There was a bottle on the windowsill. It was clear glass, about half full of water, and held a single, pink flower.
Simeon wasn’t sure what type of flower it was, he wasn’t familiar with gardens, but it gave him a focus as he lay in a room he didn’t recognise, as people he didn’t know fussed over him in a language he couldn’t understand.
What had happened?
The last thing he remembered was being in the coach with Walter and Tomas. It was dark, they’d been delayed by a lame horse, and the sun had set with Highcliffs Castle still some time away.
Walter had suggested they stop in a village they passed through around twilight, but he’d wanted to keep going. They needed to make it to Highcliffs as soon as possible. He just couldn’t remember why.
There had been a jolt, and screams, and the carriage had tipped. Tomas had fallen on top of him, first flailing, then unmoving. He couldn’t remember seeing or hearing Walter at all.
Then nothing until he’d woken here, his head ready split with pain, his ribs aching enough to be cracked, and an arm that didn’t want to be raised.
Over the days, the pains had eased, and his arm was moving again, but there was no sign of Walter or Tomas, no one he could communicate with, and no idea what he even could, or rather should, say.
So he lay in the bed, and watched the sunlight dance through the glass bottle, and wondered how the flower always seemed to be fresh.
Outside the window, voices sounded, loud and urgent. One sounded familiar… Tomas? Simeon struggled to sit up as the door to his room opened and the young woman who’d been his most constant attendant entered.
She looked worried, scared even, and raised a finger to her lips.
The DNA of Stories 