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“You’ll never be good enough!” “She’s just pathetic…”
“A mistake! How is she an Arklaum?” “Copycat! Copycat! Copycat!”
Everything – walls, books, creatures – come crashing down onto little Agott. Her body aches. She feels like she’s going to– she can’t– not here– no, please–
Agott bolts upright in bed, long curls straggling in wild frays over her shoulders, icy kin coated in sweat. Richeh murmurs in her sleep from across the room, her night-bright softly illuminating her sleeping face. Agott sneaks out of bed, her little figure allowing her blanket to drag on the floor behind her.
She wanders through the Atelier, drifting towards the tower on the west side, heart pounding like a train engine blazing with coals. She knocks to the flickering of the light from beyond the door.
“Dad,” she says, voice quivering with hurt. She takes a step into the room. “Dad?” she asks, tears bubbling in her throat. Olruggio shifts from his desk and work and goes to the door.
He opens it slightly more, “What's wrong, Agott?”
“I– I'm scared. I had a dream and the wa-walls were m-mocking me and- and- and then they started to f-fall on m-me and I– I– I thought that I m-might d- duh- die,” she says through tears, deep lavender eyes misting with tears. Olruggio pulls her into his arms, shushing her.
“It's okay, Agott. I'm here. Nothing can hurt you, not here,” he tries.
“But- but what if they make fun of me?” Agott's tears begin to soak his day-old shirt. He brushes her hair out of her face.
“Who would make fun of you?” Olruggio asks as he wipes her tears, wiping her face with his sleeve as well.
“O- other g-girls and that b-b-boy and my mom's family and– and Richeh and– and–”
“Hey, let’s go down to the kitchen for a treat, okay? We won’t tell Richeh,” he says as he carefully picks her up. His back holds up shakily, at first. Agott buries her head into his shoulder, tears soaking the dirty, ash covered shirt.
Her long, inky curls brush his ink-stained hands as he carries her down the hall to the warm, inviting kitchen. Her blanket falls to the floor, unnoticed. The warm milk from that evening sits on the stove, waiting for someone to come back to the simmering, lidded pot. Her hands shake as he gives her a small ceramic cup, pouring himself one, too.
“Agott, you shouldn't worry about what they think. Papa and I think you are the brightest little girl we've ever seen. If they make fun of you, you know we'll be right there to help you,” he assures as she sips her drink, gulping thickly between the tears. She sets the cup down as her hands and lips quiver. Her eyes are dull as old, melting snow in the low lighting.
“Dad,” she whispers, “I’m sorry I bothered you.” She finishes her little cup after. Her hands chip the bottom of the cup on the table as she sets it down, rattling.
“Oh, no, Agott. I needed a break, and you needed someone. You’re fine. It’s okay to be scared and need a friend. You’re only eight, after all. Now, since you're finished, do you want to go back to bed?”
“Yes, Dad,” she says just before letting out a yawn. Olruggio picks her back up, grabbing the blanket forgotten at the kitchen archway. He slowly carries her up the stairs. He feels happy and warm, like he’s been drinking without the hangover or the first signs of spring just came to the Atelier. She silently becomes a weight in his arms as she softly sinks into his shirt.
He sets her down in her bed, tucking her back in.
“Good night, Agott.”
“Good night,” she barely whispers before softly snoring in her early sleep.
“Agott, come get me if you still can't sleep,” Olruggio whispers as he closes the door behind him. He walks down the hall, back to his room, feet muffled by the soft carpet.