Songbird

2. Alone-1

Alone

Dreams carried her on a river, soothing her in long sweeps, then spinning her into confusion. She was on TV, naked… a sudden downpour saved her from a bushfire. And there were voices heavy with dissent. Hands touched her for a while—fingers searching, pressing, probing the body that wasn’t quite hers. Intrusive fingers.

Her skin didn’t feel right. It pricked and stung when she moved as though she was lying on pine needles. Her eyelids played butterfly games and refused to stay open. Each time she succeeded in keeping them up, the shapes around her solidified. Eventually she recognised a bedroom, though someone had changed everything. It wasn’t like David to move things around. She sat up and waited for the room to slow down. An unfamiliar smell rose from the sheets. Her skin was sticky. And who had removed her clothes?

Near a fire on the other side of the room, someone sat dozing. The person appeared to be on the plump side. Legs clothed in loose trousers were stretched out toward the dying embers. On a shelf above the fire stood a lamp that was either useless or about to go out. Irenya lay down again.

The figure in the chair stirred and a silhouette of unruly hair turned in the direction of the bed. Irenya watched through half-closed eyes. The person rose to attend the lamp. Increasing the light took some fiddling and the clatter hurt Irenya’s ears.

‘My pardon for the noise.’ The voice was female. ‘Well, what is your need then, more histonel on your skin? It will feel a little sore. A drink? Food? Or do you have questions?’

Irenya pushed herself carefully upright and blinked at the light. ‘Where am I?’

‘Ah. Questions, it is. I should have guessed.’ The woman poked at the embers with fresh wood, producing a flurry of ash. She straightened, gave the logs an extra shove with her foot as the fire rekindled. ‘Then answers you shall have.’ She approached the bed and sat on the edge. ‘I am Aeryl irCypria, herbalist to the irIlketh family, what is left of it—well, herbalist to the citadel of Ilkyrie in fact—and you are in our chambers. My husband is the physician. You have a pretty name—Iren-ya. I have not heard it before.’

‘I thought… I thought I might be…’ No point in asking; the room didn’t look like a hospital—and it certainly wasn’t home. ‘I’m named after my grandmothers. Irene and Enya.’ She tried to take in details of the woman’s face, but couldn’t concentrate. ‘Have I been drugged?’

‘Mildly.’

‘My baby—’

‘Someone will be caring for the child, will they not?’

Irenya nodded.

‘Well,’ continued the woman, ‘you can do no more. Worrying will not help. Tell me about your baby tomorrow.’ She pulled a small stem of flowers from a vase, twirling it slowly before plucking off several white heads. ‘Moss crown. Named thus, because each cluster is like a crown against the moss and ferns. White for hope. Green for living.’ She held the tiny flowers in her open palm. ‘Hope, you see, is a living thing.’ She rolled the flowers between stubby fingers and scattered the petals over the pillow. ‘The fragrance is subtle and will bring you peaceful sleep. Tomorrow you will feel better. Shall I stay awhile?’