on the edge of her memory to voice her need, but even so, they were not enough. She knew that they were not enough. She needed to tell him so much more— she needed to ask for a boat, or a telephone, or some other way to get word back to the mainland. She needed to find a way back to civilization— her civilization— where she would find her family, and her home, and her friends, and her dog. She did not know how to ask for deliverance from this place— this land of trees, and grass, and armed, sword-wielding men that had taken her under its wing with such ample and generous kindness. Yet it was this kindness, so freely given, that was so foreign to her and, despite the constant companionship in her waking hours, it made her feel like she had never been so wholly and completely alone.

"Home," she said again, and when the man patted her soothingly on the head, she shook him off. "Please. I need to go home."

"Where?" he asked, and Bella felt her face fall.

"Away," she said, gesturing blindly towards the windows. They were the same words she'd used countless times before, to no avail. "Ocean. Water. Away…"

But when he stared at her, dumbfounded and speechless, Bella could do nothing to staunch the stormy, turbulent tears that overtook her.

The child lay curled behind her, her chest against Bella's back as she spoke soft, gentle words that floated through the haze of exhausted misery clouding the room. The healer was gone. His wife had not yet arrived. But the girl, Alice, had come at sunrise, and despite the poor company Bella was providing, she had never faltered or flinched away. Thus far, her morning had been rough. It was a worried day. It was a frightened day. It was a day so full of anxiety, desperation, and rabid, bitter frustration, that it was no wonder it took all of her energy to simply be.

Alice's hands ran down her back like a rushing waterfall, soothing away the knots that seized her muscles. The pressure brought a fearsome pain— one that Bella felt right down in her bones— but the relief those little hands brought with them when they pulled away made her grateful.

But when she thanked the girl, her voice low and crackly, the child simply shushed her. She sniffled instead, and the girl tutted sadly.

"Estas bone… you're alright," Alice soothed, watching with concern as Bella dabbed at her face again. "You're alright, My Lady."

Bella, no matter how many times she insisted upon it, could not convince Alice to use her given name.

"Thank you, Alice."

"Shh…"

Her hands pressed into a knot. She kneaded it for a few moments and Bella winced at the pressure, but as the butt of Alice's hand pressed into her skin, she felt the hardened muscle easing up.

"Better?" she asked, lifting her little hands away. "Better, My Lady?"

"Better," said Bella gently, though her back still ached and throbbed. "Thank you…"

"Shh."

Bella did as she was told.

"Sad, My Lady?" asked little Alice quietly, and Bella shook her head.

"No…" The lie was bitter. "No."

"You are sad," she said again, and this time, Bella saw her little face fall. "I'm sorry."

Feeling distinctly guilty, Bella shook her head profusely. The child had been trying so hard to cheer her up, but not even Alice could drive away the sorrow that had gripped her heart. Bella did not like to see her so defeated— she had taken Bella's welfare to heart, and the miserable failure with which she'd been met was bound to be discouraging.

"No, Alice," she said again, struggling for the right words. "Not… you."

"Not me?"

"No," Bella said. "Not you. Home."

The child grimaced.

"This is home," she said finally and Bella felt an irrational throb of fright, companions to the ones that had become her frequent visitors in days of late. Alice had said this many times before, and did not seem to understand when Bella protested.

"No," she said. "Not home."

"Then where?"

And thus began the cycle.

"America," said Bella pleadingly. "East."

"No east but the sea," chirped Alice sagely. Bella had heard these words many times before. "No north, or south, or west, either, but the sea."

"No," Bella disagreed. "No, Alice…"

"Yes," said the child simply, and Bella, recognizing her loss, flopped back down onto the pillows.

"I can't stay here," she said, in English this time. Alice cocked her head, curious. "I can't stay here."

"Home," said the girl again. "Mia Reĝo says so."

"What's Mia Reĝo?"

Alice balked.

"He is Mia Reĝo," she said again, looking shocked and surprised. "Mia Reĝo is… him."

Bella, struggling, began to stammer.

"What is…" she began. "What does… what does he do?"

"He is the Ĉefo," replied Alice.

"Ĉefo?" The child stared at her.

"Yes," she said. "He makes the rules."

"What rules?"

A knock on the door, timid and soft, startled them both and they jumped, hearts hammering out of their chests.

"It's too early for Esme," said Alice seriously, glancing speculatively at the rising sun in the eastern window. "It is not even midmorning…"

Bella made to get up, but Alice, scowling and firm, pushed her shoulders back down.

"No," she said, and another knock rang out. "I will go."

And she hopped out of the bed, scampering on tiptoe like a ballerina towards the large, wooden door.

The knock rang out a third time just as Alice cracked it open, poking her head through a small and narrow opening.

"Yes?" Bella heard her ask, and carefully, she pulled the blankets up over her waist. "What is it?"

"Let me in, Ali," said the visitor. "Please?"

"It's not seemly to let a man into a lady's room."

"I'm not a man yet," replied the voice cheekily. "Edward told me so just this morning."

"She is not dressed."

"I know…" Bella saw the tip of a dirty, scuffed boot on the threshold. "But Onklo says she's sad."

"When did he say so?"

"This morning, at the koncilia kunveno!" said the voice. "He said she's velkanto."

"No!" hissed Alice, and Bella shifted uncomfortably. "She is not!"

"Let me in, Alice," begged the voice again. "I just want…"

But he began to murmur, and Bella could hear no more.

Back and forth the hisses passed, a secret exchange of words that Bella could not make out. The longer they stood, the more agitated Alice seemed to grow, until finally, Bella heard her let out a vehement "No!", to which the voice said nothing.

"No…" Alice said again. "She is not well."

Bella perked up. The voice outside whispered something in muted, hushed tones. Alice replied almost at once.

"The doctor says…"

"Onklo is wrong," said the voice. "Please, Alice. Let her choose."

And Alice, looking back at Bella with the agony of choice before her, heaved a sigh and pulled open the door, letting Bella's gaze fall on the newcomer with rapt and curious attention.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It was the boy— not the man, who'd come to feed her fruit, or the doctor, who came to tend her wounds, but the boy with eyes of sapphire blue. It was the tall, lanky child with the tanned face and golden, floppy curls— the one before whom Bella had become such a bumbling, frightened fool.

When he met her gaze, Bella felt her face heat up like a beacon, and, fighting back the irrational spike of terror that came with the sight of him, she shifted uncomfortably in bed. Alice glared at the boy with hot accusation, her arms crossed over her chest, but when he did nothing untoward, Bella saw her shoulders sag. The boy shuffled awkwardly in the doorway as his eyes flitted between Bella and her keeper, though they eventually settled on Alice, who took pity on him.

"This is Jasper, My Lady," said Alice gently. "He is la princo."

"La princo?"

"Yes…" Alice bit her lip. "He the frato of Mia Reĝo."

"Frato?" she asked, her voice thin and reedy. The boy grinned eagerly at her.

"Yes," said Alice. "Frato. They have the same mother and father," she explained.

Frato. Brother.

"I've come for you," said the boy, and Bella was startled by the jerk of his chin towards her. "I want to show you something."

"Me?"

"Yes," said the boy. "Do you want to?"

"Want to what?"

"Come with me." The boy rolled his eyes. "Ekstere."

"I don't know what that means," said Bella gently. "And I have no clothes."

The brown linen dress— of which she'd been given three identical copies— had been identified as nightclothes by both Alice and Esme. Bella thought them decent, but the one time she had ventured into the bright antechamber with it on, Esme had ushered her back inside so quickly that her head had spun.

"Sure you do," grinned the boy. "Didn't my brother bring you some? He said he would…"

"Your brother?" Bella shook her head. "Mia Reĝo?"

The boy scowled at her.

"Yes," he said finally, "but you don't have to call him that."

Bella, confused, kept her mouth shut.

"They must be here…"

"They're here," said Alice quickly, stepping forward to stop the boy's advance towards the bags and baskets along the side wall. "But…"

"What is eks… that word?" asked Bella, interrupting what would have no doubt been another argument. "Do you know how I can get home?"

The boy stared at her before he shook his head, downcast.

"No."

"Ekstere," said Alice, and Bella paid close attention, "means out there."

She pointed a long, dainty finger towards the great windows, and Bella, suddenly alert, nodded her head.

"Outside?" she asked, though the English was lost on them. "I mean... out of the house?"

"Yes," said the boy. "Come. Alice will find you a dress."

Alice scowled at him.

"Yes," said Bella at once, ignoring the frown on Alice's face. "Yes, please…"

The boy grinned foolishly at her.

"I'll be outside with Paolo," said Jasper quickly. "Whenever you're ready, My Lady."

"Please… my name is Bella."

But Jasper, like Alice before him, simply gave her a wry, cheeky grin, and ducked out of the room.

She was positively buzzing with sudden excitement.

"Do I have a dress, Alice?" she asked, and the girl gave a soft nod. "Where is it?"

She reached, elbow-deep, into a bag of soft cloth beneath the trestle table and came back with a handful of creamy, white fabric.

"Here," she said, and Bella stared at the object. "Can you stand, My Lady?"

Bella forced her legs over the edge of the bed and rose tentatively to her feet, ignoring the quake in her knees and the savage protest in her calves and thighs. The stretch was monstrous— she did not know how they could still be so tight after forcing them to move each morning— but she dismissed the sting and gave her best effort to stand, upright and tall.

Alice sighed.

"Here," she said, moving around to Bella's back. "Let me…" The nightdress had a tie at the back to hold it up around her chest, and Alice's deft fingers made quick work of it. The brown linen fell to the ground in a heap and though Bella was left as naked as a jaybird, she could not bring herself to feel ashamed. No matter how much she might not like it, Alice had seen her bare many times before, and it would do no good to hide from her now. Before long, she'd slipped Bella's legs into a familiar pair of underpants— more like shorts than anything else— and Bella felt herself relax.

"Here…" Alice reached over and dropped the new shift over Bella's head, and Bella was immediately struck by the softness of the garment. The brown linen was warm and serviceable, it was true, but this cloth felt like luxury and comfort. It was soft— finely woven from some thin and slippery thread— and even though she was covered, it was airy enough that Bella could feel the warm summer breeze on her back. The sleeves were long and loose— a fact for which Bella was thankful, given the state of her wrapped and swollen arm. The skirt was generous, but not obtrusive, and fell down past her ankles. The top was fitted— not overtight, but tight enough to give her a shape— with a column of tiny, pearlescent buttons that ran down the spine. Alice made quick work of them— her tiny fingers did what Bella's wrapped hand could not— and before long, the last one at the nape of her neck was fastened tight.

"Thank you," said Bella gently. "You're very quick."

Alice simply watched her, an impenetrable, speculative solemnity etched on her face, before she plopped to the ground with a needle and spool of white thread, and began hemming the skirt with expert dexterity.

"Where did you…" Bella asked, but Alice did not falter. Bella did not know the word for learn, and the question died on her tongue. Alice spoke next, however, and seemed to understand the gist of Bella's question.

"My mother," said Alice quietly. "I was the only girl, so she showed me kudrado."

"Kudrado?" Bella asked. Her needle slipped through the fabric as though it were water. On her next stitch, she waved the needle playfully at Bella, who suddenly understood the new word.

"Sewing," said Bella gently. "In my language, we call it sewing."

Alice did not, as Bella might have, try to repeat the word, but continued raising the hem on the dress as quickly as she could.

"There," she said, sitting back on once she had finished. "It shouldn't get too dirty, provided that you stay out of the mud…"

Instead of pooling on the floor at her feet, the skirt now hung a good inch above her ankle bone.

"Thank you, Alice. You're very kind…"

She started for the door.

Had Bella not been so startled, the look of abject shock on the child's face would have made her laugh.

"Ah! No!" Alice grabbed her gently by her good arm. "No, My Lady…"

Bella halted at once.

"No…" Despite her seemingly dull mood at Bella's unexpected departure, there was a distinct twinkle of amused chagrin in her eyes when Bella met her gaze. "Not yet…"

Bella, frowning, watched as Alice dug through the bag of clothing again, this time emerging with a long, forest-green vest. Bella was silent as Alice slipped her arms through the holes, this time fastening the front of the garment with larger, black buttons the size of pennies. A belt was tied next— not a utility belt that held scabbards and swords, but a dark brown, woven thing that Alice tied in an artful knot at her hip. A pair of sandals— plain, yet sturdy— were placed on her feet, and before Bella could even think of the door again, Alice pushed her gently into the wooden chair by the window.

"Stay," she said softly, frowning at Bella when she tried to rise. "Sit."

Bella, impatient, tapped her fingers on the trestle table. Alice rummaged in a wooden crate by the door, muttering under her breath in whispers and huffs until she emerged, victorious, with a large paddle brush held aloft.

"Broso," she said easily, brandishing the thing towards Bella. It was made of wood, like Bella had come to expect, but instead of the plastic bristles she was used to, this one was topped with thick, coarse animal hair fastened in bundles. Bella grimaced when Alice began to detangle the ends of her long, neglected hair, taking care not to tug at the bruises and scrapes that still marred her scalp. It was a difficult feat, and a time-consuming one, but by the time the girl was finished, it lay down her back in an illusion of order. Bella knew there were persistent, angry tangles at the nape of her neck that not even Alice's thorough hands could undo in such a short sitting, but for the most part, her tresses sat calmly over her shoulders.

"Good," said Alice gently. "Good, Lady."

"Thank you…" Bella hefted herself off of her chair with some difficulty. The straps on the sandals felt strange on her feet— it had been some time since she'd worn shoes— but when she righted herself, balancing easily on the thick, wooden platforms, she took a few successful steps forward.

"Good," praised Alice again. "Good… atentu."

Be careful.

"I will," said Bella quickly, her sudden excitement making her pulse spike. "I will be careful."

Alice simply watched her, an unfathomable expression on her face, as Bella maneuvered slowly, but surely, towards the door.

Translations:

Papagoj
Parrotts

Kuracisto
Doctor

Mi estas varmega
I'm hot

Mi estas malvarma
I'm cold

Kapo
Head

Ripoj
Ribs

Juko
Itch

Estas bone
You're alright

Mia Reĝo
My King

Ĉefo
Leader

Onklo
Uncle

Koncilia kunveno
Council meeting

Velkanto
Fading

La princo
The prince

Frato
Brother

Ekstere
Outside

Kudrado
Sewing

Atentu
Be careful