She listened much more closely this time – even minutely, straining to hear the pauses in between the words, struggling to reach some conclusion. Could she trust this oddball Widow?
How could she not?
Would she cooperate with him?
What choice did she have?
Did she believe him?
What difference did it make?
Whether he was lying – for reasons she simply could not fathom – or telling the truth – as unbelievable as it sounded – or simply was a madman – which seemed the likeliest explanation – it made no difference, in the end. In the end, she would die. She had known this for three months now. She had resigned herself to this fact. So what did it matter if this fantastical apparition was promising her salvation? It occurred to her that perhaps that was the real explanation here – perhaps she was hallucinating all of this, her drug soaked mind grasping at a chance that did not exist. That was the easiest to accept. Her mind had snapped and she was going mad. She was the madman here.
“Marvasa,” she said softly, letting the syllables roll over her tongue speculatively. Where had her poor brain pulled that name from?
“Go to my brother. Tell him I’m ready. I’m ready to leave this . . . place. Show us, how to leave. Help me sprout wings – so I can fly away from here.”
She looked at him steadily, thinking that he was only an apparition of despair.
“I’m ready.”
