“You are broken,” he said.
Setting my jaw, I made a halfhearted attempt at withdrawing my hand, but he held it still.
“Let me finish,” he insisted. The subtle upturn of his smile tempered what may have otherwise seemed an imposing gesture.
I nodded.
“There are parts of your past that you revealed to me when we were young, and many parts I know of that you still have not told me, or perhaps that you keep even from yourself. My point is that we are all broken, to various degrees. I have felt for youfrom the time I was first old enough to yearn for a woman. I have loved you even longer.”
Swallowing, I lowered my eyes but let him continue.
“If I were to have you, though, I would press my concepts upon you, seeking to fix you. Not purposefully, but I believe I would. Just as I did with your dagger. It was only when I finished repairing it, when I held it up and viewed it as nothing more than a replica of others of its kind, that I realized I was wrong.”
“You were wrong?” I looked up to him again.
“You do not need to befixed, Evera. Embrace your brokenness. You are distinct, extraordinary, just as you are. It would be a disservice to attempt to conform you to the mold of what others consider respectable and acceptable. This”—he held out the blade and shook his head—“it is not what is best for you.”
“Why are you saying this?” My words caught in my throat.
“Give me some credit where it is due. I am not daft. I have seen the way Lark speaks to you, how he treats you. As much as I resent the man, it is clear he does not try to change you. Does not try to fix you. That is what you deserve. That is how you will flourish.”
Keeping Ruairc’s hand in mine, I hovered over the blade with my other. Thoughts of the night of Mother’s death came back to me, and I chewed the inside of my cheek to hold down the emotions.
“Have I misjudged?” Ruairc posed.
“No,” I said, releasing a breath. “No, you have not misjudged. It is only that it is not as simple as that.”
“Is it not?”
Trailing my middle finger in a little circle where the latticed leather wrapped the blade’s handle, I considered Ruairc’s words. It was true that Neirin had not tried to force me into the constructs or views society deemed proper. That I had come to see already. It was the concept of brokenness that held me.
In all my life, not once had someone told me that I was broken so boldly. It was something whispered, something seen in the eyes of others on occasion, especially when I was younger, but never voiced to me. There was an overwhelming self-acceptance in what Ruairc stated.
My life had been composed of an endless cycle of attempting compliance, for Aureus’s sake, for the sake of our shop. Of holding my tongue. Of hiding my abilities, my skills, my dagger. Of concealing my past, even from myself.
“I do not want to be fixed,” I said, more to myself than to Ruairc as I took the blade and held it up to the light of the sun. It was still my blade, but it lacked the wear of time, of use, of the scars inflicted upon it. And it was as Ruairc said—it no longer held any importance or any value at all to me.
“Embrace the broken.” Ruairc squeezed my hand. A warm sadness shone in his eyes—the acceptance of letting go, even when it ached him deeply to do so.
Embrace the broken.
The rattle of wheels behind me shattered the stillness. Ruairc dropped my hand to coax me to the side of the road, his touch at my waist gentle. The moment fell away as we stood to the side, quietened as the wagon passed. When it did, I turned the blade over in my hands. It was still the blade of the man who had hurt me, the one responsible for Mother’s death.
“I appreciate your words, Ruairc, I truly do,” I said, holding the dagger back out to him, “but I do not want this.”
He held my gaze with a considering look. Perhaps he could see that there was more, that I was withholding, but he did not press. Instead, he rewrapped the blade and returned it to his bag. “Then I will hold it for you, as long as you need me to.”
Words held in my throat, ones I was not yet ready to put voice to.
Calix, suddenly beside me, tugged at my shirt. The boy’s stealth, the way he so easily evaded detection, made him seem at times more ghost than child. It would not be difficult for him to survive on the streets as a pickpocket. Though it was more than coin that Calix needed. If he were dependent on Neirin’s blood, would he always be with us? A fondness settled over me at the thought.
“Evera, look, in the center,” Calix’s voice was hushed, thick with unease.
Two men stood near the well, alternating between conversing and scanning the crowd. Both wore leather, worn but of good quality. One rested a hand atop the pommel of his sword. The other bore two shorter swords strapped to his back. “Huntsmen,” I deduced. No one else would use a double-bladed sword, save for a huntsman or an assassin. An assassin, however, would keep to the shadows, wear a cloak, not heavy leather armor.
I reflexively coaxed Calix behind me, concealing him with my skirts, grateful Neirin had had the forethought to purchase the boy simple clothes to replace his uniform of indigo and silver. He gripped the fabric of my dress.
“It is alright,” I said, placing my hand in the midnight curls atop his head.
