Rosmel was carried by Lilith's small hands under his armpits in an unorthodox manner, stretched to his absolute limit.
They flew over the forest. The treetops passed below like a green and black sea. The wind whistled in their ears.
"Mistress," said Rosmel, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Your identity is broken."
She took a moment to speak.
"I know. But staying there would have been more problematic."
Her eyes scanned the horizon.
"There it is. The village."
Lilith descended.
On the ground, her wings—similar to those of bats—retracted back into her body. The skin closed behind them as if nothing had happened. She touched her back.
Now bare.
"This is wrong," she said, rubbing the area. "The fabric of the dress..."
"I can help you with some of my shirt," Rosmel offered.
"It is fine."
Lilith raised a hand. At the tip of her nail, a glow appeared. She brought it to the right sleeve of Rosmel's shirt. She began cutting from the shoulder. Then she cut lengthwise. The fabric separated.
She spread the piece of cloth and covered her back. It did not look right. The frayed edges. The color clashed with the blue dress.
"M-mistress..."
She stopped him with a gesture of her hand.
"Let's go."
They walked to the village.
It was small. Poor. The wooden houses leaned against each other as if they needed mutual support to keep from falling. Ragged people walked the streets with plates in their hands. On them, more than food, they seemed to hold scraps. And scraps of scraps.
"They are rationing," Lilith observed.
"Who?"
"The king," shouted an old woman sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall. "He is a fraud!"
They approached her.
"Why do you say that?"
The old woman raised her plate. Murky water. A gnawed bone. Chicken skin.
"He told us: 'Give me your tools and I will feed you.' But he gave us this garbage."
Lilith looked around. The gaunt faces. The sunken eyes.
"It surprises me that so close to the palace there is this level of poverty."
The old woman examined them. Her gaze stopped on the bruise on Rosmel's face. On Lilith's torn clothes.
"You do not look well either. Did the border guards catch you too?"
"That is right," Lilith replied. "They... they stole our carriage."
"Scoundrels. Did they try anything with you?"
"Luckily nothing happened. But they did beat us. Mostly him."
The old woman stood up with effort. Her knees cracked.
"I may be poor, but I have my home. Come. I will feed you."
She walked two steps. Pushed open a worm-eaten wooden door.
They entered.
"You were already in your own house," said Lilith, observing the interior. "Curious. You will share with us after all?"
"It is all we have left," the old woman approached a large iron pot. "Sharing miseries."
She poured into some clay bowls. Water with grease. A few bubbles floated on the surface. She offered them the bowls.
Rosmel tried to drink it quickly. Without breathing.
Lilith smelled it. It was vaguely familiar to her. Pleasant, even. But drinking it was different.
She brought the bowl to her lips.
It was viscous. Bitter. Lumps dissolved on her tongue.
She could not hide her disgust. Her face twisted. She set the bowl down.
"I know," said the old woman, picking up the bowl. "I do not like it either."
She drank what was left. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"By the way. What is your name?"
Lilith hesitated.
"I no longer know," she replied. "It does not matter."
"But you were coming to the capital. Was it something important?"
"One could say so. Though it was a personal interest."
"How mysterious. Why will you not tell me anything?"
"I also want to know," interrupted Rosmel, setting down his empty bowl. "How will we cross if we have no carriage?"
Lilith looked at him.
"Flying."
The old woman's eyes widened.