Vale softens at some of the tales. I had heard he was differentbefore duty called him forward, but hearing about it like this is like peering into a past life. I suppose, in a way, it is.
Every now and then I catch Soria reaching for a later journal. After the Fade. I don’t call her out on it. If the boys can revisit their youth, she ought to as well.
She doesn’t read aloud. I just watch the way her expressions shift as she gets lost in a particular entry—the way her eyes brighten when something is funny or her mouth curves with quiet tenderness. It’s beautiful.
I tuck away my own memories of this day. The way moving through one woman’s words reaches each of my companions so differently. The way they reach me.
I set a journal aside earlier. One that seemed particularly intimate. I couldn’t focus on it at the time, not with Ace going on about how he was completely justified in wanting to take all the paintings off the walls in favor of his own artistic vision. Sylara certainly had her hands full in the many seasons the young man spent at the manor.
It was a quieter time of year in the volume I chose. The way her thoughts turned inward when the manor was less bustling with life—it feels like something I can relate to more than the others.
But for now… I can’t.
It’s a special kind of heartache when you are completely enthralled with the written word and your eyes begin to scream,No more.
Based on the responses from the others, I suspect we all went on far longer than we should have.
I look out the window. The sun has already started its slow descent across the sky. What time is it?
My stomach grumbles, and I realize none of us have had anything to eat since this morning—and even then we barely touched our plates, all eager to start uncovering anything we can to understand what role magic seems to be taking now that something has touched me the way it did.
Vale asked the cook to leave a few prepared things easily accessible—we’d be fine for the day.
Now, gathered around the heavy butcher block in the center of the kitchen, he moves to collect things for us to take to the parlor.
I prop my elbows onto the worn wood, years of cleaving and cutting etched deep into the grain. I wonder how long something like this lasts. How often it must be replaced. I do not know if I will ever grow used to just how vast their lives are.
Or maybe I will.
I try not to dwell on the question of how long my life may now be.
My gaze drifts to the man across the kitchen. His broad chest strains the linen of his shirt in a way that reframes the years ahead as both a true gift and a delicious challenge.
I scan the kitchen for anything to tame my wandering mind. I will explore just how much there is to enjoy with my husband soon enough. For now, we all need to eat.
Beginning to realize just how hungry I am, I bite into a crisp apple. Its juice trickles down the back of my throat. I must make some sort of sound, because I catch Ace giggling.
“You best not forget your marital duties, cousin,” he scolds Vale while still looking at me with adolescent humor. “This is your honeymoon, after all.”
I blush at the implication. Swallowing hard, it takes me a moment before I can speak. Between the bite of fruit and trying not to laugh, it takes serious effort.
“Our king never neglects anyone,” I say in a haughty tone. It seems to please Ace that someone is willing to join his game.
Soria and Vale just roll their eyes, grabbing trays and bowls to take into the parlor.
The room divides not as lovers and friends, but as the more serious and the admittedly less so of our lot. I sit next to Ace near the window, the glass of wine his first choice before anything to settle his nerves.
I eye the glass in his hand. “How do you do it?”
We were so focused on seeing what we might learn from the journals, none of us thought to ask the right questions of each other.
“How do you do your trick? You said it took years to learn, so that means it can be taught, right?”
“Erm, maybe?” Ace shrugs his shoulders, suddenly caught off guard. He looks at the glass more intently now and the deep red liquid within. “So it’s all about seeing. Seeing and feeling. Yeah. Maybe.” He lets outhis breath in a huff, one corner of his mouth pinching as he searches for the words. He starts to twist his fingers above the glass. “It’s not about the movements. They just help me focus.”
“It’s like wishing on a star. Did you ever do that as a girl?” He looks at me earnestly, taking this more seriously than his tone suggests.
“More than I would like to admit.” The ache I held between each wish rises. It is swiftly met with the realization that they have all been answered a hundred times over. I gave up wishing I could belong years ago. And now I sit surrounded by people I love, who love me in return. I smile, thinking of the girl who made those wishes. My tenderness for the girl who stopped asking goes even deeper.
