Chapter Seventy-Two

THERE IS ONLY a little water left and Philippa has it all. This morning she took the bottle and refused to give it back to me. Yesterday I shared it between us, but now I want to give the last of it to the girls. They must be here when The Lover comes back. I can die now; I have seen them, I am fulfilled. I expected too much when I hoped they would be able to love me. It is a small sadness: I care only that they survive. They must not die.

I look across at them. They are still together, as far across the room from me as they can get, but very far apart. There is no spark between them, no interest, no compassion even of the most impersonal kind. Would Ariadne have been kinder?

Cassandra is ill. She is taller and stronger than Philippa; her hair is glossier; she is better spoken, but she’s not a street fighter and she can’t cope. She will not speak or look at either of us. She is slumped on the floor with her legs splayed, toes turned inwards, like a rag doll. She won’t assert her right to the water and certainly won’t fight for it. I see the spirit ebbing out of her.

Philippa is crouched in the corner beside her. I placed the water bottle in the middle of the floor this morning as we agreed, and she snatched it. Cassandra barely showed she’d noticed. Philippa is hunched like a wild dog guarding its food. If we all die in here, she will be the last.

Thinking of dogs cheers me. The Lover adores his dogs. He’s left them on guard outside. I know he won’t abandon them.

I hear a retching noise. It is Cassandra, vomiting into the waste bucket. It’s the stench that’s made her ill.

“Rest on the bed,” I say. “Please. I won’t come any closer to you.”

She doesn’t reply. They’re both avoiding the bed today. Perhaps they notice more than I do that it stinks of death.