I look at him. Sunlight rests along his cheekbone. There is a bruise forming near his temple. He smells faintly of sweat and wet earth. There is pride in the way he holds himself. Relief. His shoulders sit higher than they did yesterday. He believes what he says.
A warmth moves through me at the sight of it. It catches me off guard, mixed with something that tightens at the base of my throat. I reach out without thinking and smooth a crease from his sleeve. The fabric is rough beneath my fingers, my hand resting there a moment longer than necessary.
"I am proud of you," I say, keeping my voice from breaking. "You did what had to be done."
His brows draw together, surprised by the weight in my voice.
"You look tired," I add. "You should rest."
He studies me a moment longer, searching my face for something I do not name. Then he laughs under his breath and shakes his head.
"I’ll rest when there is no more work," he says lightly. "You worry too much."
Perhaps I do.
I hold his gaze a heartbeat longer than usual, letting my eyes trace the line of him—the scar at his chin, the set of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
He shifts, amused by my silence.
"What is it?" he asks.
I realize I have not withdrawn my hand.
I let it fall.
"Nothing," I answer.
I step back.
The sun glints off the wet ground between us as I commit the shape of him to memory. The light catches in his eyes. There is dirt beneath his nails. His breath smells faintly of smoke.
He shakes his head and smiles again, brushing off the moment as though it were nothing.
"Go home," he says lightly. "Sleep. It’s over."
Behind him, the sun slips free of the clouds for a breath, then hides again.
Chapter Eight
The table creaks as we settle around it.
Candles burn low in their clay holders, their light bending and straightening with each small draft. It rests on our faces, leaving the corners of the room in shadow.
Mama tears her bread into small pieces before dipping it into her bowl. She does it the same way as each night, pressing her thumb along the crust to soften it. She passes me a piece without looking up, and I feel the warmth linger where her skin brushed mine.
Elena holds her spoon loosely. She lifts it, lowers it, swallows. Her jaw works, though I doubt she tastes anything. Her eyes remain fixed on the grain of the table.
The spoons mark the silence between us. Scrape. Lift. Swallow.
I eat slowly, chewing until nothing remains, tasting each mouthful fully before the next. The broth carries thyme and onion; the bread leaves a faint sweetness on my tongue. I listen to Mama’s breath. I watch the rise of Elena’s shoulders.
The basin hangs where it always has, above the hearth. Firelight slips across its curve and shivers there. I feel its pull without meaning to, my gaze drifting toward it, catching. For a breath, I see only our shapes warped in its metal—three heads bent close, light bending around us.
My throat tightens. I look back to my bowl.
I reach for Mama’s cup and rise to refill it when I see it empty. The water pours in a thin stream, catching the candlelight before settling. I set it back before her without a word.
She nods once.
