“You are hungry.”
I nodded.
She caressed the crown of my head, smoothing my thick, dark hair. “We are all hungry,” she said quietly. “I can add more water to the soup. Would you like some before supper?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and considered me. “Are you strong enough to fetch water from a well?”
“I am very strong.”
“The handle is very heavy.”
“Not for me.”
“It is a very deep well. . . .”
“I can do it.” I wanted to show her, but I wanted to be outside as well. The close air of the hut was pressing in, and my skin felt tight.
“Then I will tell you the secret to get there, but you must promise not to go any farther into the trees.”
“I promise.”
“And if you see someone, you must promise not to tell them where it is.”
“I promise.”
The girl smiled, and nudged the doll back into my hand. “Take her with you, wherever you go.”
I clutched the doll tightly and brought her to my chest before the girl showed me out. Her eyes followed me as I ran into the fading sunlight. The scent of charred flesh singed my nostrils, but the smell was not unpleasant. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air and stung my eyes even as it rose among the trees.
I followed the path I was told. The well was quite far, and nearly hidden by thick brush. It was large, too; I had to stand on my toes to peer down into it. It was dark. Bottomless. I had an urge to throw the doll in.
I did not. I set it down beside the worn stone and my thin arms began the work of drawing up the water when I heard a cough.
Close.
I was so startled I dropped the handle. I picked up the doll and gripped it tightly as I crept to the other side of the well.
An old woman sat propped up against the trunk of a date palm, her wrinkles deep, folding in on themselves. Her black eyes were unfocused and watery. She was weak.
And not alone.
Someone was crouched over her, a man with waves of black hair and perfect, beautiful skin. He held a cup to the old woman’s lips and water dribbled down her chin. She coughed again, startling me.
His obsidian eyes flicked to mine, and something flashed behind them. Something I did not know or understand.
The woman followed his gaze and focused on me. Her stare pinned me to the ground as her eyes widened, the whites showing around her irises. The man placed a calming hand on her shoulder, then stared back at me.
I felt a roll of sickness deep in my belly and doubled over. Red swirled at the edges of my vision. My head swam. I gulped for air and slowly, slowly rose.
The woman began to tremble and whisper. The man—surprised, curious, but not afraid—leaned his head in to hear her. Without realizing it, I took a step nearer too.
She whispered louder and louder. It was the same word, just one word, that she repeated over and over again. Her frail arm rose, her finger pointed at me like an accusation.
“Mara,” she whispered, again and again and again. And then she began to scream.
25
MARA,” A VOICE SAID, WARMING MY SKIN.
My eyes opened, but the trees were gone. The sunlight had vanished. There was only darkness.
And Noah, next to me, his fingers resting on my cheek.
A nightmare. Just a nightmare. I let out a slow breath and then smiled, relieved, until I realized we weren’t in bed.
We were standing by the guest room door. I had opened it—my hand rested on the knob.
“Where are you going?” Noah asked softly.
The last thing I remembered was falling asleep beside him, even though I shouldn’t have. My house was tainted, but in Noah’s arms, I felt safe.
But I left them during the night. I left him.
I had been sleepwalking.
The details of the dream hung low in my mind, thick as smoke. But they didn’t fade with consciousness. I didn’t know where I was going in my sleep or why, but now that I was awake, I needed to see something before I forgot to look.
“My bedroom,” I answered him, my voice clear.
I needed to see that doll.
I pulled Noah along behind me and we crept silently to my room. Noah helped me unpack the doll from the box I had entombed it in, no questions asked. I said nothing as I looked it over, my skin feeling tight as I held it.
Its black smile was a little faded—from wear or washing, I didn’t know—and the dress it wore was newer, but still crude. Definitely handmade. Otherwise? Otherwise it was eerily similar to the doll in my dream.
Maybe more than similar.
I remembered something then.
There was a spot of red on the underside of its arm, where she held it.
I lifted up the doll’s sleeve.
“What is that red?” I had asked the older girl.
“Oh,” she said, and handed me the doll. She examined her finger. “I pricked myself.”