“And take away this opportunity for you to tend to my body so sweetly?”
I leaned away, sighing. “Don’t do that.”
His jaw twitched. “Definethat.”
“We were having a nice conversation.”
“Is that what we were doing?”
“What else could it be?”
“Yes, what else?”
“I should leave.” I started to slide off his lap.
His arms went around me, holding me in place. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry. Stay a bit longer?”
I stared at him for much too long before speaking. “Alright.”
He tugged me up into his lap, tightening his arms around me.
I didn’t resist. Not one bit.
He didn’t speak for a while. Just held me, his chin resting on the top of my head like I might vanish if he moved. I didn’t pull away; couldn’t seem to make myself do it. The night pressed in close, cool and still, our breaths puffing like secrets in the dark.
“Tell me about Isi Barlowe,” he finally said.
I stiffened. A dangerous request. But there was no malice in his tone, no edge to suggest he was waiting to catch me out. He wasn’t asking who I served or what I wanted. He was asking about who I was inside.
I tilted my head back enough to look up to see the clean lines of his face silhouetted in the firelight. “What kind of answer are you hoping for?”
“The kind you don’t tell anyone else.”
I sighed, unsure what to share. What I dared share. I wanted to open up to him, to tell him everything, which was dangerous.
“Hmm.” I pulled back from his arms enough to sit beside him,cross-legged, and he let me go without protest, though his fingers brushed my back as I settled. “I like reading old legends. Not the sanctioned ones or the kind that makes the rounds to teach a lesson. I like the ones with soft spines and pages gone loose because they were loved. With stories that don’t end neatly. I used to sneak into the library and take the books tucked away in the back. I like the stories with trickster heroines who outwitted kings, or the tragic ones that left my chest aching for days.”
I picked at the hem of my sleeve, then glanced up to find him watching me in that unnerving way of his, like he was seeing more than I meant to show.
“Do you still cry when you read the tragic ones?” he asked softly.
“I don’tcry,” I said, too quickly.
That made his mouth twitch. “Of course not. It’s only dust in your eyes at that exact moment.”
“Exactly.” I thought about what I could share and what I couldn’t. “I paint and draw sometimes. Badly. I’m not being modest. I’m truly awful. But I like doing it anyway. I use whatever I can find. Berry juice, charcoal pencils, even crushed petals I soak in oil until their colors bleed. It never comes out right, but I like making things, even if they’re not very good.”
“I think there’s something honest in that. Most people only make what they believe can come out perfect. They don’t know how to love something they can’t control.”
His words caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
“I collect things,” I went on after a pause, my voice hesitant. “Small things, mostly. Stones with white rings around them. Only if the line goes all the way around, though. Never only partway. They bring luck, my mother used to say. And feathers. Bits of glass that have been smoothed down by rivers or time. They don’t mean anything, not really. But sometimes the most imperfect things can be the richest treasure.”
He stared toward the flames, the reflection flickering in his eyes. “The overlooked things. The ones no one else sees value in.”
I blinked. “Yes.”
“Maybe because they remind you of something. Orsomeone.”
