Chapter 17 #2
He says it like it’s my fault. Punishing me for his moment of desire, no doubt.
I’ve been getting more nosebleeds since I moved to the desert due to the dryness of the air.
This is an inconvenient time for one to hit.
Grimes is looking at me, wondering why I don’t try to staunch the blood.
I slip one hand into my pocket, trying to hide the dust on my skin, and grab a tissue to hold to my nose.
It’s soon stained red. Grimes’ expression is a weird mix of annoyance and something softer.
“Come on,” he says.
I go downstairs with him, rubbing the dust on my trousers when he isn’t looking.
We go outside so I don’t bleed all over the inside of the house, not that it would make much difference considering the state of the décor.
Red kive flowers blossom over the yard, brought to life by the last rainstorm.
They trail from the window ledges and creep up around the worn stones that surround the well.
I didn’t even look at them when he first brought me here, I was so downcast, but now I love their brightness, how they bloom so defiantly in the punishing landscape.
“Boss, don’t you ever want to… talk?” I venture. Maybe I can get him to open up about the contents of the metal box without asking directly.
“To you?” he says, like it’s a wild notion.
“To anyone.”
“I talk plenty.”
“No, you don’t. Anyway, I mean really talk. About how you’re feeling, what you really think of things.” I cast him a sidelong glance. “About your past. I don’t count barking orders as talking.”
This is pretty forward behavior for a servant, but instead of getting angry he just looks thoughtful, and a little awkward.
“Well… what do you want to talk about?” he says.
I click my fingers. “I know. We could do something I used to do with my friend Jagder back when I lived in Rhennes. It’s a memory exercise. You’ll love it.”
“I doubt that,” he says. “But go on, I’ll humor you.”
“Well, the beauty of it is, even if you don’t like or trust the person you’re talking to, it’s still a good exercise.
” I pause for him to reassure me that he does indeed like and trust me.
When he just looks at me with a raised eyebrow, I hurry on.
“Basically, you just recount a memory without context.”
“Without any context?” he checks.
“Yep. Tell me what happened, the sensations, how you felt, but you don’t have to give any identifying details.”
“That sounds… doable,” he says. There’s a hesitant note in his voice. And I realize that maybe sometimes he’s a little afraid of me, too.
“Do you want to go first, or should I?” I ask.
“You.”
We walk over to the well and sit on the edge.
The stones are warm already, even though it’s only early morning.
The tiniest little insects crawl all over them, busier than factory workers, their red-brown bodies glistening in the sun.
I’m not sure what they’re called. They’re everywhere here, but we don’t have them in Rhennes.
They seem fulfilled in their tiny sphere, each stone like a whole universe to them, totally uncaring of the wider world.
It makes me think of Rhennes with a pang of homesickness.
I have no idea what my father is doing, my old friends.
My whole life is here now, in this faraway gold-mining city, and to the people from my past, my new life is probably as bare and empty and small as the stones around the well that provide a whole world to these insects.
But with Grimes beside me, it doesn’t feel so empty.
I raise my gaze to his face. His eyes contain so much depth, even if he won’t show it all to me.
Yet. I throw my head back, letting the sun play over my face.
This is the best part of the day, before the heat becomes a punishment and bakes my skin within moments of stepping outside.
I cast my mind back to a different kind of sunny day, still hot but with a fresh breeze from the eastern ocean, and green grass all around me.
“Okay, here goes,” I say. “This is my memory. The woman is about thirty years old. She has long blond hair and she’s paler than me.
She’s pushing me on a rope swing in a tree.
We’re in the garden of my house. I’m screaming with joy for her to push me higher and higher, and we’re laughing together.
The sky is so blue and I feel like I could fly off the swing right into it and keep on going and I’d be fine, I wouldn’t fall to earth.
She sings as she pushes me and she has the most beautiful voice you’ve ever heard.
Then she lifts me down from the swing and hugs me close to her.
She tells me she loves me, and then she brings some hoti berries out of the picnic basket, and we eat them right there on the lawn. ”
Grimes’ dark eyes are fixed on me. He’s listening intently to every word I say. I exhale. The memory brings me peace with a twinge of sadness that I can never shake.
“It’s my very best memory,” I say.
“Your mother,” he guesses.
“Yes. I haven’t seen her since I was ten years old.”
I don’t want to tell him that she left me. That’s the beauty of the memory exercise. I don’t have to.
Grimes looks the same as ever. Hood up, mouth unmoving, shoulders wide in his dark cloak, big work boots planted in the dirt.
But there’s something different about him too.
It’s his eyes. Their dark depths are softer than I’ve ever seen.
I look down again fast, torn between wanting to hold onto that kindness in his eyes and the need to protect myself.
I’m feeling shaky, almost tearing up. If he sees that that he can make me cry that easily, I’ll be at his mercy.
“Now you go,” I say.
“Mine is darker,” he warns.
“That’s okay. The point is to be honest.”
He takes a deep breath, eyes on the sentinel cacti at the edge of the yard. His mouth becomes a thin line.
“The man is a little younger than me,” he says.
“He has brown Rhennian skin and short hair. His mouth is oozing blood and a couple of his teeth are in his hands. They look like little beads on his palm.” I shiver even in the heat.
His tone is bleak, his eyes bleaker. “I have my arm around him, trying to lead him back to our”—he pauses, searches for the word— “room. But he’s so weak, he can barely walk. I’m not strong enough to carry him.”
Really? Grimes is strong enough to carry anyone, surely. Was he injured as well? I can’t interrupt to ask about it. It’s against the spirit of the game, and anyway it might cause him to clam up.
“Go on,” I say softly.
“Finally I get him back to our room. He’s crying. His wince as I ease him onto the bed breaks my heart. ‘They broke a couple of ribs,’ he says to me. I already know. I’m so angry, so fucking angry, Florian, you have no idea.”
Fire ignites the blankness in his eyes. I wonder if he ever caught who he’s talking about. If so, I doubt they’re still alive.
“There was nothing I could do,” he says. “I washed his wounds as best I could. Stale dirty water was all we had. I gave him my share of the evening meal. And then I waited for him to get better without proper medical attention.”
And?” I prompt.
“He recovered. It was hard but he did. He’s okay.”
“He’s a friend of yours?” I ask.
“The best friend a man could get.” He gives a little smile, which fights its way out with difficulty through the horror of his memory. “He would like you, you know.”
He’s clearly talking about the man in the letter. Jos. I can’t ask for any more details, not when I told him that was against the rules.
“Thank you,” I say at last. I have no idea what else to say.
“I quarreled with him,” Grimes says, as though I hadn’t spoken. He stares across the yard, lost in thought. Lines of guilt trace across his face.
“Well, maybe you could make it up with him,” I suggest tentatively.
“Doubt it. He’s probably tired of me. Don’t blame him, either.”
There’s a note of something I’ve never heard before in his voice. Uncertainty, disapproval, but aimed at himself instead of me or the world. I don’t know how to handle it.
“Come on, let’s go inside,” I say. “I’ll cook lunch.”
I sing quietly to myself as I prepare a salad for lunch.
Grimes isn’t making a sour face about the noise, which he sometimes does.
Progress. The memory exercise was a success.
It almost always builds emotional connection.
Which is what I thought I wanted. But now that he’s given me a glimpse inside his head, I’m getting spooked.
Now he’s looking at me with a question in his eyes, probably wondering about my memory.
Wondering where my mother went. Wondering if my life hasn’t been as charmed as he thinks.
Wondering if he should feel sorry for me. I sense his eyes on my back as I work.
There’s a tight, uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I feel exposed, like I’m standing in a theater spotlight that shows every flaw.
I gave away too much. When I turn to look at him, Grimes’ gaze is heavier than usual, but not with dislike.
Fuck, is that pity on his weathered face?
That wasn’t the aim. I wanted to get a read on him, get inside his head.
Not the other way around. Call me an arrogant aristocrat, but I’d rather he look at me with annoyance than pity.