He hesitated and then set down the jug and cup and pulled the thin book out. “Yes.”
“If you do not wish to share it, I understand.”
Alric turned back towards me. “No. If I own something, it is yours also.”
“Oh, that is in my interest then, because I would like to keep this shirt.”
Again, that not-a-smile smile. He handed the book to me and returned to pouring.
With his back turned, I said, “Could you read it out loud to me? My eyes are tired.”
He took his time replying but said, “Yes, but I do not have the delivery for poetry. And that poem does not rhyme.”
“I am of the belief that poetry should be read simply anyway.”
He would not meet my eyes when he traded me the book for my tin cup. He returned to the desk and sat in profile to me. He opened it, but did not read. He closed it.
I almost sighed aloud looking at that angular nose and brow, the candlelight emphasizing the hollows of his cheeks. “You don’t have to,” I said softly. “Tell me of your day instead.”
He remained in profile, but said, “Why were you so happy at breakfast?”
“River and Quinn are going to have a wedding. Even if no law acknowledges it.”
My husband nodded. “Anwyn and Vincent had such a thing. In the forge with just our families. My mother insisted on it before her death. She had a friend who worked as a scribe in the sea temple and they were able to get a sea priest to at least hold a ceremony.”
“So they have been wed a long time then?”
“Yes. She passed away soon after. I did not tell you about Anwyn at first. Some people judge when they have no right to judge. I did not think you one of them. But I am protective.”
“He is lucky to have such a brother.”
He hung his head a little bit. Low-pitched, he said, “You always say the right thing, do you know that?”
I swallowed my wine. “I heartily disagree and I can give you many examples.”
He shook his head. “To me. You always say the right thing to me.”
I could tell he was feeling vulnerable and while he may have protested, I had found teasing beneficial before. “Poetry, please,” I said sweetly.
Opening ‘The Vanishing Thunder’ to its first page, he read, “She hunts thunder and vanishes in it, stepping as anyone does through a door, she steps into worlds unknown. She hunts thunder and vanishes in it, Brother Air covering her like a shield. She becomes a mistral, ever twirling into oblivion. She hunts thunder and vanishes in it.”
74. Onion
In the early hours the next day, I awoke to him pulling on an undershirt over his breeches, his boots already laced. He had undone one of the hooks on one of the window covers to see by, barely any fading starlight getting in.
“You can use a candle,” I said sitting up, covering my mouth as I yawned.
“I’m sorry, Edith. I was trying to be quiet.”
“This is earlier than usual. Where do you go?” I only could make out an outline of him.
There was a beat and then he said, “To pray. I have not been in the temple since our wedding day. I have neglected my worship. I am fortunate she is not vindictive.”
“No, she is not.”
“Have you—” he cut himself off. “Have you found prayer difficult or easy? I did not want to ask as I knew your penchant was not immediately known.”
I stood up, peeling off the undershirt of his I had stolen. “Light a candle. I’ll join you.”
