CHAPTER 11 #2
I went on a long time, explaining the different spells and tithes I’d discovered for them, how crafting the tithe into the material made the spells last, before realizing I’d rambled for an embarrassingly long duration.
But Kessian seemed … genuinely interested?
“Do you think you could teach me to throw?” he asked.
Without consideration for the late hour, I ripped open a sleeve of clay and slapped it onto my workbench. I began by showing him the motion for wedging the clay, folding it over and over in a spiral to get all the bubbles out.
In daily life, I hated getting dirty hands or things under my nails. Normally I couldn’t concentrate until I’d scrubbed myself clean. Cooking was a constant war between prepping meat and sauces and running my fingers under the tap.
With pottery, it was different. There was something about the earthy tactility of it that set me free.
As I sped up, showing him how the layers looked like a ram’s horn, I noticed him staring, not at the clay, but at my arms and, particularly, my hands. I’d rolled up my sleeves to the elbow, the veins and muscles of my forearms standing out as I kneaded.
“Did you catch all that?” I asked.
He looked up at me. “I think you’ll find you have all my attention.”
“Great. Now it’s your turn to try.” I passed him the half-wedged lump of clay to practice on.
“You must give killer massages,” he said as he mimicked my motions. “This isn’t easy.”
“Don’t turn it to the left quite so much each time. Just a small turn.”
“Are you going to deflect every time I flirt?”
“I’ve never given a massage, so I wouldn’t know.”
“I can think of someone you can practice on.”
“Focus.” I said it as much to him as myself.
Though my misgivings about his secrets had mostly fallen away, the fear of letting my lonely heart get carried away hadn’t.
It was a possibility made more likely by the attentive way Kessian listened to me ramble about my favorite hobby.
Once the clay was wedged, I set up my wheel for him, sitting him down, helping to pat the clay until it was dead center.
I gave him a minute to experiment with the pedal pressure and speed before finally wetting my hands so we could get to the fun bit.
I gave him a demonstration first. He watched, but I couldn’t be sure how much he took in.
His gaze kept drifting from the wheel to my face, a curious intensity to his eyes.
I felt undressed. Not nude, but … known.
As I went over the coning technique, the body posture, how to position his hands, my love for the craft seemed as much a fascination to him as my forearms had been a second prior.
When I told him he should give it a go, he snapped to attention.
The moment he applied pressure, the cone of clay began to wobble.
I moved my stool behind him and repositioned his arms. “Like this. Elbows tucked against your waist.”
He concentrated, stabilizing the cone with my guidance. The slip on my hands left clay fingerprints on his skin, a map of all the places I was touching him. Leaning against his back with my chin over his shoulder, his hair tickled my cheek, and I could smell the citrus tang of his shampoo.
I’d occupied this position before, in a more heated memory than this moment, but a different sort of intimacy charged the air around us.
Kessian sat rigidly, his spine a taut bowstring. It actually helped, allowing him to move mechanically, keeping an even pressure as, together, we shaped a small pot.
Once finished, I showed him how to lift it from the wheel. Though a little wonky, it had the charm of all first projects—made before perfectionism and the burden of knowledge made everything either flawed or a work in progress.
I held it out to him. “After it dries, it’ll be ready for glazing, or we could bisque fire it like this.”
“Can I drill a hole in the bottom?”
“What for?”
“Drainage. I think I’ll use it as a plant pot.
” He sat back, beholding his work and leaning into me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He turned to look over his shoulder. A few strands of navy hair stuck to a smear of slip on his cheek.
It felt as though I’d swallowed my tongue with the effort not to brush it back.
What if the curse cure hadn’t worked? What if the wraith came through the wards? What if I wanted more than a one-night stand? What if I wanted the morning after, and date nights to small-town artisan markets, holidays spent massaging each other’s sore feet after walking a new city?
My fears far outnumbered my singular desire to kiss him, but the intensity of that desire was a blaze next to a few sparks.
I looked at his arms, where my hands had left a perfect print in clay around his elbows. I wanted to leave the same ones around his ankles, his wrists, his hips.
Kessian met my eyes. “What are you thinking?”
I couldn’t lie, and I couldn’t answer, but my gaze flicked down to his mouth—the dagger slash of his upper lip, thin and perfect for smirking.
“Thank you for teaching me,” he said. “Anything else you care to impart?”
“Maybe I could teach you glazes another day?”
“Not what I meant.”
“It’s late.”
He sighed. “Most would say that’s the perfect time, but if you insist, let’s get ready for bed.”
He got up, wincing as he straightened up, bones cracking. We left my studio behind.
I let him spin the clock’s hand once more, this time to the bed icon. He tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t open. He rattled it.
“Er, it’s locked,” he said.
“Let me.”
I tried, but the knob wouldn’t budge. “Lunaris, stop joking around,” I chided lightly. To reset it, I spun the minute hand back to my pottery studio and opened the door.
There it was, just as we’d left it.
I closed the door again, turned the hand to the bed. This time, the door opened.
Onto a wall. Made of bricks, no less.
“I think she’s trying to tell you something,” said Kessian.
“I think she’s being a brat.” But no matter how many times I opened the door and closed it, the spare bedroom didn’t appear.
Kessian said, “It’s all right. I can sleep on the sofa—”
A noise like a car boot slamming issued from the living room as the sofa in question folded up into the wall like origami, leaving no soft furnishings in sight for either of us to rest our heads.
My familiar had betrayed me. There was only one bed left, and we’d have to share it.