There’s a note tucked beside them. The handwriting is jagged and messy, the letters sloping in different directions, uneven and labored, as if written by someone who’s just learned how to write.
“For my beautiful wife,” it says.
I set the velvet box down on the table, then I take a step back from it and wrap my arms around myself. I’m shivering, and I can’t make it stop.
Gifts are never a good thing. Bran taught me that. He gave me gifts before we got married, and every one of them made me feel chosen. After the wedding, when he started hurting me, the gifts came the next day like clockwork. He’d grovel, bring somethingwrapped in paper or ribbon, and the cycle would repeat. The gift didn’t mean he was sorry; it was only a promise that he was going to do it again.
Kindness is not a real thing. What comes after kindness is pain.
Korr hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t pressured me or raised his voice, hasn’t come to my door at night, nor has he done anything threatening. I know it, and I can actually list the nice things he’s done for me. But his gift sits on the table and the note says, “beautiful wife,” and Bran used to call me beautiful too. My body doesn’t care that the man who said it is different.
I open the top drawer of the dresser, put the velvet box inside, and close it.
Then I go to the bathing room and run the water.
Chapter Ten
Korr
I’ve read the same line four times, and I still don’t know what it says.
The book is open in my lap, something about mineral deposits in the southern ranges, but I couldn’t summarize a thing I’ve read. My gaze keeps sliding to the left, past the doorframe, to the living room table where I’ve laid out roses, a piece of cake, and a long velvet box with a diamond bracelet inside.
The roses took me twenty minutes to arrange with my stupid, clumsy fingers. I moved them three times. The cake is from the bakery in the Narrowhalls. It has the thick cream frosting that Irrva says humans love. The velvet box sits next to the plate, angled so she’ll see it when she walks right in. I left a note, too.
I’m an idiot for leaving the earrings at her door. I set them on the floor, then locked myself in my bedroom, like a coward. I don’t know if she even opened the box. I don’t know if she held them up to the light, smiled as she admired them, or tried them on. The whole reason for giving her things is to see her face when she receives them. I want to see what she looks like when she finds something I made for her, and I robbed myself of that by being too afraid to wait for her to return from the Narrowhalls.
So, this time I have a plan. The gifts are on the table, my door is open, and I’m sitting in the armchair in my room with my book, pretending to read. When she comes out of her room, I’ll see her. I’ll witness everything.
My fingers tap on the book cover. My knee bounces, and I can’t stop thinking about yesterday morning and how she giggled at the ridiculous stuff I read to her and touched my arm on her way out. I wonder if she’ll come out of her bedroom wearing the earrings, and my heart starts beating faster. Seeing her wear something I made would be a blessing. It’s a daydream,really, and so indulgent. But it’s not impossible, is it? All women like jewelry.
I close the book, then open it and close it again. It’s so hard to stay still.
I finally hear her door, the scrape of wood on stone, and my whole body goes rigid. I grip the edges of the book while my eyes stay fixed on the doorway between my room and the living room. I watch Sorina step out and cross the room, moving with that straight-backed walk of hers, as though she’s decided where she’s going and everything else can get out of the way.
She’s not wearing the earrings.
She stops when she sees the roses, the cake, and the box on the table. She stands there and stares at them, and for one terrible second, I think she’s going to keep walking, just pass right by and out the door.
She doesn’t do that, but she doesn’t smile either. She frowns instead, her brow drawn tight, and approaches the table carefully, as if the flowers might bite. She picks up the note with fingers that tremble, reads it, then opens the velvet box and looks at the bracelet inside. She doesn’t touch it. She just looks, then closes the lid and puts it back on the table.
Is that… fear I see in her eyes? The realization sends a jolt through my chest. Suddenly, nothing makes sense.
Sorina looks up, her eyes find me, and my stomach drops because the look on her face is all wrong. There’s shock and pain, her eyes are wide, and her jaw clenched. Catching me watching her made everything worse.
I get up from the armchair, but before I can take a step she’s already moving. She walks into my room fast, and I stand there holding my book because she’s never been in here before. She’s in my personal space for the first time. She glances at my walls, my bed, my shelves, and then her eyes come to rest on me. She’s furious.
“Why are you giving me gifts? And expensive ones, at that. I never asked you for anything.”
Her voice doesn’t rise. She controls her anger, because underneath it, there is vulnerability that she doesn’t want me to see. I don’t understand where any of this is coming from. I know I’m not an expert when it comes to women, but I’ve never had this reaction before.
“You’re my wife,” I say, and the words stumble coming out. “I know there’s a distance between us, and I don’t mind that, you can take as much time as you need, but I still want to treat you as my wife. Gifting you things is my pleasure. You deserve it.” I’m talking too fast and I can hear myself rambling. “And it’s not much, really. I make jewelry, it’s a hobby, my workshop is full of pieces, and I’d just love to see you wear some of them.”
She watches me the whole time I’m talking, but her expression doesn’t warm up. It’s like she’s trying to determine what the catch is.
“Don’t try to trick me,” she says. “I know what it means when men give a woman gifts. A man’s kindness, attention... it’s all a leash. Nothing is for free.”
I understand now. Not the full shape of it, but enough. The trembling hands, the frown, the fear underneath her anger. For her, gifts have never just been gifts. They’ve come with a price, and she’s standing in my bedroom waiting for me to tell her what mine is.
