Jesstin went to stand, to say good night. The boy seemed to withdraw in sadness, the playfulness of a moment ago behind them. “Do you need something? Water?”
“Story?” The boy’s wide brown eyes searched Jesstin’s. “Tell me a story?”
“A story?” Jesstin’s brows met in the center.
“Anna and Faye have stories. They tell me stories. Then I sleep.”
“Oh, ah, I don’t...” Jesstin scratched his head with a befuddled frown. “I don’t really know any that are appropriate for children.”
The boy retreated further, and Jesstin caved to the pressure.
It hadn’t been entirely true, what he’d said about not knowing child-friendly stories, but those long nights reading to his nieces and nephews belonged to another lifetime. Then a very specific tale, a true one, came to him, and he decided it was as good as any to tell a boy who had known nothing but strife and could use a little hope.
“Wellllll,” Jesstin sang as he sat in the spot next to where the boy lay. “How about a heroic tale of a young, fiery girl who defied her father and took the village by storm?”
The boy nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. I want that.”
For the next hour, Jesstin regaled the boy with Rhiain’s adventures, softening the darker parts and embellishing the more exciting ones. Sleep called for the boy, but he fought it to the end, and when Jesstin told him the story was done, he smiled with his eyes closed.
Jesstin tiptoed to the door, where Sesto stood watching. He nudged him out and joined him. “Were you spying on me?”
Sesto nodded. “Yes.” He handed him a folded slip of paper when they reached the kitchen. “This came for you.”
“What is it?” Jesstin waved the note.
“An invitation, from Asterin. To dinner with him and Rhiain.” Sesto sat.
Jesstin tossed the unread letter on the table and joined him. “Ah.”
“We should talk, Jess.”
“There are few things I enjoy less these days, Sesto.”
“What happened at your father’s home was no trivial matter,” Sesto said, sounding more urgent with each word. “And today... I’m sorry. I am. I should have explained first instead of ambushing you with the children. I see now how it was too much for you to take in right now. The more I think on it, I’m unreservedly horrified.”
“Are you?” Jesstin pushed the chair back with his feet and slumped in it with a whistling sigh. He’d be there a while, if Sesto’s habit of prolonging unwanted conversations had carried into his old age. The only way out was to let him talk and offer the occasional sign he was listening.
“If you think I don’t know about the redhead you’ve been fornicating with?—”
“Fornicating?” Jesstin gaped at him. “Really?”
“I can still smell her on you. When did you last bathe? When will you next?”
Jesstin rolled his eyes and groaned.
“There’s a little boy sleeping in your guest room, a child who looks forward all day to seeing you, and he doesn’t even have a name.”
“His new family will give him one.”
“How is the progress on finding one, by the way?”
“Do you want to talk, or do you want to lecture?” Jesstin retorted, but too late, he realized Sesto was a move ahead of him. He already knew Jesstin would be a stone wall, so he’d laid bait to engage him.
It felt like half a lifetime of drama stuffed into a tiny pocket of time, but Jesstin had learned from his mentor in Mythgarde, Melvin, how to keep obsessions from taking over. It was a surpassingly simple tactic. When an intrusive or difficult or hurtful thought popped up, one said to themselves, I’ll think about it tonight. When tonight arrived, it would become I’ll think about it in the morning. It was a game with no end, so there was no way to lose. He’d forgotten how well he’d honed that skill, until he was back in the village where everything made sense.
Of course, it would all spill over and flood one day, but that was a problem for the future.
“I’m your friend, Jess. Of course all I want is to talk.” He nodded at the folded note. “Will you go?”
