The wind huffed. Was that what he’d done? He shouldn’t have.
The musician was a Bard, not a Ward. He wasn’t used to making friends with his nightmares.
“I thought he’d thank me. It isn’t every day someone shows you your greatest fear.” He shrugged. “You know as well as I do that Ragnor Bard isn’t the devoted brother he pretends to be.”
The wind perked up, swirling around the boy’s ankles. No. It did not know that. How didn’t it know that?
The right side of the boy’s mouth curled up. His eyelids lowered, and he took on a satisfied, cat-caught-the-mouse look. “Oh. I know a secret you don’t?” The boy hummed happily, and the wind blew his hair irritably. Pride was not attractive. Neither was gloating.
Besides, the musician was loyal. Had always been loyal. The musician didn’t pretend.
The boy’s smile grew. He put his hands in his pocket and rocked back on his heels.
The floorboards of the boy’s apartment creaked. It was quiet here, since the man had died and the boy’s mother had fled. It was empty-feeling. Hollow. There were no more crumpets bathed in honey and afternoon-tea scents. There were no more open windows or sunshine warmth. There were no more murmured morning retellings about books over breakfast or the gurgle of water as the mother washed the dishes and the man dried them with a blast of air. There wasn’t anything anymore.
It reminded the wind of a robin’s nest raided by a weasel. All the eggs had been devoured, and the parents had fled to build a new nest far away. The boy was left behind in the decimated nest that had once held his life.
“So Lia’s going to the wedding?” It was a question but not.
The boy pushed aside the window blind to look over the street. The shadows had shortened; the sun was high overhead. The boy tracked a city bus. The side was pasted with a movie poster for the woman’s last film. Her image stared up at the boy, her lips parted, a sword in her hand. The boy huffed a short laugh.
Would he go too?
The girl would be there.
“I’m going.”
He didn’t have to sound so pleased about it. The woman had said he’d pay.
“Will you do me a favor?”
The wind huffed, fluttering the curtain.
“Please?”
It had already done the boy a favor. It had stayed with the woman and watched her open his gift.
“I know. But Wind? If you do this, I’ll buy you a sausage and hot pepper pizza.”
The wind sniffed. What did it care? It couldn’t be bribed with spicy, fennel-flavored sausage and the delightful sting of hot peppers. What was a scent anyway? It could find a pizza on its own. It could blow through any of a thousand pizzerias.
“And a root beer. The kind you like, with extra carbonation. The one that tickles and pops. The one with icy froth.”
The wind scoffed.
The boy frowned. “And I’ll pull out Dad’s record player. I’ll play Beethoven’s Fifth for you.”
The boy’s voice wavered, and he looked to the side, hiding his expression. When the boy was still young, small, and alone, the man would sometimes bring out his record player. He would hold the boy in his lap, and the boy would laugh as the wind swirled around the room in time to the music. The wind loved Handel’s Water Music, but the boy loved Beethoven’s Fifth, because the wind would crash around, blowing napkins in the air, knocking books off shelves, tossing curtains sky-high, and making paper into parachutes. The wind would never tell the boy it liked Handel better, because Beethoven made him so happy.
It edged across the floor and nudged the boy’s ankle. He shook his head, clearing away whatever memory he was reliving, and smiled down at the wind.
“Will you?”
The wind fluttered against his cheek.
“Thank you. It’s a small favor. Just . . . I need to know more about the wedding.”
Was that all?
