His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges, alight with a mirth I didn’t think possible. My cheeks flush.
“You weren’t exactly the entertaining sort,” I continue. I want to hear that laugh again. “I would’ve had more than one caller to deal with if you had been.”
“Aye,” he agrees, shrugging. That smile makes him finally look like a young man only a few years older than me. “One doesn’t become a wickie for the love of companionship.”
I turn away from the jar, curiosity piqued. “Why did you? Was your father one?”
He shakes his head. His short beard brushes against the collar of his work shirt. Can he feel that? “My father was nothing and no one to me. Never knew him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re faster to apologize forthatthan—”
I pick up a sad, half-drooping orange from the crate by my feet and throw it. It flies through him and hits the door.
“Hey!” he calls out, looking offended.
“Did you feelthat?”
Douglas rubs a spot in the middle of his chest. I look away from his revealed skin.
“What about your clothes?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Have they become…intrinsically part of your soul, now?”
Who is this version of me? One who asks questions before thinking and throws oranges at ghosts? A shadow of how I once was. When laughter filled the Forsyth house, when being an elder sister meant being a jester, a companion, and a miniature parent all in one.
“Would you rather I be—”
“This isn’t about what I’d rather!” I hiss, careful of my volume. I turn back to consider the fish stock and not consider how deep my blush has become. “You never answered my question. Why did you come here?”
“It was a quiet place in need of a keeper. Surely you can understand the appeal.”
I can. God above, I can. Had it been a possibility for my gender, perhaps I’d have chosen the same. A little world away from it all.
“You asked about smell,” he says, changing the subject. “Why?”
I reach out for the jar again. “If I open this stock, will you tell me what it smells like?”
His brow creases in confusion. Or is it concern? “You’re not the squeamish sort.”
Well, my senses have become bedeviled into rot.
“I find it hard to smell. Must be a cold coming on.”
He walks closer instead of gliding. To make me more comfortable? Unnecessary. I’m well versed in the spectral and unearthly. “Go on.”
I unscrew the lid. I lift it to my nose. There’s a light fragrance of onion, wine, peppercorns, and cloves. But even without fish present, my tongue is clouded with sour ash.
“Well?” I offer the jar to his inspection. He leans down and takes a deep breath through his pointed nose. His nostrils flare. In the low light, he could be alive. His skin is translucent, yes, yet some color remains in the red of his hair.
“I smell something earthy, something light. Nothing amiss.” Helooks up at me, sheepish. “But I don’t know how I’d tell if I were missing anything.”
Good enough. If he can’t smell the rot, then it’s confirmed. This is a problem within me.
“Thank you.” I never used to say that to him.
Or stand so close.
I part from him to take my place for the night beside the red-tinted light. Nothing to do but stare into darkness and plan. I’ll need to wait for the right weather conditions to leave. While many might take the much shorter route toward Eastern Passage, I have no horse waiting for me there. It’s too long a walk among settlements too small to host all that I require and too nosy not to connect me to the posters in town, even in a disguise. I can’t be gone for too many days on end, not when the light needs tending or a ship may come through that needs sinking. A couple of nights will be tight but doable.
