The Mafia's Thirteenth Bride

Chapter Eleven: Chamomile Tea

Ivy

I woke up to sunlight and the smell of antiseptic.

My head throbbed. My hands burned. My whole body felt like someone had filled it with sand.

I blinked at the ceiling. White. High. Familiar.

I was back in the room. The one I'd climbed out of.

"No," I whispered.

"You're awake."

I turned my head too fast. The room spun.

Dorian sat in a chair by the window. He looked different. Tired. Dark circles under his eyes. His suit was rumpled.

Had he been there all night?

"What happened?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"You climbed out a window. Ran through the garden. Passed out by the fountain." His voice was flat. Controlled. "You don't remember?"

I thought about it. The door handle turning. The tree branch. The grass. The moon.

The hands on my shoulders.

"You carried me back," I said.

"I carried you back."

I found that surprising but I didn't say anything.

"The doctor found sedatives in your system," he said. "Someone's been drugging you."

My heart stopped.

It had already started.

Whoever or whatever was killing the brides had started with me.

I was going to die.

Just like them. Just like the twelve.

A knock came at the door, interrupting my thoughts.

Dorian stood and moved toward it.

"Who is it?" He called.

"Mrs. Chen, sir. I brought refreshments."

"Come in," he said.

The door opened and Mrs. Chen entered with a tray. Her silver hair was pinned neatly. Her apron was crisp and white. Her face was soft and lined with age.

And her eyes, warm, brown, and kind, fell on me with genuine concern.

"Oh, my dear girl," she said, setting the tray down. "You gave us such a fright. Climbing out that window in the middle of the night. You could have broken your neck."

She rushed to my bedside and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. Her touch was cool and gentle.

"I'm fine," I said. But my voice came out weak.

"You're not fine. You're exhausted and dehydrated and you haven't eaten properly in days." She clicked her tongue. "I've brought you some warm broth and fresh bread. And chamomile tea—the good kind, with honey and a little lemon."

I looked at the tray. Steam rose from the cup. It smelled wonderful.

"I don't…" I started.

"Oh, hush now," Mrs. Chen said, her voice full of motherly scolding. "You drink that tea and eat every bite of that bread. A bride needs her strength. You're skin and bone, child."

She helped me sit up, fluffing pillows behind my back with practiced efficiency. Her hands were gentle. Her smile was warm.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Of course, dear. That's what I'm here for."

I picked up the cup. The warmth seeped into my cold hands. I brought it to my lips and drank.

It was perfect. Sweet and floral and soothing.

Mrs. Chen watched me with satisfaction. "See? That's better. You'll sleep well tonight."

I finished the tea and started on the bread. It was fresh and warm, slathered with butter. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

Dorian stood by the window, watching the exchange. His face was unreadable.

"Mrs. Chen," he said quietly. "A word."

She looked at him. Her expression softened. "Of course, dear."

They stepped into the hallway. I couldn't hear their voices.

When the door opened again, Mrs. Chen came back in. Her eyes were wet.

She came to my bedside and took my hand. Her grip was warm and firm.

"I'm sorry, dear. I should have told you. I should have explained." She squeezed my fingers. "Don't think the tea is poison. It's just... medicine. To calm you. To help you rest. Because I was afraid you'd run like the others."

"Run?"

"Run from him. Run from this house. Run from everything." She stroked my hair. "But you're different, aren't you? You came back. You climbed down a tree and ran through a garden and you fell by a fountain, but you didn't leave. You stayed."

I smiled dryly. I had surely wanted to escape. I didn't know I was going to collapse halfway.

I looked at the empty cup on the tray.

I looked at Dorian. He was staring at his head housekeeper, who had probably been with him since he was little, with something that looked almost like wonder.

I thought about the way she'd brought me tea every night. The way she'd asked about my day. The way she'd tucked blankets around me when I fell asleep in the library.

She'd never been cruel. Not once.

And i felt bad for ever doubting her. Twelve women died in this house. It was worth being careful.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought…"

"I know what you thought, dear. And I don't blame you." She cupped my face in her hands. "You've been through so much. You've been hurt and abandoned and betrayed. Trust doesn't come easily to you."

I shook my head. "No. It doesn't."

"Then let me earn it." She looked me in the eyes. "Let me show you that not everyone in this house wants to destroy you. Some of us just want to take care of you."

I looked at the cup again. The dregs of chamomile tea. Warm and sweet and safe.

"More tea?" I asked.

Mrs. Chen laughed, a bright, musical sound.

"More tea," she agreed. "And then you'll sleep. And tomorrow, I'll bring you breakfast. And we'll start again."

She kissed my forehead and left.

Dorian stood in the doorway, watching me.

"She's not what I expected," he said.

"Neither am I."

"Maybe that's why you're still alive."

"Maybe."

He walked to my bedside. He looked down at me, not with coldness, but with something softer. Something almost like hope.

"Mrs Chen likes you," he said. “She liked every single one of them. Their death pained her. I shouldn't have doubted her.”

I nodded. “It's a good thing to know someone cares.”

He left.

I lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

My head still hurt. My hands still burned. But the tea was warm in my stomach, and the fear was gone.

I closed my eyes.

The house didn't feel so cold anymore.

And for the first time in thirteen years, I felt something I'd almost forgotten.

I felt safe.