A few seconds, then.
“Siren, please, I'll explain everything as soon as I can, but right now you need to get back to your room. Don't make me watch them take you, not when I'm powerless to stop them from hurting you.”
My heart surges at the concern in his voice. My jaw sets as I nod and leave, passing a flustered Ettie in the hallway as I make a beeline for my room.
By the time the orderlies get there, I'm back in bed, sitting on the edge, hands folded in my lap. Ettie’s waving her arms, gesturing to Tiras’s room and back to mine, but the orderlies just shrug at her. The taller one, Simon, interrupts her.
“I get it, Ettie, but we can’t call Dr. Palmore to sedate her if she’s not doing anything wrong.”
“But she stole my keys! She was practically in his room! Don’t tell me you’re not going to do anything about that.”
Simon shrugs again. “She was in her room when I got here. I'm sorry, Ett, but my hands are tied.”
“His door is wide open! You know I didn’t do that.” Ettie puts her hands on her hips. The whole scene is almost comical.
After a few more minutes of back and forth, Ettie gives up, and the orderlies leave, scolding me and warning me to stay put until it's time for therapy.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. The orderlies' words are lost on me, because there is something more important on my mind: Tiras still cares. I don’t know what else is going on, but that one fact is enough to warm my heart and give me hope.
I know from experience that new admissions don’t get any privileges until they've proven their willingness to cooperate with the program, and even for well-behaved patients that takes a week or more to accomplish. That means I will have to behave and cooperate for a week or more as well. If either one of us acts out or breaks the rules, we’ll both be punished.
A week without Tiras—another whole week—is torture, but it’s endurable…mainly because I know that Tiras is safe. He may be locked up in this asylum, but he's safe.
I take my pills on schedule. I go to my therapies. I toe the line, and after two grueling weeks of faking it, Dr. Palmore rewards me with permission to send notes to Tiras. I have to pass them to him via nurse or orderly, but it's a step in the right direction. The first note from Tiras is short, but it’s probably because he has to use mediators too, so he doesn’t want to reveal anything private that could be read.
Siren, my love,
Thank you for listening to me. I promise it will all be worth it. We just have to be patient.
With all my heart,
Tiras the Deserter
Tiras the Deserter? His choice of signature is strange, but his words are encouraging. I hold the note to my chest and sigh.
“Siren, my love.” “With all my heart.” Those two phrases are enough to hold me for now. I hope he receives my note with the same enthusiasm.
Tiras,
My heart soars to see you alive and well. I long for the day when the locks no longer keep us apart.
Siren
Okay, so I'm not as good with words as Tiras. I got my point across, right?
Two more weeks pass before Dr. Palmore allows us to sit in the same group therapy sessions. The pyro twins snort and giggle and sneer, but Tiras takes the seat next to me anyway. The heat emanating from his body stirs a fire in my loins, but I keep my hands to myself. I don’t want to jeopardize our fragile accord with Dr. Palmore and his staff. They're letting us be close to each other, and that's more than they ever allowed when Tiras was conjured. It's killing me not to touch him, though.
We walk to the dining hall side by side, and he sits next to me at the table. A dozen-plus pairs of eyes bore into us, watching our every move. The pyro twins point and whisper. Tiras shuts them down with a glare that would have been terrifying had it been aimed at me. I grin into my mashed potatoes and touch my knee to his under the table. He nudges my arm with his elbow, and when I glance over at his plate, I see the words “jealous brats” spelled out in peas. I giggle and place my hand over his, risking retribution if the orderlies see us.
“I'm sorry I had to leave you,” he says, squeezing my hand. His voice is so soft I have to strain to hear him. “I still don’t think it's safe to explain, but I promise I will soon.”
I squeeze back. “It's okay. As long as you’re here now, and you’re here for good, I don’t care about any explanation.”
“I'm here for good. For you. Forever.”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away with the back of my free hand.
An orderly escorts the two of us back to our rooms, and they allow us a supervised hug in the hallway before locking us away for the night.
Dr. Palmore surprises me the next day by delivering my breakfast and morning pills himself. Dr. Palmore never does grunt work.
“Good morning, Miss Smith. How are you this fine day?”
Something is fishy. What does he want?
“Good morning, Dr. Palmore.” I'm not sure what else to say.
He sits on the chair across the room and crosses his legs. I wait for him to speak.
“So,” he uncrosses his legs and re-crosses them the other way, “you and Mr. Williams have given me a lot to think about this past month.”
Uh oh. This could either be really good or really bad. “And what conclusion did you come to?”
He sits forward and stares at me, his beady black eyes boring into me. “We did tests on Tiras,
