Then Rhun’s mouth was on his, warm and soft, and Arthur stumbled away, his boots tangling in the spindly autumn grasses so he had to fling his hands back against a tree to catch himself. The bark scraped his palms, burning all the way up his arms to spark like fury in his skull.
Rhun laughed and grasped Arthur’s shoulders. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—”
“Don’ttouchme,” Arthur cried hoarsely and low.
“What?” Rhun pulled his hands back, shock widening his eyes.
Arthur shoved away from the tree, turning his back to Rhun. “I’m not a girl,” he said.
“I know that?” Uncertainty put the question in Rhun’s words.
All Arthur could see were crowns of flowers and petals catching fire, hear the laughter of boys and that pitying look in the eyes of men. He was shaking. He made his hands into fists. “Don’t do that, ever. I’m not a girl.”
Rhun couldn’t help it; he reached out again. He was afraid and Arthur could see it in how his brow pulled into a solid black line. “I wanted you to know,” awkward, fourteen-year-old Rhun said. “Next time it’ll be me, and I wanted you to know.”
“Next time?” Arthur’s voice was pitched high with hysteria. “There can’t be a next time!”
“The Slaughter Moon,” Rhun whispered.
Arthur fell silent, though his chest heaved. Two days before that one, John Upjohn had charged out of the forest, so they had seven more years of bounty. He stared at Rhun, horrified still, and his lips burned. He wiped them roughly with the back of his hand, glaring at Rhun the whole time.
Rhun grimaced but didn’t look away. “I know you’re not a girl, Arthur. I only... want to kiss you anyway.”
A wind blew golden-brown leaves between them and shook the bare branches overhead. They were still, both shorter than they’d soon be, and slimmer, but Arthur hadn’t chopped off his hair in enough months it brushed the sharp cut of his shoulders in smoothing layers. The wind fluttered it against his neck where it tickled and itched.
“You can’t,” Arthur said, and added with vicious finality, “It’s disgusting.”
Rhun shook his head sadly, and the shape his mouth and crooked nose and dark eyes and strong jaw made all together was a shape of something Arthur couldn’t understand. “There’s nothing disgusting in our valley,” Rhun said. “There can’t be. Everything here is good and right.”
“Not me,” Arthur sneered, and tore away, stomping, then running, then racing through the cutting forest, up and up away from the valley, up to the mountain peaks, where there was nothing but rough heather and jutting chalk cliffs.
Next timeis all Arthur can think of now, three years later, as in the final slash of daylight, Sy Vaughn and Aderyn Grace bring the torches to the pyre.
Together the young lord and the witch cry the names of the prospective runners, and together they light the blaze. Together they spill wine for the saints and for the devil, for God and his angels, for the king and the bishops, and for their grandmothers and grandfathers, until both bottles are splashed entirely onto the evergreen sprigs and thistle. Vaughn is like a holy saint himself, smiling and handsome, while Aderyn is dangerous and strong, her twisting curls tinged nearly red by the fire in her hand. They thrust their torches deep into the pyre. At first only the inside flames: burning hot, a pulsing heart inside the bonfire shell. Arthur knows that pulse too well.
Then evergreen boughs flash aflame, and everyone cheers. The thistles and smallest branches catch, and they cheer again.
As one by one the mothers of the potential runners walk or stride or creep to the fire and toss in their son’s charm, the town falls quiet. The mothers stand side by side to watch the charms burn. Except Arthur’s mother is gone, left a decade ago, and Nona Sayer can’t cast his charm because she cast her own son’s. Nobody thought of it, clearly, since nobody thought of Arthur Couch’s potentiality really mattering at all. He lets his lips curl, even as Rhun knocks their shoulders together enthusiastically.
Mairwen darts out of the crowd suddenly, wrinkling her nose as if irritated. She makes big eyes at Arthur and shows him the bone charm in her hand. It’s a string of teeth, all shapes and sizes, deer and rabbit and sharp mountain cat and small fox and goat and sheep. Someone says her name, and a few others say his, and Mairwen throws the teeth into the pyre with a violent thrust.
Arthur’s entire body clenches and he bites his teeth together too hard, pretending to bite her, to kiss her with the same violence. Rhun’s fingers dig into his shoulder, grounding him in just exactly the right kind of pain. Rhun knows. Rhun always knows.
Drums come out, and whistles and three fiddles. Women bring the platters of pastries, to join the roasted pig that smoked and cooked all day long in a pit. There are cakes and pies, so much dripping meat, laughter and music, and the dancing begins when the moon rises.
This moon is nearly full, fat-bottomed and perfect: a spot of silver to compete with their roaring bonfire. That fire spits up red sparks against the black sky, so bright they consume the stars. But the moon beckons everyone to dance.
Arthur eats and drinks, dances with Haf Lewis and her sister, with Hetty Pugh, who stares narrowly and with amusement the entire time. He drinks more, snatching sips from his partners’ cups, and an entire flagon from Braith Bowen the smith, and snaps morsels of food from offering fingers, for heisone of the prospective runners, even though everyone knows—knows, assumes, presumes—the saint will be Rhun. Only that scathing dick Alun Prichard asks Arthur to dance, bowing and calling himLyn. Arthur grabs the front of the young man’s shirt and drags them together. He bashes his head into Alun’s nose, then thrusts him away.
The gasps of nearby dancers hiss into shrugs and head-shaking when they see it’s only Arthur, as usual.
There are Mairwen and Rhun, dancing too closely. They spin and Mairwen clings to Rhun, dread widening her features. She suddenly stops dancing in the middle of the square, causing him to trip gracefully. She shakes her head and Rhun turns her right into Arthur’s arms.
He catches her as she leans in. Arthur’s short pale hair spikes around his head, alight as a saint’s halo, and his lips spread over his teeth. “Mairwen Grace,” he says, unable to help himself, “rather dancing with me than Rhun Sayer.”
Mairwen shrugs and spins. She skips and turns, lets her head fall back and her hair shake loose. The world spins, too, the bonfire blazes, the people around them laugh and dance, and Arthur cups her elbows, then her waist as they turn and turn. He pulls her closer, their bodies pressed into one, at the center of all this wild dancing, and the full moon streaks her tangled hair with ghostly light.
“I’m dancing with all the runners,” she says.
