Micah was calm enough when he woke up in the morning. Last night's horrible dream lingered for only a moment as he sat there in bed, rubbing his eyes. He felt a very dim, very fuzzy horror pass over his sleep-blurred mind. And then it was gone. Micah stretched, yawned, and hopped down to the floor.
"Becky," he called, voice echoing eerily in the empty, silent house. Micah paused and rubbed at his nose idly. "Beck-ee," he repeated, starting to trot down the stairs.
"In the kitchen, Nathan." He bumped down the last few steps, frowning in irritation.
"Becky," said the nine year old irritably. His sister looked up at him from beneath blondish bangs.
"Sorry." Something in her voice made it clear that she wasn't, but Micah plopped down at the table anyway.
"Has Isaac come yet today?" Rebekah's gray-blue eyes hardened.
"No, Micah," she answered quietly, glancing back to her paperback novel. "He hasn't." The little boy popped out his lower lip and pushed black hair out of his face.
"Is he coming at all?" he asked impatiently. Rebekah kept her gaze on the book.
"Don't know, don't care." Micah sighed in frustration, leaning his elbows on the table. He never understood why his sister didn't like Isaac, but it was very clear that she didn't. The little boy always saw the coldness that crept into her eyes when the name was mentioned, and even at Isaac's meetings she didn't pay attention like the rest. Rebekah would simply keep one firm, steady hand on the back of Micah's neck -- and glare.
"Mean," he muttered under his breath. One sand-colored eyebrow was raised over the top of her paperback.
"What was that?" Micah looked up at her sulkily.
"You're being mean." Rebekah turned a page.
"To who?" she asked calmly, not at all phased by his accusation. "You?" The little boy paused, fingers drawing idle designs on the tabletop.
"No," he said slowly. "To Isaac." His sister didn't even flinch.
"Mm? Go on." She was in an odd mood this morning; very cool, very collected. Very interested in that book she was holding. Micah squinted to read the title -- The Picture of Dorian Gray -- and glanced back at Rebekah.
"He's a very good leader," the little boy said tentatively, shifting with the impatience that children have. "Isaac has kept us safe and-- and happy for a long time." His sister lowered the paperback slowly.
"How long?" It was a deadly question. It was almost certain that she was setting him up for something. Micah shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"That's not--"
"How long?" she asked again, and he decided he did not like cool-and-collected Rebekah. He liked warm-and-gentle, kind-and-understanding Rebekah. Not this one.
"I don't know!" Micah cried, distressed. Rebekah watched him for a moment, one long slender finger acting as a bookmark in the pages of Dorian Gray.
"One year, five months, two weeks, and four days." She watched him for a moment with her gray-blue eyes before looking back down at her book. "That's how long it's been since--"
"Since the adults were struck down by the hand of God," Micah finished hurriedly. It was obviously not what she had been planning on saying, but Rebekah didn't correct him.
"All right," she said quietly. "If that's what you want to say." He suddenly felt very confused and very alone; Micah's dark eyes filled with tears.
"You're mean, Becky," he murmured in a trembling voice. The little boy wiggled down from the chair, sneakers hitting the kitchen tiles with a dull thud. Almost immediately, there was a sound of the paperback falling on the table.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Rebekah hugged him from behind -- a desperate, frightened hug -- and pressed a light kiss against his cheek. Micah relaxed; this was the Rebekah he knew.
"It's okay." He turned around and hugged her properly. "And you're not mean, not really."
"Thank you," she said, almost laughing. Rebekah kissed his cheek again, then ruffled his hair. "Isaac probably won't be by 'til later, maybe around lunch. You want to go outside and play 'til then?" Micah nodded cheerfully, his bad feeling fading.
"Yeah! Where--"
"Outside already," she responded promptly, and picked up her book again. "They woke up before you -- as usual, lazybones." The little boy trotted towards the stairs.
"I'm going to get dressed and go look for them, okay?"
"Sure thing." Rebekah glanced at him briefly, then looked back at the pages. "I'm not running to get you if Isaac comes, though. If you're not here when he is, it's too bad."
"Yes, Becky," he chirped, hurrying back towards his room. In a matter of minutes, he was dressed, brushed, and ready to find Mordechai and Jedediah.
Rebekah watched Micah scamper outside over the pages of her book. He had changed in the past year, five months, two weeks, and four days -- but not drastically. He was still the same sweet, shy, beautiful little boy that her parents had given birth to and named Nathan. He didn't seem to want to acknowledge that now; sure, he was still sweet and shy and beautiful -- but his name was Micah now, and it seemed as if their parents had never existed. Isaac was his idol now. That angered Rebekah more than anything, the fact that the short, loud, overly-opinionated psychopathic twerp had replaced Daddy on Micah's mental pedestal Because that was all Isaac was, a short, loud, overly-opinionated psychopathic twerp who'd killed her parents and everyone else's--
STOP.
She dropped the paperback on the table and ran a hand through her long, dusty-blonde hair. There was no point, absolutely no point in mulling over the past like that. Not when she had Micah to worry about. Rebekah heaved herself from her chair and ambled towards the window. There he was, a little head full of black hair bobbing up and down as he hurried into the cornfields to look for his friends. That was all he had to worry about; that his friends were there to play with, his sister had food on the table every night, and his beloved teenage preacher/psychopath/best buddy always knew the right words to say. If only it were so easy, Rebekah thought grimly.
"Good morning, Rebekah."
The girl whirled, taken by surprise and angry because of it.
"Isaac, you little bastard," she snapped, and he grinned.
"That's not nice," Isaac murmured, walking slowly towards her. Dressed in black as usual, she noted, and his mop of dark hair didn't help the macabre look at all. Rebekah jerked her head back in an irritated nod.
"It probably wouldn't be nice of me to give you a good hard knee in the crotch either." She gave him a pursed little smile. "But God knows I'd do it anyway." Isaac didn't respond; he kept smiling pleasantly. Rebekah turned away from him and turned on the sink, running hot water. "Besides, I think you could use it."
"So cold." Something in his tone unnerved her. She whirled to snap something, but he was holding the dirty breakfast dishes obligingly towards her. Rebekah took them grudgingly.
"Thank you," she muttered, dropping the plates in the sink.
"You're most welcome." Isaac was silent for a moment before leaning comfortably against the counter to watch her scrub the dishes. She gave him a sidelong glance and frowned.
"Your work here is done." It sounded like a dry attempt at a joke, but there was no humor in her voice. "Go on, get out, you little--"
"Careful what you say, Rebekah dear," he said pleasantly, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her scowl darkened, but she didn't jerk away. It was what he wanted.
"Careful what you touch, Isaac dear," she responded promptly. He didn't take the hint; Isaac's hand crept down to her side.
"So cold," he repeated. "Why are you so cold, my child?" Rebekah stiffened, still not brushing him off. She would not let the little twerp see her flinch.
"Only towards you." She smiled sweetly and continued scrubbing at the plate. The scrambled eggs had been washed off long ago, but it was more of an action to simply seem busy than anything else.
"I've noticed." Isaac paused, his hand lingering on her waist. "I saw young Micah playing in the corn before I came in."
"Before you let yourself in," Rebekah corrected, feeling a flare of hot anger. Isaac had ordered Malachai to disable all the locks on the houses in Gatlin, so there would be no secrets kept from them. Yet another thing that made her hate him.
"Have it your way, Rebekah," Isaac said amiably, and his hand began to move southward.
Her self-control went up in flames.
Rebekah seized Isaac roughly by the arm that possessed the perpetrating hand and twisted it behind his back. In doing so, she slammed his midsection into the counter, resulting in a grunt from both of them.
"First of all," she said in a low growl, mouth next to Isaac's ear, "my name is not Rebekah, it's Ellen. And second of all--" Rebekah twisted his arm a little further.
"Ow," Isaac said, his tone almost bored.
"Second of all," she repeated, angrier than she could ever remember being, "if you ever touch anything that you have not been invited to touch--" Unable to help it, she twisted his arm just a little more.
"Ow," he repeated.
"--you will find yourself missing a few vital body organs. Got it?" Isaac didn't respond; Rebekah put just a tiny bit more pressure on his arm. If she twisted it any further, it was liable to be broken. Not that that wouldn't give her any pleasure -- but there were no real doctors in Gatlin anymore, and she didn't want Isaac to drag around a bleeding, broken limb for the next few days.
"Oh, yes," he responded pleasantly. He sounded as if they were discussing whether there would be dinner tonight. Rebekah released his arm at last and backed away.
"Good," she muttered, turning towards the sink. Isaac leaned against the counter again, back in the same position as before -- except now he was rubbing his shoulder thoughtfully. Outside, children's voices could be heard; Micah had found the curly brown-haired Jedediah, and the two of them were scampering around the cornfield, apparently seeking out Mordechai.
"Beautiful child," Isaac said pensively. Rebekah rinsed off the dishes and set them in the now-drained sink to dry.
"Yes, he is." She paused, watching the little boys play, and smiled involuntarily. Isaac glanced at her, a sideways smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I wasn't talking about Micah." Rebekah turned her darkest glare on him.
"Get out, Isaac," she said softly. He smiled politely and walked towards the front door.
"Certainly, Rebekah." Isaac's dark eyes watched her for one long moment before he took the knob in his hand. "I will see you tonight, I presume?" She dried her hands calmly with a towel to keep them from shaking.
"Only if Micah wants to come."
"Oh, he will," Isaac said quietly, still smiling. "He always does." And out the door he went. Rebekah glanced out the window to make sure he was leaving. As she did, she twisted the towel tighter and tighter in her hands -- wishing as hard as she could that she had broken his arm.