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Three hours ago, Cleo woke up dead between Q (science) and R (medicine) in the library. That’s why, they suspect, they’ve managed this, with an old anatomy textbook laid out on their bed, sewing themself up with embroidery floss and their finest needle. They think they ought to feel this, somehow. They’ve pricked their fingers plenty of times before to know it ought to hurt, at least a little. But whatever part of them hesitated at sharp steel touching soft flesh, it’s dead now. They’re wearing a thimble out of force of habit, but they don't really need it either. There’s a stain on the bedspread. The laundry won’t like that, but Cleo won’t mind. They don't think they need a bed anymore, in the same way they don't need pain.
Pearl sits perched on the end of the bed, hunched like a gargoyle, twisting her hands together. “Are you sure you don’t want help with that?” she says. Her eyes are fixed on the needle as it dips in and out of the skin of Cleo’s forearm.
“I’m sure,” Cleo says. “But thanks.” They finish the neat row of stitches and tie it off with a simple knot. It’ll do for now. Outside, the wind whips rain against the window, hard enough to shatter stained glass. But the glass holds, of course. “I think I’m done now anyway.”
“Cleo?” Gem says. Her voice is soft and anxious, but hungry with curiosity. She’s sitting on the bed across from Cleo. It’s just the three of them in the dorm, with its row of matching iron-framed beds, scattered clothes, books, and school satchels. The rest of the school is down in the dining hall. Dinner. Another thing Cleo doesn’t think they need any longer. “What happened?”
Cleo shrugs. “I told you. I was in the library, looking for a book for Morrison’s essay. Then I woke up.”
“In a pool of blood,” Pearl adds feverishly. “You can’t forget the pool of blood, Cleo.”
“In a pool of blood,” Cleo amends. “If you insist, babes.” They’re putting away their needles and thread. Maybe next time they need to patch up, they’ll use green. That’s a nice green, and the sampler they were going to use it on isn’t nearly as interesting as this.
“Yes!” Pearl says. Her voice rises into a low screech. Gem hushes her frantically. “It’s kind of an important part of the story, Cleo!”
Gem shushes her again, a finger pressed against her lips. She’s calmer on the surface, but Cleo thinks the frizz of her red hair is a sign that she’s just as upset. “Shh, Pearl! Do you want one of the prefects to find us?”
“I don’t know! Maybe they could--” Pearl stops short. She knows as well as any of them that there’s very little anyone can do about this. Her voice drops to a whisper. “We have to find out who did this.”
Cleo isn’t paying attention to them anymore. They’re listening to the rain, and something else, some far-off voice, like thunder in the distance. They’ve never heard that before.
“Cleo!” Gem snaps her fingers suddenly, a sharp ringing sound in the dorm hall. “Cleo.” She sounds…scared. “Please. Are you listening?”
“Ah,” Cleo says. “Yeah, sorry. Say it again?”
“We’re going back,” Pearl says. She’s still hunched at the end of the bed. “To the library, tonight. We’re going to look for clues. We’re going to find out who did this to you.”
Cleo nods. They still feel distracted. They want to go back to listening to the rain. “Okay.”
They still catch the glance Pearl and Gem exchange. Afraid.
Fear. That’s another thing Cleo left behind in the library, between the towering shelves under the gothic roof. Maybe that’s the whole soul gone. No hunger, no pain, no fear. The thought carries no distress. It simply is, in the same way Cleo now simply is.
“Okay,” Pearl echoes. It’s almost a snarl. Like a cornered dog, Cleo thinks. “And then we’re going to make them pay.”