“Then why are you standing in it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Because I am going with you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It is the answer.”
Annoyance sparks through her expression, quick and bright. I like it better than the gray edge beneath her eyes. She steps around me instead of closer, as if the distance between us can be solved with geometry.
“If you’re here to tell me which records I’m allowed to see, save your breath. I don’t have enough patience left to waste on another male guarding paper from the woman he expects to send into a worm trail.”
“I do not guard paper.”
“No. You guard tunnels. Worms. Secrets. Probably doorways if they look suspicious enough.”
“Those are too heavy,” I say, looking at the stack in her arms.
Her shoulders stiffen. A poor answer. It tells me where the wound is before she can cover it.
“They’re records,” she says.
“They are weight.”
“That’s usually how objects work.”
“You are already carrying too much.”
“You don’t know what I carry,” she snaps, her eyes flashing to mine.
No. I do not, but I know what a body says when the mouth lies.
Her left hand trembles beneath the slate stack. It is not fear, but depleted muscle. Her breathing is shallow because she is bracing the records against her ribs. Her pulse beats too quickly at the side of her throat. Hunger has thinned her scent until it is sharp with effort.
She should be eating. Instead she is moving records. I step forward and take the top half of the stack from her arms. She grips them harder.
“Sera.”
“No.”
“I am not asking.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Her voice cuts low enough not to carry into the passage, but sharp enough that it strikes stone. Anger gives her heat. Not enough, but some. I release the slates. Slowly.
Her surprise is small but real. I do not like that either. She expected force. Perhaps not because of me. Because the City has taught her that need is answered with command.
“You may carry them,” I say.
Her chin lifts a fraction in victory. Stubborn, foolish little victory.
“Thank you.”
“But not while walking.”
Her mouth opens. I take the slates before she can shift her grip, move them to the stone table, and set them down. Her glare could cut hide. I almost prefer it to the tremor. Almost.
“You said you listen,” she says.
