“Ruby.”
I flick through the pages. The paper is thick and yellowed, the illustrations done in faded red and black ink, each gemstone drawn with careful detail and surrounded by flowing script. I find the chapter about rubies and read out loud:
“The ruby stirs vitality and courage in the one who carries it. It’s a stone that represents life force, said to protect its wearer from harm and to deepen devotion where devotion already exists.”
Sorina smiles, and it’s a real smile, not the measured version she gives me when she doesn’t know how to deal with my presence.
“How about emerald?”
I turn a few more pages and find the emerald, drawn in green ink with roots curling around its base.
“The emerald is a stone of renewal and patience. It strengthens the bonds between people and brings growth where there has been stillness. The old healers believed it could restore what has been lost or damaged.”
She giggles, and the unexpected sound catches me off guard and makes my chest feel wider.
“It’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?” she says. “But I suppose it makes sense. Plants have spiritual meanings as well.”
“What’s your favorite flower?”
“Peony.”
“And what’s the spiritual meaning of a peony?”
She shrugs and takes another bite of cake.
“I don’t know. I’ve always studied plants and flowers for what they actually do, not for what people think about them and associate them with.”
I like that about her. She’s practical.
She finishes the last bite, drinks her lemonade, and sets the glass down.
“I have to go. I’m helping at the apothecary in the Narrowhalls.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?”
“Yes. I’ve been helping Danielle and Julie.” She pauses, and then adds, as if deciding she can give me a bit more information: “And sometimes I meet friends at the Pickaxe.”
I’m happy for her. I am. I want her to have friends, do work she enjoys, and live a life of her own inside the mountain. But there’s a greedy, selfish thing inside me that burns hot at her words, because Danielle, Julie, and whoever else is at the Pickaxe get to spend hours with her every day. She talks and laughs with them while I waste away in the Highhalls waiting for her door to open or for her to return so I can get a glimpse of her. I push the feeling down because it’s ugly, and because she doesn’t owe me her time.
“I’m glad you’ve made friends. Do you like it here? In Steinheim?”
“Yes. It’s nice. It’s a good place to be.”
I nod, and once again, I think about how right Irrva was when she said I have no clue how to talk to the people I care about. This is the most I’ve interacted with Sorina since she came here, and I want to make it last a little longer, but I don’t know how.
“I’m sorry, I really have to go.”
She jumps off the armchair and walks past me toward the door. As she passes, she reaches out and touches my arm, just above the wrist. Her fingers press lightly into my hard skin and linger for a breath before she removes them.
“Thank you for the cake.”
Then she’s through the door and gone.
My eyes widen, and my other hand comes to cover the place where she touched me. I stare at her empty glass of lemonade, more specifically at the delicate print her lips left on the rim. Before I beat myself over the head for how utterly pathetic I am, I snatch the glass, turn it around, and press my lips to where hers were just a few moments ago. There’s only a drop of lemonade left at the bottom, and I drink it greedily. I can swear I can feel the taste of her lips on my tongue.
Later, when I get up and walk to my workshop, I feel different. My knees don’t grind as hard with each step, my stride is a little wider, and the weight that’s been pressing into my legs has loosened, not by much, but enough that I notice it.
Sorina is the one. She has to be, because it never felt like this with any of the others. Sorina barely touched me, and I feel like I’m soaring.
