Chapter 21 #2
Can't lie to her.
"I don't know." Quieter this time. "But I do."
She stares at me. Tears still falling. Pottery clutched in her hand.
She makes a sound.
Small. Wrong. Not a sound she makes.
Then her knees buckle.
I'm already there. Catching her. The pottery falls from her hand into the ash and I don't let her follow it down—one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, lowering both of us together.
We end up on the ground. Me sitting in what used to be her cottage.
Her in my lap. The ash soaking through my pants and I don't care, my arms full of a small shaking woman and I don't care, her face pressed into my chest and the sounds coming out of her now are wet and broken and human and I don't care about any of it except that she's the one making them.
She cries.
Her whole body shaking with it, her hands fisted in the fabric of my shirt, her face hidden against my collarbone, the world too bright to look at right now.
I hold her.
That's all. One hand at the back of her head, fingers in her hair. The other arm wrapped around her ribs. My chin on top of her head and my body curved around hers, making myself the wall between her and the wreckage.
I don't tell her it's going to be okay.
I don't know that it's going to be okay.
I let her be.
Time stops mattering. Could be ten minutes.
Could be an hour. The sun moves and I don't track it, the wind picks up and I shift slightly so my back blocks it.
Her face stays pressed to my chest and she keeps crying and I keep holding.
The only thing I'm doing—the only thing I can do—is be the thing that doesn't move.
Eventually the shaking slows.
Her breath evens out. Still ragged. Still wet. But evening.
She doesn't move. Doesn't lift her head. Just stays there, inside the circle of my arms, breathing.
I don't move either.
Eventually her fingers uncurl from my shirt. One at a time. Slow.
She lifts her head. Doesn't look at me. Wipes her face on her sleeve.
Pushes off my chest with both hands and stands.
I help—one hand at her elbow until she's upright. Then her arm slips out of my grip and she's walking.
We walks deeper into the ruins. Crouches again, sifts through rubble. Pulls out an iron pot, blackened but intact.
"This survived." Sets it aside. Keeps searching. "And this." A trowel, handle burned away, blade good. "And this." Iron hooks from the wall. A stone mortar, cracked but usable.
I crouch beside her and start pulling debris away from the foundation edge. A hinge. Another pot. The remains of a kitchen knife, wooden handle gone. We work the rubble, shoulder to shoulder. Her arm brushes mine when she reaches for a piece of twisted metal.
"The hearth was my favorite part." Her fingers trace the rubble. "I found the stones in the river. Carried them one at a time. It took weeks."
"How old were you?"
"Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. I lost track for a while." She pulls a stone from the rubble—smooth, river-worn. "This is one. See the flat edge? I picked them for that. So they'd stack evenly."
"You carried these yourself?"
"Who else was going to carry them?" She sets it down. Reaches for the next piece. "I didn't have a massive one-eyed wolf to do the heavy lifting."
"I'm not a pack mule."
"You pulled a cart full of chickens."
"That was different."
"How?"
"That was your fault."
Her mouth fights itself.
She takes a deep breath and stands, brushing off ash from her clothes. "Okay, that's enough." She looks around at the cottage. The doorframe. The arch standing alone against the sky.
"Let's go."
I shift. She climbs on.
Can't sleep.
I'm pacing my dwelling. Four steps, wall. Turn. Four steps, wall. Turn.
Her scent everywhere in my head. Moonbright and ash. Warmth still on my spine.
She's alone in her dwelling. With that broken bowl piece. Her face in the ruins.
Should let her grieve.
Should stay here.
Four steps. Wall. Turn. Four steps—
"You'll break the floor before dawn at that pace."
Orel.
She's leaning against the door frame, arms folded, watching me. Unhurried. Gray hair loose around her shoulders. Pine resin on her clothes.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
Steps inside without invitation. Sits on the bench against the wall.
"It's late, Orel."
"It is."
"So why are you here?"
"Because you're wearing a trench in your floor." She crosses her ankles. "And because her cottage burned today."
"I know her cottage burned today."
"I know you know." She lets the silence stretch. Waits.
"We're handling it."
"You're hiding." No heat. "We've been hiding for decades. Longer. And today they burned a woman's home to the ground because she dared to help us."
"What's your point?" Pinching the bridge of my nose.
"My point is that hiding is failing. The secret's already broken, Keer. The only question left is whether they see monsters or people when they come to finish it."
She doesn't push, just stands. Slow.
"Think about it." She moves toward the door. "Or don't. But it's coming whether you do or not."
She leaves.
Silence.
Four steps. Wall. Turn. Faster now.
We're not there. Not yet. There are options. There are—
Her dwelling across the clearing. Dark.
She's human. She's grieving. She needs space, not—
Fuck it.
Across the clearing. My bare feet on packed earth. Cold air on my arms. Blood loud in my head.
At her door. Closed.
I knock. Quiet—just knuckles on wood.
Wait.
Should leave. Should—
"Come in."
Her voice. Soft.
I open the door.
She's sitting on her pallet. That broken bowl piece in her hands. Blue glaze catching what little moonlight comes through the gaps in the walls. Looking up at me.
She wasn't sleeping. Pallet unmade, but she's sitting on top of it, knees drawn up. Same clothes from today. Smudged.
"I thought you might come."
"Did you."
"You're kind of predictable."
"I am not."
"You are." Sets the bowl piece on the floor beside the pallet. Both hands. Careful. Pats the space beside her. "Predictably stubborn. Predictably grumpy. Predictably showing up at my door in the middle of the night."
"It's not the middle of the night."
"It's late."
"It's early."
"Keer." That squeak. Just my name. Warm. "Sit down."
I sit.
Close. Not touching.
Yet.
She doesn't say anything for a long time.
"Everything I built." Quiet. "Just gone."
"You'll build again. Here."
"You said that, but is this really home?"
Small. Fierce. Ash tracked into the creases of her neck.
"Do you want it to be?"
Long pause.
Her heartbeat picks up. Faster. Louder.
"Yeah." Barely there. "I do."
My hand finds hers. Her fingers curl around mine. Ash in the creases.
Her hand in mine. Neither of us talking.
Her thumb moves across my knuckle. Back and forth.
"Why are you here?" she asks. "Really."
I shrug, grunt.
"You know." Squeezes my hand. "You just won't say it."
"Won't say what?"
She turns to look at me. So close I can see the freckle near her jaw.
"Just admit it." She's smiling. Small. Tired. "You kind of like me."
My hands lock.
"Melori."
"I'm not stupid, Keer. I can feel it. Every time you look at me. Every time you get close and then pull away again. In the woods. In the moonbright field. At the cottage today." She doesn't look away. "I can feel it."
The words are in my chest and I don't know how to open my mouth and let them—
She's too close. Smells too good. Her hand in mine and her face tilted up and I should go, should leave—
"You should tell me to leave." Voice scraping. "Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't tell you that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd be lying."
Fuck.
"This is a bad idea."
"Probably."
"You're human."
"Yes."
"You're half my age."
"And?"
"And—"
"That bothers you more than it bothers me."
"It should bother you."
"It doesn't. Next objection."
I lean in.
Her breath catches.
I kiss her. Slow, careful—not the woods, not desperate. My mouth against hers, gentle pressure, and I wait.
She responds.
Her hands find my hair. Fingers curling in. Pulling me closer—not frantic, not grasping. Steady. Certain. She's reaching for me. Something tears out of my throat—growl, groan, raw. Couldn't stop it if I tried.
Not the woods. Not a spike. Slower.
My hands on her waist. Her back. She's so small—my hands almost span her entire ribcage—and she leans into me and her breath warm on my mouth.
Want her marks on me.
Want—
Could take this further. My body screaming for it. Blood running hot, running loud—
I pull back.
Just an inch.
Forehead to hers. Both of us breathing too hard. Her hands still in my hair. My hands on her waist.
"Mel."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say no." Her breath against my mouth. "Please. Not tonight."
My hands tighten on her waist.
"Mel—"
"Stay. Please stay." Her thumb traces the corner of my mouth. "I know what you're about to say. I know what your jaw is doing right now. I can hear the speech. I don't want the speech."
"It's not—"
"It is." She's smiling.
I don't have an answer.
"Look at me." Her hand cups my face. "I want this.
Tonight. Not because I'm grieving. Not because I'm scared.
Because I want you. Because I've wanted you since the woods.
Because I went to bed last night thinking about your hands and woke up this morning thinking about your hands and rode your back for hours and your back is now also a problem and I just—I want you. Tonight. I'm asking you to stay."
My throat closes.
"Mel." My voice has gone rough. "You've been crying for hours."
"And now I'm done."
"Are you sure—"
"If you ask me if I'm sure one more time I will hit you."
I laugh. Even here, even now, she has to get the last word.
"That's better." She's still smiling. "I prefer you when you laugh."
"Melori—"
"Stay."
"I—"
"Keer. Life is short." Her voice has dropped, quiet and steady, the fight gone out of it. "I'm done waiting."
The whole impossible woman, asking me to stop being careful with her.
I'm done being careful.
"Mel."
"Yes?"