Pickles scurried about her feet as she regarded the half dozen bottles she had collected. They were of varying colors and shades, brown, ruby red, clear. Adelaida knew what they were, knew what they were for, but she had never attempted at partaking in them. She believed too that too much of it could kill a wolf, especially one not shifted, or so Fyodor had told the Koios children long ago. That idea, at least was alluring. Foolish thoughts and slurring words were not, she did a nice enough job of being pathetic on her own. But to fall into sleep, a cold stupor that she wouldn’t wake from, that was a nice enough thought.
The only way she could think to open them was to break the bottles, or shift, neither of which she was willing to do. Ingesting broken glass was not on her agenda, and even if she meant to end her miserable self, she did would not do so with her body so hideously distorted. Sighing, she turned away and curled up, facing the wall of the tiny shack. She remembered collecting the bottles, dragging them back in a sack she carried in her mouth. They were heavy but something made her want them. Looking at them in the morning reminded her that if it got worse she didn’t have to endure. Of course, Adelaida did not think it could get worse.
Dahlia de Mai was almost a distant memory, no doubt Alexey would be glad at her absence and Sankor probably had not noticed yet. Pickles had been the only one she saw for days, and her meals were erratic, she did not mind or notice the loss of muscle and weight as she did nothing but sleep for days on end. It was what she deserved anyhow, the only thought that bothered her about all this was how disappointed Fyodor would be at the sight of his daughter. But as she had so tactfully pointed out to Alexey, he was dead.
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