The wind rode on the sawing gasp and heaving sobs of the citrus and pearl dust scented one. She was hunched forward, her thin arms wrapped around her stomach, her shoulders shaking. Her throat constricted and spasmed, and each drag of air closed her esophagus, tightening it so she choked on her own breath. She made desperate, raw, wretched noises. The wind sped down her clenched throat, blowing air into her empty lungs.
“Lia,” the boy soothed, pressing his hand to her back. “Lia. It’s okay?—”
“Don’t touch her!” The musician shoved the boy back. “I’ll kill you?—”
The wind sped from the woman’s throat and slammed against the musician, knocking him off-balance. He stumbled and hit the brick wall.
The wind stirred the fetid alley air, shooting grime, dirt, and dust in an angry whirlwind. A ripped newspaper flew past, smacking the musician in the face. How dare he threaten the boy? The boy had jumped into the pit after them. The boy had saved them from the trap that had snapped shut on them. The musician should be thanking the boy, not glaring at him like a wet, feral cat, envisioning the boy’s dismemberment.
The boy ignored the musician, leaning protectively over the woman, drawing her into the alley’s shadows. They huddled behind a large green dumpster, far enough from the Bard’s wedding hall that they wouldn’t be found.
The woman’s tears were stained with blood and mournful ocean salt. The wind moaned as the fragile scent mixed with the decaying rot leaking from bloated trash bags.
“He’s dead.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “He’s dead. He’s dead. I killed him. I killed?—”
“No.” The boy grabbed the woman’s shoulders. “Lia. No.”
“He’s dead.” Her body shook, a spasm running through her.
The musician scrubbed a hand down his face. His jaw clenched, and he turned away, slamming his fist into the brick wall. The wind jolted with the splitting of his skin, the spray of blood, and the sharp sting of blood cells rushing to bruised and aching knuckles.
He swore and drove his fist into the brick again. The wind padded the wall, pushing against the musician’s fist. Some beings fought sorrow with anger; grief with rage. Was the musician one of them?
But no—his songs were full of lamentations. Melancholy was his muse. When the wind caught the anguished tilt of his mouth as he turned away from the woman, it knew the fury was for his sister’s pain, not his own.
“He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead,” she moaned, her voice the endless tide scraping over the rocky shore, ceaseless and sorrowful.
“He’s not dead,” the boy said.
The woman didn’t hear him; she only kept choking on air and repeating her litany.
But the musician heard. He tensed and stared at the boy, his wet hair sticking straight up in the wind’s gust. “You’re certain?” he asked, clenching and flexing his bruised hand once, twice, and once more again.
The boy flicked his gaze to the musician, his mouth flat. He looked down at the musician’s bloody hand and then turned back to the woman. He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
They were both wet from the pit, their clothing heavy and sodden. The woman shivered, even though the alley was as hot as a brick oven.
“Lia,” the boy whispered, rubbing his palm in a soothing circle over the woman’s back. “He’s alive. Listen to me. Lia.”
The musician took an angry step toward the boy. “If you’re lying—if you’re manipulating?—”
The boy yanked darkness over himself and the woman, and the wind slipped into it, running over the velvet-night softness. The alley, the heat, the fetid stench, and the musician were blurred behind the dark veil, like forgotten things beyond a curtain.
“Lia,” the boy whispered, running a finger over the woman’s pale cheek. “It’s okay. He’s alive. You didn’t kill him.”
The citrus and pearl dust scented one tilted her chin higher, and her gaze slowly focused on the boy. The wind sighed and stroked the salty teardrop running to the corner of her mouth. It settled there, a glistening dewdrop on a soft pink petal.
The boy’s gaze caught on the tear. Slowly, he leaned forward, his breath tight in his chest. “Don’t cry,” he whispered.
The wind traced the space between their lips and the soft, yearning exhalations.
He reached out and pressed his thumb to the corner of the woman’s lip, wiping her tear free. Then, as she watched, he pressed his thumb to his lip, kissing her sorrow. He sent his hands gently over her cheeks to the hollows beneath her eyes, to all the stray places her tears had run. He wiped them free and kissed each one.
The wind swirled in the potent combination of sorrow and joy. The emotions held the wind taut, vibrating in pulsing vibrancy between the boy and the woman.
Her skin was warming, her cheeks turning seashell-pink. Her eyes swirled and glistened like the sea at sunset. Glowing blue fireflies lit the shadows around her, sparking brighter with each heartbeat.
“He’s alive?” she whispered. The wind caught the hope threaded through her husky voice.
