Inside the hollow of the tree trunk, she is away from everything except the musty smell and the stream of drips, and neither of those bothers her much. The left arm of her dress is soaked, which doesn’t really matter. Her hem and ruffles are mud-clagged, and her dresses always end up like this before the day is done. It’s what washing machines were invented for.
She sits within the emptied-out guts of the ancient oak and sucks a single strand of her hair, freshly plucked from her head. How sad that this is the best place for her on Planet Earth. Going home would mean listening to Granddad’s anger and pity, and it’s difficult to choose which is worse. The rants are long and circular. The pity reminds her that she’s a figure of hate. The rants are caused by her, whether indirectly or not. The pity says that her life will be like this forever.
Can it really all be anger and misery from here onwards?
The tree’s innards are cool and damp against her back. Her head taps a slow rhythm on the rotting wood. She’s been doing this for half an hour, and it’s starting to hurt.
It’s hard to know what she was expecting of Caleb. She wasn’t stupid enough to think he was some kind of hero, was she? Then again, perhaps he is a hero, but no one ever said that heroes would help a creature like her.
That draws a dry, sharp laugh from Misha. The boy’s no hero. Her misery had been nothing more than an unwelcome interruption for him. He’d stood by and waited for the business with Vic to end so he could get on with his strange and stupid task. Whether or not she’d been in danger didn’t matter. She’d been in the way. That’s why he never called her a name. Complete cold indifference. No interest at all. It’s almost as cruel as Vic’s threats of physical violence.
Why does she care? He’s a stranger. Eight had been right as always. She wonders what Eight will make of today’s events. She’ll ask later.
That’s if she ever decides to leave the shelter of this tree.