Chapter 68 Taera
Taera
Hours blend into days, but the endless desert doesn’t yield. I lose track of how many times I curl up and fall asleep on the bench—which Nikolai has enchanted to be as soft as his bed. A hard wooden bench might be better. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about his bed.
Partway through the second day, I remember the bits of paper I scribbled notes on before we left.
I sit upright, fishing them out of my pocket.
Sure enough, all but two have been stripped of their ink.
All that remains are a few sentences about the beauty of the desert and a description of my friend’s kindness.
Gone is every mention of mirrors, polished stone, or magic.
It soothes my mind that Nikolai told me the truth about not being allowed to write down the secrets of the Halls of Glass.
Every few hours, he pulls out spiced breads, red berry tarts, and dried meats.
I should have thought to bring my own rations.
When the midday heat makes the desert air wobble above the sand, I worry about whether he packed enough water.
But his knowing smile puts me at ease as he passes me yet another flask. Nikolai has taken this trip before.
I try to pass the time with sleep, but curling up in the same position makes me restless. After I turn and flip over twice, he chuckles and taps the spot beside him on the bench. I glare at him.
“Suit yourself.” He smirks.
“How is sitting beside you supposed to help?” I retort.
“Pillow.” He pats his lap, and I redden.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I can magic your discomfort away.” He winks. “Unless you’re still trying to prove that you hate me.”
I don’t correct him. Swallowing my stubbornness—which doesn’t go down easily—I shuffle over to his side of the carriage and seat myself beside him.
It’s only to get comfortable, I tell myself, although part of me is dancing wildly at the idea of snuggling up to him.
I find myself yearning more than anything to see who he truly is, and wishing we were already there.
“Lie down,” he says, patting his lap again.
My heart gallops as I lower myself onto my other side, resting my head on his legs. This is the opposite of staying guarded, the logical part of me warns, but he smells wonderful, like desert sage, and the moment my cheek makes contact, every argument not to be near him slips away.
When Nikolai combs his fingers through my hair, scratching lightly at my scalp, the tension oozes from my body. I let out a little sigh and my eyes fall closed. He rests his other arm over my shoulders, and it’s warm like a blanket.
“I don’t hate you,” I admit.
“I don’t hate you, too.”
Under Nikolai’s gentle touches, the rest of the journey passes too quickly.
On the third evening, he rubs my back. I blink awake, and I reluctantly prop myself upright.
The warbled mirages along the edge of the desert are more vivid than before, and I see the first flash of green.
Suddenly, the shapes become real, and my heart leaps.
The edge of the desert is a sharp line between sand and shrubbery, and quickly morphs into forest. We rumble toward it until—with a jolt—the soft rolling over sand turns into harder bumping along a dirt road.
I stare out at more trees than I’ve seen in weeks.
And in the shadows of dusk, we roll past the first house, much larger than the huts of my own village.
They’re built of cozy red bricks, shiny knobs on the doors, with smoke puffing out the top of several chimneys.
I look over at Nikolai, and he’s smiling.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Where I grew up.”
Knowing this town is important to Nikolai has me studying every thatched roof with newfound reverence.
The streets are still just dirt but have two deep grooves wide enough for a cart.
Wonderfully well-used. People walk them easily, men and women, some of them holding the hands of children.
They don’t even eye us strangely. They seem preoccupied—happy.
“That’s where I’d buy raisin buns.” His eyes sparkle. “When I had extra pennies.”
I peer out at the narrow shop, a little reminiscent of the apothecary—at least in shape. A round sign hangs above the door showing a simple outline of a loaf of bread. Imagining a young Nikolai bursting out of the bakery, stuffing his face with a raisin bun, delights me.
“That’s the inn where I’d go listen to stories.” He nods to an establishment with a heavy wooden sign swinging over the door and warm lantern light glowing from the windows.
“This place is lovely,” I murmur, and I mean it.
“Up that path is the blacksmith who told me she’d put me to work if I didn’t eat my vegetables.” He chuckles. “One day I told her I would do it, as long as I never had to eat another turnip. Carried so many bars of iron that I couldn’t raise my arms the next day.”
“Did you eat your turnips after that?”
“No,” he answers after a pause. “I learned how to lie.”
The carriage teeters as we wobble out of the deep grooves in the main road and curve up a rougher, dirt path.
I slide to the opposite side of the bench, pretending I want a better view. Truthfully? I don’t want to be caught cuddling my magician when we meet his family.
My magician.
When did I start thinking of him like that?
The carriage slows, then comes to a stop. Nerves and excitement twist together so tightly I can’t tell them apart. I want to meet his family. Even more than that, I want to meet Nikolai—the one beneath all these illusions.