Even breathing felt like an effort. “Bad? The soup? It tasted fine.”
“No, Clare. Not the soup.” His fingers rubbed over hers. “Cyanide.”
“Oh.” She knew he was telling her something important, something that should mean a lot more to her, but she just couldn’t muster the energy to be upset. “That sucks.”
His head dropped, and his shoulders shook. When he looked up again, he was laughing, but moisture shone in his eyes. “Sleep for now. I will watch over you. You’re safe.”
“Mm.” She didn’t know what she needed to be safe from, but sleep sounded like the best idea she’d ever heard.
The next time she woke, light had vanished from the windows. The fire had been kept strong, though, and even though the wind sounded cold, it didn’t chill her.
Dorran’s chair was empty. She blinked at it then tilted her head to see more of the room. He stood by the fire, arms folded and head bowed. He swayed slightly as he watched the flames. She wanted to say hello to him, to break through whatever thoughts were making his posture so defensive, but her mouth was dry, and the words weren’t loud enough for him to hear over the ambient noise.
The third time she woke, the fire had dropped lower in the grate. The sun hadn’t yet risen. Dorran was pacing. Her heart sank at how haggard he looked. She reached a hand towards him, and his face brightened when he saw her move.
“Clare.” He was at her side in an instant and took the hand she held out to him. “Do you feel any better?”
The aches had receded, and the exhaustion, while still there, seemed less pronounced. “Yeah.”
Her voice was croaky, but he still smiled. “You’ll want water. Here.” Dorran lifted her and pushed pillows behind her back until she was supported upright. Then he held a glass to her lips and helped her drink.
Her headache throbbed every time she moved, but Clare hoped it would fade with hydration. When she’d finished drinking, she inclined her head back and closed her eyes as she tried to gather her thoughts.
Her recent memories were distorted so badly that they felt like dreams, but one part stood out. “Did you say I ate cyanide?”
“Yes.”
Clare was awake enough to realise the implications. She looked down at her hands and squeezed them. They seemed to work all right, albeit without the strength they normally had.
Dorran pulled his chair closer and sat so that he faced her. He looked gaunt, and she wondered if he’d eaten or slept. “Do you remember taking it, Clare?”
“No.” She tried to shake her head, but that made the headache worse. “I remember coming home from the shed. I had lunch. I was going to bring you some, but I felt sick before I got there.”
“Did you take a tablet? A round white one?”
“I…” She frowned. “I did. One of the painkillers.”
He ran his hand over his face, and his expression tightened momentarily before relaxing again. “So you did not eat it deliberately. That is a mercy.”
“You thought I poisoned myself?”
“I did not know what to think. This house is such a bleak place to live. And we had failed to reach the radio, which I know you desperately wanted.” He shook his head. “But the fault must be mine. I am deeply sorry. I don’t know how, but I left the wrong bottle out.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How is that possible? Why do you have bottles of cyanide in the house in the first place?”
Dorran stared at his hands folded in his lap, seemingly lost in his mind, then he took a short, tight breath. “I suppose you should know.”
Clare could tell the revelation was painful for him. She watched him even though he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“It is the reason I cannot leave Winterbourne. I tried, once before, when I was nineteen. I wanted to move to the city, to find employment and make a life for myself outside of the estate. My father supported my wish. My mother opposed it.”
He’d never spoken about a father before. Clare pushed herself a little higher on the pillows as she waited for Dorran to collect his thoughts.
“My father married into the family,” he said. “He never bought into the… insanity that had possessed my mother. He was tired of maintaining the old ways when it had no benefit. It was a constant tension between my parents for as long as I can remember, but in most instances, he eventually bowed to my mother’s will. Not in this case. He was resolute in supporting me. He planned to help me find employment with one of his relatives.”
Dorran’s pose was steady, seemingly calm, but a pulse jumped in his throat. “It turned into a painful, drawn-out fight. Every family member took a side. Hold on to the old ways or open ourselves to change? It lasted for days. Every time it seemed to be dying down, someone would make a comment, and the house would be filled with yelling once again.”
Very briefly, a smile flitted across his face. “I thought, for a few happy days, that we might be close to reformation, to escape.” As quickly as it had appeared, the smile was gone. “My mother sensed she was losing. She was not powerful enough to keep us here against our will, and once the unrest started, it would be hard to tamp back down. She said she was prepared to compromise. She said she wanted to discuss it over dinner that night.”
His hands tightened around each other until the knuckles turned white. Dorran’s face and voice were impassive, but Clare could see the guilt and grief in his eyes. They were eating him alive. “She poisoned them. Everyone who did not agree with her. My father. My uncle Eros. My aunts, Tabatha, Jayne, and Abigail. Two of my cousins, Henry and Peter. Cyanide tablets dissolved into their drinks at dinner. She proposed a toast. It took effect within minutes.”
“Dorran…”
His breath caught. His eyes were moving, flicking from side to side, the only external expression of his agitation. “Convulsions. Coughing blood. Fits. Screams. They all fell in a matter of minutes, collapsing out of their chairs. I could do nothing for them. There was no cure and no respite. The others—the ones who had taken my mother’s side—they must have known it was coming. They sat quietly and watched it happen. I held my father while he died. I saw the fear in his face. And when he was finally still, when he stopped twitching and his body stopped drawing breath, my mother placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered into my ear, ‘Perhaps now you will remember your place.’”
Clare pressed her hand over her mouth. She felt sick.
He stood and crossed to the window. His shoulders were shaking, but he remained straight and tall as he clasped his hands behind his back. “I do not know why she spared me. Perhaps some misplaced favouritism. Perhaps I am just fun to torment. But she has made it clear—if I step out of line again, my nieces and nephews will suffer for it. They are only children, Clare. She considers them expendable. I cannot leave her. I cannot fight her. I cannot even die.”
Clare tried to imagine what that must be like—being forced to live a life that wasn’t his own, unable to stand up for himself because others would be forced to pay the price, all the while knowing that half of his family had died because of a risk he’d taken. She didn’t think she could have survived that kind of existence.
Dorran turned. His breathing was still rough. “The doctor, at least, was somewhat sympathetic to me. He smuggled in an antidote for cyanide. And I never forgot the symptoms of acute poisoning. When I saw you… white—”
“Dorran.”
He was back at her side in a moment, and his arms wrapped around her. Clare hugged him back, pressing her face into his chest, trying to find a way to tell him it was all right.
“Clare, I cannot forgive myself for doing this to you. I must have been tired. I must have made a mistake with the bottles.”