“Can you read it?”
She pauses. There it is again: the strange stillness when I place weight on her knowledge instead of taking it from her.
“Yes,” she says. “I can read where it betrayed others.”
“Good.”
Her mouth parts slightly, then closes. I should not enjoy surprising her, but I do. The first heat thickens. Sera folds the map and tucks it away.
“We drink first,” she says.
I remove the water skin from my shoulder before she has to ask. Her gaze flicks to the movement. Suspicion first, then something smaller.
“Thank you,” she says, the words rough, as if they scraped her throat on the way out.
I hold out the skin. “Drink.”
“I just thanked you. Don’t ruin it.”
“You should drink.”
“There. Ruined.”
Still, she takes the skin. One measured mouthful. Too little. She lowers it. I do not take the skin back. She narrows her eyes.
“We’re not doing this again.”
“We drink first,” I say.
“I drank.”
“You taught the rule. Do not insult it.”
Her jaw sets. Anger. Good. Anger gets a second mouthful where need would not.
She drinks again. Longer this time. Controlled, but enough to matter. A drop clings to her lower lip before she wipes it away with the back of her hand.
I look at the water skin. Only the water skin. Mostly. She thrusts it at me.
“There. The rule has been honored. Try not to build a shrine.”
“Would a shrine require much stone?” I ask, taking the skin.
She stares, then a sound escapes her. Small. Reluctant. Alive. Not a laugh. Better.
I drink because she watches fairness as if unfairness has teeth. One mouthful. Then another, though my body does not need it. She will know if I perform restraint for her benefit. When I lower the skin, she studies me with suspicion.
“What?” I ask.
“You actually drank what you needed.”
“Yes.”
“Strange behavior.”
“You should try it.”
“I did.”
