Chapter 58 #2
The musician’s mouth went as flat as the sea on a windless day. The wind traced the lines on his forehead and the hard throb of his pulse in his temple. He did have a headache.
“What?” He held his sister’s stare.
“You know what.”
“Maybe he wants to marry Last.”
“Ragnor!”
“Little brothers are a pain in my neck. First they kill you, then they expect you to come to their wedding. He’ll probably want music too. And a wedding gift. He’s greedy like that.”
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman smiled. Her face blossomed. To the wind, it felt like a sea anemone blossoming under a ribbon of sun.
“You love us,” she said, taking her brother in her arms and resting her head on his chest.
“Unfortunately. The two of you seem bent on mayhem. Isn’t it funny? I once thought I’d be a musician for life. Like Handel or Bach.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I did.”
“Thanks, Raggie. Thank you.”
He put his hand on her back. “We’re family. We trust each other. Me. You. Luvic.”
“And no one else” remained unspoken, but the wind heard it in the way the Bard siblings stood.
There was a soft tap on the door. They stiffened, and the woman stepped back from her brother. They conjured at the same time, shifting into new forms. The woman became the giant rude man. The musician became the bald, cabbage and toothpaste scented man in greasy, stained clothing.
The musician crept to the door and peeked through the peephole. Slowly, he unlocked the dead bolts, unlatched the chain, lifted the floor bolt, and inched open the door.
No one was there.
Even the wind, who could scent nearly everything, couldn’t smell who had knocked.
There was a white box on the floor. It was wrapped with a red ribbon. A card was tucked underneath an elaborate bow. There was writing on the card. The wind traced over it—and there, it caught a hint of the boy.
So he’d left his gift on the doorstep instead of giving it to the woman in person.
The wind laughed. Was he nervous she’d reject the gift, or was he nervous she’d reject him?
“It’s for you,” the musician said.
The two of them stared at the box as if the red ribbon were a venomous snake, and if they touched it, they’d be bitten.
Then the box shook, and a small whimper sounded from inside.
The woman gasped.
“Lia, don’t!”
She didn’t listen—she grabbed the box and pulled it inside the apartment. She ripped the ribbon away, ignored the card, and tore the lid open.
“Oh!” She let out a sharp puff of air. “Oh. Hello.”
A small white puppy poked its head out of the box.
When it saw the woman, it whimpered and then boosted on its hind legs and pawed at the box’s edge.
It was so small it could curl in the crook of the woman’s arms. Its nose was the most prominent feature.
It was black and wet and very large. It had a long pink tongue, and it was desperately trying to lick the woman’s fingers.
She laughed and lifted the puppy out of the box.
“Who are you?”
“Lia. Don’t touch it! It could be poison. It could be—”
She laughed as the puppy licked her face. It squirmed and wriggled, trying to crawl closer.
“It’s a bichon,” she said.
“A what?” The musician glared at the puppy.
“A dog, Ragnor. It’s a dog.”
He closed the apartment door and squatted next to the woman. He stared at the dog, but instead of cowering, it wagged its pom-pom tail, and when he didn’t smile, it let out an insistent bark.
The woman laughed and buried her face in the puppy’s plush fur. She took a deep breath. “You smell real. Are you real?”
The puppy licked her cheek.
The wind stroked its ears. They were velvety-soft. Its fur was curled with a dense plush undercoat, making it feel like a soft bed of cattail fluff. Its heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s, and it smelled like fragile, newborn hope.
The puppy stared at the woman with a bright, adoring expression. She held it close and stared into its eyes.
“You may as well read this.” The musician tossed the card at the woman.
She settled the puppy onto her lap and opened the envelope.
There was a single sheet of paper. The wind couldn’t read, but it recognized the slant of the boy’s writing. It was just like him: gentle, polite, the letters spaced a little too far apart, hinting at the aloneness he’d always feared.
The woman scanned the letter, her gaze catching on a line and reading it again and again.
“What does it say?” The musician leaned close, but the woman twisted her hand, and the letter burst into flame, and then into a cloud of ash.
“It’s a gift.”
“From the Ward?”
She nodded, and the wind curved over the heat infusing her cheeks.
Did she like it? The boy hoped she would.
He’d searched the city, scoured the animal shelters, tried to find exactly the right dog.
He’d told the wind he wanted a dog who didn’t have any purpose except to love.
That the citrus and pearl dust scented woman hadn’t ever had anyone love her without any requirements or expectations.
She’d never had anyone love her for just being herself.
The boy wanted her to know that kind of love. To know happiness.
“Everyone wants something from her. Everyone wants her to be something for them,” he’d said, “but a dog will only want to love her.”
“You’ll have to get rid of it,” the musician said. “It could be conjured. He could’ve invaded its mind. It might snap. Attack. It could have a venomous bite. Poisonous fur. Or maybe it’s recording our conversations. Or—”
“It’s a dog, Ragnor. A puppy. Nothing else. It’s a useless, scared, helpless dog.”
The musician glared at the white fluff curled in the woman’s arms. “Why did he give it to you then? What’s the trick?”
The woman bit her lip and frowned. She stroked the soft fur on the puppy’s back. The wind rolled in the warmth flowing between them. “It’s a favor.”
“Another favor?”
She nodded.
“Get rid of it, Lia. If you want a dog, conjure a jackaltooth.”
The woman flinched, and the musician scowled and looked away.
“You know you can’t keep it,” he finally said. “Kill it or take it to a shelter. Never keep a gift from a Ward.”
She sighed and stared down at the puppy. It’d fallen asleep, and its tongue hung from the side of its mouth. She rested her hand on the puppy’s belly and let it rise with each slow inhale and fall with each subtle exhale. It was a soothing, ocean-like rhythm.
The wind settled in the curve of the woman’s arms. She watched the puppy with a soft smile.
“What have you decided?” the musician asked.
“I’ve decided,” she said, rubbing the puppy’s velvety ear, “that I like walking into traps. The bait’s set. It’s irresistible. I’m going to bite.”
“And?”
“And . . .” She grinned, and the wind reared back, surprised at her murderous expression. “I’ve got sharp teeth, Raggie. I’m not docile, and I’m not innocent. I’m going to walk right into his trap, and then he’s going to pay.”