The Memory of Water by Taylen Carver

Author:Taylen Carver [Carver, Taylen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stories Rule Press
Published: 2020-05-20T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Arctic chill lasted for two days. I seethed in my room, because I was at the bloody man’s mercy. He had the key to the cabinet. I could have smashed in the cabinet—it was a simple oak cupboard with a single leaf lock—but that would have been too deliberate a step to take. Addicts prefer to disguise their efforts to find the next hit, and not risk having that channel closed off to them. Magorian would only allow me a single blow at the lock before trying to stop me.

I couldn’t leave here to acquire more, either. In the last few days, I’d grown a little stir-crazy and taken to walking the streets. Magorian always accompanied me every time I stepped out of the apartment, even when I’d taken a three-hour stroll around the old city borders.

I couldn’t end the agreement and go to the camp, either. Suzuki would not leave me homeless and unfed, but she would cut off all my usual supply routes. By now, she would have found my stash and locked everything away. It’s what I would have done, in her place.

I spoke not a word to Magorian, yet he continued to provide the tablets precisely on schedule. He would knock, open the door and place the tablet on the top of the low cupboard beside the door, then shut the door again. He didn’t avoid looking at me. Neither did he speak.

After two days of sulking, I was itching to move. After siesta, when the afternoon shadows were long and the smell of fresh tapas wafted in the air, I went out to the main room.

Magorian was just placing a plate of pancakes on the table where he usually ate—and usually standing up, too. He glanced at me. His surprise was smoothed away and his expression grew bland.

“I have to iron out the wrinkles,” I said apologetically.

“Okay.” He immediately turned and moved toward the stairs.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

I glanced at the plate.

“They’re better cold,” he said.

“They’re disgusting, cold.”

He just waited at the bottom of the steps.

I turned and followed him to the front door.

•

IT WAS GOOD TO BE out in fresh air that moved freely and to see people. Now siesta was over, the narrow, crooked lanes were filling up again. My shoulders and neck tension eased as we climbed up and down steps and navigated the cobbled gutters, while sliding around tourists and locals.

Now, not talking to Magorian felt stupid. We trudged in complete silence, while Spanish and dozens of other languages filled the air around us. Only I couldn’t forgive him for his manipulations.

When Magorian spoke instead, I was so startled I nearly ran into the corner of a building projecting into the street. I pushed myself off it. “What did you say?”

Magorian grimaced as if he was sorry for making me scrape my nose. “I asked what you meant about chemicals being predictable.”

“They are.” I’m not sure what made me say it, but I added, “If the formula is written accurately.

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