“That’s a shite apology, Aesling.”
His expression tightened. “Don’t call me that. I’m not anything anymore.”
“Why would you say that?”
August propped his elbows on the bar, burying his fingers in his curls. “Everyone in the market square saw what I did. I can’t be both the aesling and a wielder.”
Felix smirked. “I thought you said you’re not a wielder.”
“I mean, I’m not.” August’s head lifted, his arms unfolding across the bar. “I’mnot,” he repeated in response to Felix’s withering look. “But I doubt they’ll make the same distinction. Now everybody knows what’s wrong with me.”
Felix’s breath hitched. It was a common belief—that wielders were broken, corrupted, less than. But hearing it from August, the boy who had always met him with respect and compassion, was a knife to the chest.
“Wrongwith you?” he snapped. “You think being a wielder means there’s something wrong with you?” Before August could respond, Felix spun to face him, jaw tight, fury simmering just beneath the surface. “So, is there something wrong withme?”
“No, of course not.”
“Am I defective? Are you here because you pity me?”
“You know that’s not—I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“Because I’m an idiot!” August shouted. “I thought that was clear already.”
“Oh, it’s deadly clear.”
Felix turned back to the bar, eyes fixed on the rows of bottles. He was angry at August, but more than anything, he was angry at himself. For letting those words cut. For caring what he thought.
August groaned. “You know, I spent all last night and the entirety of today trying to figure out what to say to you when you woke up.”
“And this was the best you could come up with?”
“No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was going to be a normal, reassuring friend, and I was going to tell you I swear I won’t keep secrets anymore.”
Felix snorted. “Wow, you severely messed that up.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. I have a knack for that.”
Silence stretched out between them, the air fragile enough to shatter. August dropped his face in his hands, his shoulders slumped.
Felix could go back to his room. He could be done with all this and save himself any further blows to his pride. But the weariness and the aching in his bones made it difficult to keep hold of the anger. He kept losing his grip. It wasn’t worth the effort. So he released it. For now.
“I’m starving,” Felix said as he stood. “I saw some leftover stew in the icebox. You hungry?”
It was a peace offering. Not quite forgiveness, but a small step toward it. And guessing by the relief that washed over August’s face, he understood.
“I’m always hungry,” he answered.
August sat on an empty table in The Raven’s Perch, legs swinging rhythmically. The exhaustion from the Hollow Dark had mostly lifted, taking the weight in his chest with it, and the warmth of the stew and the hot chocolate had thawed the chill in his bones.
Night had settled in, the gaslamps filling the room with a warm glow. Near the front door, the anchored woman sat, still whispering, and another had appeared in the chair beside him.
But he found his attention drawn only to Felix, now lounging on the bench in the large bay window, sprawled like a cat, his feathery hair swept back. His feet were propped against the glass, trouser cuffs bunched to his knees, his metal prosthetic now fully visible. He’d slipped the suspenders from his shoulders, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone.
Peaceful and utterly captivating.
August didn’t want to think about yesterday or tomorrow or anything else. He wanted to stay here in this moment forever. But the inevitable question eventually came.
