She pursed her lips, giving him a scowl as they continued, mollified by the way he oohed over and ahhed the Oldetowne Victorians, as she knew he would, and acted appropriately impressed by the old Observatory and the site of the waterfall, lit with colored lights. "It's so pretty in the springtime when all the flowers are blooming. They have them planted on levels on either side of the falls, and there's a cherry blossom festival. In the summertime they fly hot air balloons right over downtown. I like walking in the park in the summer, especially after being cooped up inside all day, and everything is nice and close and convenient." Her ears heated, hoping she didn't sound too much like an overzealous real estate guide, or worse, transparent in her elaborately constructed daydream, starring the two of them. "Oh! In the fall they have a big fall Fest hosted at one of the farms, it's like a big carnival. It's the best apple cider I’ve ever tasted. Andtheydon't use garbage apples."
She expected him to be hesitant; to tiptoe around her apartment uncertainly, the way she’d done in his on that very first night, months earlier. Hehadhesitated, had stood in the threshold of her front door for an interminable moment, as though his feet were stuck, preventing him from taking the next step before she’d tugged on his hand, pulling him through the door and stretching up on her toes to kiss his jaw. Then she’d turned away, determined to be as nonchalant over his presence as he’d been that first night, pulling out extra pillows for her side of the bed.
In contrast to the nervous trepidation she’d displayed in his apartment, Tate had gone exploring. She watched from the corner of her eye as he moved through the small living room, inspecting framed family photos and her small movie collection, opening and closing books, looking over her furniture. In the kitchen he’d pulled open the cupboards, smiling softly at the etched flower design on her glasses, and investigated the contents of her freezer before moving on. Silva pulled two of the glasses from the cupboard as he drifted down the hallway, listening to the sound of the small linen closet being pulled open. When she found him, he was in her bedroom, standing over a mirrored tray that housed a small collection of tiny, velvet-flocked animals, her favorite childhood toys.
"They’re old," she murmured, flushing at the worn condition of the small figures, watching the way his brow furrowed. Each was no bigger than a bottlecap, carved in wood, the velvet coating patchy and worn. "They were my great-grandmother's."
"I had this same set." As he spoke, his fingertip moved from animal to animal, alighting on each one like a butterfly, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose, as if she could feel his touch. "When I was a boy."
"Really? I used to play with them at her house when I was little. My grandmother didn’t understand why I wanted them when I was older, but they were my favorite thing in the whole world." Tate hadn’t yet blinked, his finger poised over the small, dappled fawn. "That one was my favorite," she murmured, feeling a strange twist of nostalgia.
"My favorite was the rabbit." His voice was very soft, his finger moving to the shabby little rabbit, most of its velvet coating rubbed away from four generations of play. One more thing they shared, she thought, moving around the shelf to press her cheek to his back, wrapping her arms around his narrow waist.Fated mates.
"Did you get a chance to snoop through my bookshelf already? Are you ready for bed?"
His low laugh was a deep rumble that moved through his back, vibrating against her cheek. He turned in her arms, and she was ready to receive his kiss, her face already tipped up. He made no argument as she walked him backward across the room to sit at the edge of her bed, before dropping to her knees. She had already kicked off her skyscraper heels as soon as they'd entered the apartment, and now she unlaced and removed his oxfords, and carefully unbuckled the front of his belt. She'd not paid enough attention to his accoutrements in the club, she realized, when she reached for the intricate watch on his wrist. The crystal face had a cover, unusual for a wristwatch, overlapping vines with small moths and tiny bees in relief, finely wrought in shimmering gold. There was a turning knob on the side of it, and she raised her head, her brows drawn together in confusion.
"Is this a pocket watch?"
"It was once." His voice was barely a whisper and he offered no further explanation. Silva swallowed, carefully unthreading the band from his wrist and placing the watch on the top of her dresser. She ordered him to stand, peeling the snug black pants down his endless legs before pushing him back down to unbutton his shirt, very aware of his warm breath on her arms as she did so. Her hands hesitated at the unexpected piece of jewelry beneath the dress shirt, her nails finding purchase against his clavicle, her palms smoothing against his warmth, down his sternum, and over his hard abdomen, nails scraping. Around his neck, he wore a chain; a very long chain that hung nearly to the center of his chest, the pendant it supported pressed just beside the spot where his heartbeat thumped beneath her fingers. The chain, she could tell, was newer, but the pendant itself made her breath catch. A tiny, swooping bird on the edge of a floral motif, rendered in claret porcelain on an ivory background, with a faint spider web of nearly translucent crazing. It was a piece of dinnerware, she thought, filed smooth and placed in a locket-like setting of mother-of-pearl. It was old and strange and distressingly lovely, and its presence around his neck made her raise her eyes to his uncertainly.
"It was a teacup and saucer that I broke when I was a boy. I can’t remember which the chip came from. My nan wanted it set into the bail, and my grandfather closed it with the filigree." Like the watch, he offered no further explanation. Not why a fragment of broken porcelain had been saved, nor why he wore it, but Silva inferred that it was very important, slipping it over his head, careful not to catch his hair. She pressed her lips to the center of his chest where the pendant had rested, before gingerly placing it on the dresser beside the watch. He rose from the bed, unzipping the back of her dress, sliding it down her body until she was able to step free of it. Silva watched as he crossed the room, placing the dress on a hanger on the back of her closet door, smoothing out the skirt before crossing back to her. Careful and considerate, she thought, always so careful. Hooking his thumbs in the straps of her thong, he deftly pulled it down her body, and she did the same with his black boxer briefs a moment later until they were both bare, slipping beneath the sheets of her bed.
"Oh! I forgot something." She hopped out of bed, squeaking at the chill air as she crossed the room quickly, pushing up the window and hoping none of her neighbors were awake to see the site of her bare chest outlined in the pane for a brief moment. When she slid back beneath the sheets his arms came around her, pressing her to his front, flush against his warmth.
"Thank you for inviting me," Silva murmured against his throat after a few moments. "It was a fun party. I'm glad I got to meet your friends. Why wasn't Ainsley invited?"
"He doesn't know any of them," he explained, hesitating, his head cocking in thought. "Well, actually I think he does know one or two of themintimately, but that doesn't matter. They don’t matter." He smiled softly, shaking his head at her protest. "They're people I know, people I've used for one thing or another, who used me for another thing or two in return. That's how this industry works."
Silva was quiet in the wake of his confession, thinking the way he floated from conversation to conversation, not really investing himself in any of the people there. She wondered if he’d ever let her in to meet the people whodidmatter, if this well-heeled group was not it. "What about your actual friends then?"
His eyebrow raised, exaggerated by the way his face pressed into her pillow. "I seem to remember you meeting Shona. Have you met Ainsley? He’s hard to forget. Orcish, very tall, never shuts his bleedin’ mouth."
"Yes, I’ve met Ainsley," she giggled, "I just mentioned him two seconds ago!"
"You did, but you seem a bit confused and I didn’t want to call attention to it."
She pushed on his chest as she laughed, huffing in mock outrage at his response. "Hedoestalk a lot," she agreed with a smile. ". . . That’s it then? You’re not going to introduce me to the rest of your friends?"
"Silva, I like feral cats, very small children, and very old men, and that’s about it. I’m not sure where you think I’d find the extra hours in the day to cultivate the habit of being a social butterfly, but I’m sad to have to inform you I’ve neither the time nor inclination to do so."
She scowled, bumping her nose to his as his low laughter warmed her face. Silva pressed her lips together as he kissed her forehead again, her mind moving on to the next missing piece of the puzzle. Pressing herself a little tighter to his front, she pushed her knee through his legs, gratified by his warmth as he trapped her.
"What about your family? I've never been to Ireland . . . maybe — maybe we could visit? Maybe in the spring? I'm sure your grandmother would like that."
His eyes were sad as he smiled softly, one of his long fingers reaching out to push a lock of her hair back behind her ear, his thumb once again caressing the apple of her cheek. For a long, heavily weighted moment, the only sound was the steady ticking of his watch upon the dresser.He's going to say no, the little voice in her head hissed.He wishes he’d never even told you his name, he doesn't want you to be a part of his life, didn't he say so before?
"They've been dead for a very long time, dove. But if it makes you feel any better, my nan would have loved you."
"Oh," she whispered in a small voice, her stomach twisting, feeling horrible for even bringing it up. She wanted to ask how they’d died, how old he’d been when he lost them, what he’d done after, but the soft, sad smile had not left his face as he continued to stroke her hair. He'd never mentioned any siblings, neither Orcish nor Elvish, although, she reminded herself, he never actually mentioned much. Passing references to the grandparents who’d raised him, the single statement regarding his mother, that weekend she'd first returned, and that was all. No other family that he brought up, no stories or funny reminiscents, no grievances or gripes. Half mentions without elaboration or explanation, and little else. He worked, morning ‘till night, and that was it. "What about your mom?"
"We don't speak." Once again, he offered no further explanation, and his tone brokered no further discussion, but she pushed, not content to let the conversation derail that easily.
"Is she —"
"She lives in the northern part of the country," he cut in, heading off the question taking shape on her lips. "I put her in a care facility before I left, and she has all of the company she might wish to have. She doesn't know me more than half the time, and it’s a very long way to travel to have something thrown at my head."
Tears pricked her eyes at the thought. "I'm sorry." She tried to imagine life without her mother, without her grandmother, and her heart seized a bit at the thought. It was easy for other people to tell her she ought to simply walk away from her family; that she ought to tell them all to simply hang and let her live her life anyway she pleased, but those were easy things to say, and much harder to do. She loved her mother, loved her grandmother; couldn't imagine not having their shoulders to cry on or their wisdom over the years. Even though she felt trapped in the carefully constructed roadmap they were laying out for her, she knew all of it was done from a place of love. They only wanted the best for her, misguided as it may have been, and she could not simply walk away from them, walk away from her life, as easily as Lurielle had done. He'd told her that he'd emigrated many years ago, the one time she'd asked, and she tried to picture him doing so alone, moving here with no friends or family. The thought of him growing up not being close to his mother, leaving his homeland all alone without knowing there was someone behind to miss him hurt her heart.
