Scene from the Untitled Story

When the rain started, she was too far removed to take any notice. Though somewhere, deep within herself, a memory sparked to life. One of music and twilight. Even as she laced the sheets together, Phalin’s mind wandered from distant to recent past, collaging a story that defied explanation but seemed perfectly coherent.
She stopped for a moment, listening for creaking floorboards or coughing guards. In the wee hours of the morning, even Nichodemus’ most loyal men felt the need to sleep. Phalin was, after all, but one woman, and in her month-long captivity, she had never once tried to escape.
She tried to concentrate on the ropes, remembering knots her father had taught her. But the music kept playing in her ears, reminding her of Tasnee’s wedding reception. The silks, perfumed heavily, had draped across the courtyard balconies, giving the party a thicker, slightly drugged quality. Their mother had slipped off behind the fabrics more than once, hiding the tears that came forth everytime Tasnee and Raghnall kissed.
Over in the corner, Raghnall’s younger brother had stood, hand wrapped around a beer mug, pouting in a most unregal manner. He nodded to those who walked by, but Phalin had not seen the man eat anything or speak to anyone since the ceremony. He had held her hand loosely during Amara’s Circle, never making eye contact.
Her finger slipped, grazing an unexpected pin, and she cursed loudly, coming back to the lifeless bedroom and encroaching rain. Red blood dribbled onto the white sheets, spreading out into a vine pattern. Outside the door, she heard the guard shift his weight, but he let out a snore and nothing else.
Index finger pressed tightly between her tongue and upper pallete, Phalin ignored the iron taste in her mouth as, one handed, she lugged the bed sheets and other linens towards the balcony doors. The cloth reminded her of the saddle and horse feed she and Xerian had unloaded in the stables that afternoon. Her muscles, still sore from the sudden bout of physical activity, fell into the earlier rhythm, tugging and piling her escape route.
Watching the rain outside, contemplating how best to open the door without alerting all of Nichodemus’ forces, her mind wandered backwards, once again, to the wedding reception, and the crying skies that had mimicked her mother’s sorrow. Servants and guests alike dashed about the court yard, looking for a dry place under a tiny awning. Phalin had ended up next to Cairbre, whose sullen look had changed to positively irate.
But in the memory, as the rain let up, the man next to her was no longer Cairbre, but Xerian. He kept his eyes on her, scanning the crowd. She was no longer safe at home, but surrounded by Nichodemus’ lackeys, who continued to move closer, not allowing her a moment to breathe. Xerian put his arm around her waste, pulling her away from the crowd, taking her into an alcove that did not exist at home.
A knock on her prison door sent a shiver up her present-day spine. The linens still piled in the corner, she paniced. There was no time to put everything back on her bed, and no time to completer he plan at the moment. Pressing the cloth between her free arm and her body, she carried-rolled-pulled the ball to her bed and kicked it until most was hidden safely underneath.
Finger still in her mouth, Phalin walked to the door and opened it slowly. Xerian stood tall, resting into the doorframe casually. His blue eyes fell to the sleeping guard on the floor and he almost smiled. Gesturing towards the room beyond, Xerian let himself into her chambers, leaving her to close the door without waking the guard.
“What do you want?” she asked when she thought it safe to speak, hoping the bleeding of her finger had stopped. Luckily, it had.
“I came to tell you,” he said quietly, “that if you’re going to attempt an escape, make sure to close your curtains or work under minimal light. I could see your entire attempt.”
Phalin’s face went red and her stomach turned angrily. She was going to be killed before the hour was gone, dragged into Nichodemus’ bed chamber for a beheading. She cursed herself.
Xerian began to look around the room, and Phalin made no move to stop him. It only took him a few moments to discover the ball of sheets, which he kicked out into the middle of the room. Seeing the blood, he gave a little nod.
“We’ll have to untie the knots. When I’ve been gone for about fifteen minutes, wake the guard and say that you need new linens. The stain will be enough of a reason.” His face was serious, and betrayal floated behind his eyes. “That’s a lucky slice you have on your finger."

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Okay, the line I just came up with was "My chai latte is phitzing at me." Enjoy!