I Still Loved You

Chapter 2: What the Labels Said

I told the review team the truth, which meant I said I had fed the fox's supplement to the serpent.

The words came out smaller than they sounded in my head. I stood in the glass-walled meeting room while Elias sat beside Tessa and the review chair tapped a pen against the table.

"Was the feeding schedule unclear?" the chair asked.

"Yes."

"Did you check the enclosure tags?"

"No."

"Did anyone direct you to the wrong room?"

"I was told the rooms had been switched."

Elias kept his eyes on the table. Tessa held the fox in a padded carrier beside her chair.

"I was the one who asked Mara to help," Elias said. "I should have checked on her."

I looked at him, waiting for the rest. He could have said he'd given me the bowl. He could have said the rooms were not switched. He could have said he'd told me the wrong thing.

He said nothing more.

The review chair wrote something down. "The fox can't participate in today's trial. We'll schedule a follow-up assessment after the recovery window."

Tessa's face tightened. She had worked for three years toward her familiar-care license. The trial was the last step. The delay could cost her a place in the spring cohort.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't." She turned her shoulder away from me. "You didn't even know what you were carrying."

I watched the carrier door tremble as the fox shifted inside.

The meeting ended with my access to the east-room feed stores temporarily suspended. No one called me careless. No one had to. I could hear the word in every scrape of a chair.

Elias waited by the stairwell.

"You'll get it back," he said. "The review team doesn't want to make this bigger than it is."

"How did the room get switched?"

"I don't know. The maintenance crew was in there."

"Did you actually check?"

He gave me a tired look. "I'm trying to keep this from turning into a weeklong investigation."

"I asked a question."

"I sent you to the fox because you know the house better than anyone. I didn't think you'd feed the serpent."

The sentence stung because it was reasonable. I had known the house better than anyone. I'd known the old pipes, the warped doors, which familiars hated thunder and which needed their bedding changed before sunrise. I'd made the choice. I'd watched the serpent eat.

"I'm not trying to blame you," Elias said.

"Then don't make it sound like I'm the only person who touched the bowl."

His expression softened. When we were younger, that look could bring me back from any argument. He rested a hand on my shoulder.

"I know you're upset."

I stepped away before the contact could comfort me.

The serpent had eaten its recovery mix, but it still refused mice. I went back to its enclosure after the review team left. Its scales looked almost black-blue now, glossy in the afternoon light. It watched me approach, then pressed its jaw against the door.

The feed ledger lay open on the counter. I checked the date, then the entry for the recovery mix.

One portion. Tessa Ward. East room.

The label on the blue bowl had been removed. A damp strip of adhesive clung to the rim.

I went to the east room. The door was shut, but it opened when I leaned my weight against it. The maintenance crew had left a stack of replacement tags on the shelf. Every one of them was marked in clear block letters.

EAST ROOM: FOX.

The room had not been switched. The cage had been empty because Tessa was cleaning it.

I stood there with the tag in my hand, thinking of Elias saying he thought I knew which enclosure needed the food. I had wanted to believe him. It was still possible he'd made an honest mistake.

The ledger was less forgiving. His initials were beside the feeding schedule from the night before.

E.V.

Elias had prepared the mix. Elias had delivered the blue bowl. Elias had told me the rooms were switched.

I returned to the serpent's pen. A small paper tag had been tied around the latch, hidden under the metal hinge. It read: M. VALE — DO NOT FEED.

Vale.

I was still turning the tag over when the front doors opened.

The sound of the house shifted. Staff voices rose, then cut off. A cane struck the hall floor twice.

Dr. Celia Vale stood on the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe and the other resting on the unmistakable curve of her pregnant stomach.

The serpent pushed its snout through the bars.

Dr. Vale looked from the animal to me. "You fed him."

Behind me, every person in the hall went silent.