TBA

Everything hurt.

Beauregard woke gradually, the world feeling slow and sluggish around him. His back throbbed in hot, pulsing waves of pain, stinging like needles beneath the bandages wrapped around him. The fever made him dizzy, blurring the edges of his view.

He glanced toward the other side of the bed, expecting to get a mouthful of Isabeau’s messy, auburn hair, like he always did when they shared a bed together. But the space beside him was empty. Her blanket had slipped off the bed. Her side of the pillow was cold.

His heart sank. He didn’t quite know why.

A refreshingly cool hand pressed gently against his cheek. Florence crouched beside him, moving into his field of vision. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkness around him, before he realized, his mother looked all kinds of wrong. Loose, unkempt hair was framing her face and she looked down at him out of red-rimmed eyes, like she hasn’t stopped crying ever since she told them that Papa was gone for good. 

The clothes she was wearing weren't right either. No jewelry, no fine fabrics, just a simple cloak thrown over her nightgown. There were bandages tightly wrapped around her right arm and shoulder, angry burns peeking out beneath them. She tried to hide the wince whenever she moved.

She looked exhausted and scared.

“Mama?” he mumbled, leaning into her touch. “Why are you dressed? It’s still dark out.”

“Because we have to leave, love.”

“Leave?” He frowned, confused. Suddenly feeling more nauseous. “But … the fire’s gone, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said a little too quickly, combing through his hair. “But we can’t stay here regardless.”

He didn’t understand. He wanted to understand, but the ache in his back made thinking hard. He let her help him sit up, though even the slightest movement sent waves of pain down his spine.

He whimpered before he could stop himself.

Florence flinched like the sound hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Just hold on. I’ll be careful.”

She wrapped him in Isabeau’s blanket, careful not to touch his back, even though every inch of skin the blanket laid on burned terribly under the layer of bandages. His legs felt wobbly and strange when she helped him stand. The world was tilting around him.

“Mama … where are we going?” he asked, voice small and frightened.

“Somewhere safe,” she answered. 

Where was safe?

Why wasn't it safe here?

Florence gathered him carefully into her arms and lifted him up with her uninjured one, cradling him close to her despite her own wounds.

“Mama?” He said again. His voice was small and cracked, throat still raw.

“Yes?”

He was scared to ask his next question. “Where is … Isa?”

Florence’s breath hitched. She held him tighter. 

It hurt.

“Don’t worry about that now,” she whispered, her voice shaking even though she was trying so hard to sound strong. “You’re safe. You’re with me. That’s what matters now.”

That wasn’t an answer.

He blinked up at her face, but her features kept doubling and melting together in a blur of shapes. He thought he saw tears on her cheeks or maybe it was just the rain? Since when was it raining? Weren’t they inside? His face felt wet. Maybe he was the one crying.

The room kept spinning as she carried him, the world shrinking into flashes of doorframes, hallway floorboards and flickering lanterns. 

It made him even more nauseous. 

Everything blurred together. He could barely tell where one room ended and the next began.

The night air hit him next, cool but sharp, whipping around his face. Dark shapes swayed and doubled in his vision. Buildings melting together with the shadows of the street. His mother’s burned arm pressed tightly against him as she hurried across the empty streets.

It hurt.

As he mustered up the energy to attempt to speak, he whispered “Where is Isa?” once again. His brain kept on repeating the question, refusing to let it go.

Florence didn’t answer. Instead, her hand covered the back of his head, pushing him gently into her shoulder. He could feel her body stiffening in pain from the movement, but her steps never faltered once.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

Sorry for what?

Why was she sorry?

Beauregard suddenly felt the world dip as Florence lowered him down on a wooden bench. He tried to focus, blinking until his eyes stung, but everything blurred into soft, fuzzy shapes. Hoofbeats clattered somewhere nearby, strangely distant, as if someone had wrapped the world in a layer of cotton.

“… Mama, we have to get Isa. We can’t go without her.” he whispered, feeling his head lolling to the side.

She pressed her forehead to his and that was when he realized: Mama was probably running a fever as well. “Just rest, Beauregard. Please.”

He didn’t want to rest.

He wanted his Sister.
He wanted his Papa.
He wanted his Home.

He wanted everything to stop hurting.

That’s when the carriage jerked into motion.

TBA