He looked at me carefully.
“Did you come here for me?”
“So humble, Marsh.”
“I’m suffering through a new experience tonight, forgive me.”
I should have had a clever answer ready. I usually did with Kieran.
Nothing came.
I looked down at the brooch.
“I didn’t want to be alone with it.”
Kieran stepped closer.
“Then don’t be.”
I swallowed.
“Careful,” I said. “You’re coming dangerously close to saying the right thing again.”
“I apologize.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Not even a little.”
He drew nearer, slowly enough that I could refuse every inch of it. When I didn’t, he stopped in front of me and held out his left hand.
“May I?”
“May you what?”
“Hold it.”
I put the brooch in his palm.
It looked even smaller there than it had in my hand. Not less important. Only easier to see. A silver wren with one wing lifted, ridiculous and proud and too delicate to have survived when my mother didn’t.
Kieran touched the raised wing with his thumb.
“Your mother had good taste.”
“She told me the bird looked braver than real ones.”
“Was she right?”
I looked at it.
“I don’t know what real brave looks like.”
“Yes, you do.”
The wind pulled at my coat. My fingers had gone stiff from cold or anger or the effort of not crying. Maybe all three. I reached for the brooch, but my hand shook before I touched it.
Kieran saw the tremor.
