“A kiss.”
I rear back, forgetting about the sharpened stone behind me. A collection of points digs into my spine, and I wince. “No man may touch a Daughter of Thornbrook.”
“But you’re a novitiate,” he says, sliding closer. “You have not taken your final vows. Don’t you want to be selfish, Brielle, just once? Don’t you want to claim something for yourself?”
My arms tighten around my front even as my breasts begin to grow sensitized. Zephyrus and I are of a similar height, but in this moment, I feel small. It’s so rare a feeling I’m momentarily taken aback.
Admittedly, I think of these things. The life of a novitiate isn’t easy. We are given the basics to survive, but nothing more. I remember a time before the abbey. My mother and I, curled in bed, her delicate fingers stroking my tangled hair. Sometimes I ache for that memory so much I cannot breathe.
But then I think of what followed. How her hands would tighten, dragging at my scalp. The shrill quality of her voice when her grasp on reality warped. Her giddy highs preceding the inevitable crashes, days lying in bed. A young daughter forced to care for her mentally unstable mother.
Another shift brings his mouth closer to mine. His trousers brush my thighs underwater, and the coarse texture sends a dart of heat through my core.
“You don’t actually want to kiss me,” I whisper. His smell, like rain on baked earth, lifts to cloud my senses.
“Is that so?” Curled lashes dip over his eyes, shielding them from view. “I have thought of your mouth since our last parting. I have thought of it too often.”
“You lie.” My voice wavers.
“I do not.”
Suddenly, he is that much closer. He exhales in one long stream, his breath slipping into my open mouth.
“Why?” I hate the insecurity a single word can hold. I should not care. I have Thornbrook. I have the Father, and my smithing, and the Text. It has always been enough.
“Because you are an enigma,” he says, eyes gentle. “Because you are most generous. Because you are discovering what lies beyond your abbey walls, and I find myself drawn to your bravery.”
“I’m not brave,” I stammer, searching his gaze for deception. I find none.
“Aren’t you?”
If I were braver, I would turn my back on people leading me down unfulfilling roads. I would have fought for myself years ago. Being swept up in the whims of others? That is not bravery. That is complacency.
Zephyrus hesitates, then says, “I am old, Brielle. Very old. The world does not hold the same allure for someone who does not age.”
Pulling away, he lifts himself from the pool, water dripping from his clothes to splatter onto the rocks. “I have enjoyed watching you experience life,” he says, features shadowed by unexpected grief. “Do not take it for granted, because soon enough, it will end.”
15
IEAT LITTLE OF THE DINNERZephyrus provides before rolling into bed, dragged into unconsciousness before my head hits the ground. My dreams grow talons. Sweat oozes from my pores, and a dull ache throbs alongside my bones. Then: dawn.
I pull myself upright, shivering as I store my belongings and shoulder my pack. Even in these early hours, the light glares potently, my eyes cracked to the barest sliver against it.
Cheese and apples comprise breakfast, but I do not partake, considering the awful metallic taste in my mouth. Zephyrus and Harper stride ahead, chatting merrily, unaware that each of my steps falls slower than the last.
Noon arrives and departs with equal lethargy.
As the afternoon wanes, the earth, springy and wet, begins to stink of rot. I find myself reaching for low-hanging branches, the treacherous ground pocked with holes. Blackness streaks my vision. I stop, swaying dizzily in place.
“I need a moment.”
Despite the softness of my voice, Zephyrus hears me. I would recognize that long-legged stride among the marching gait of a hundred men as he doubles back to help lower me onto a stump, worry creasing his face. “You’re pale.”
My mouth is so dry I fail to swallow. “I’m always pale.”
“Wan, I should say.” He shifts nearer. “When did you last eat?”
Yesterday returns in flashes of color, sound, and light. “Last night. Dinner.”
