19
The following afternoon, I wandered the archives.
I trailed my fingers over book spines, then swiped them on my pants to rid the dust. After completing two laps, I ventured up to the east wing’s second floor.
Perhaps I’d known I’d find him there. Or I’d secretly hoped I would.
In the very last aisle, he sat opposite the books, against the stone between two arched windows. If he’d intended to keep away from the afternoon light, he’d failed. It slashed his legs, bent because they were too long to stretch across the aisle.
But it didn’t touch his face. Veiled in shadow and half covered by his unbound hair, his head didn’t move when I neared. Nor when I stepped into the aisle and around his boots to sit beneath the window beside him.
His eyes remained trained on the book held against his knees.
I placed the one I’d found for him between us and crossed my legs. I missed gowns. I missed oils and ribbons and luxurious soaps. I didn’t like these pants, which were tight enough to be mistaken for britches. I wouldn’t miss them.
But I quite liked being able to cross my legs whenever I wished.
For moments that might have been many minutes, Voran continued to stare at a page of bird-eating flowers.
Only when I picked at my nails in my lap did he close the book and speak. “I said we would resume tomorrow.”
“You did.”
Truthfully, I didn’t know why I was here.
After waking late and nearly missing breakfast, all I’d heard was his detached and murmured recital of the story I’d written for him. All I saw were his luminous eyes in the dark. All I could feel was his thumb on my lower lip.
I didn’t want to hear or see or feel any of it.
And I didn’t want to believe that something might have changed since he’d broken into my room. Since he’d told me that I didn’t have to kiss him anymore.
“I found this for you”—I placed my hand over the book—“some days ago, and you’re clearly ready to move on.”
He made an odd noise. Not quite a grunt but not quite a hum.
Neither of us spoke after that. It became a taut, taunting, and almost tangible thing. The silence we sat in as we gazed at the shelves of books before us. Not uncomfortable, but hard to ignore all the same.
But ignore it we did—whatever it was that lived within that silence. Even as it gathered sounds of distant laughter and birdsong from beyond the windows.
Even when his hand left his lap.
It swallowed mine upon the book of fables between us. I let it, although his warmth caused breath-nicking flutters within my chest. He didn’t squeeze or stroke. His hand just sat there, heavily covering my own.
And gradually, that silence quietened.
Everything quietened. My thoughts and my heartbeat and my breathing. There was only his hand on mine and the steady rise and fall of my chest.
Cobwebs, threaded across and atop books, glimmered silver in the patches of light. Dust motes settled upon chipped shelf edges. Sunshine moved across my legs, revealing a grass stain on the knee of my pants.
My eyelids drooped, and I leaned my head against the stone.
Voran had done the same. When he picked up my hand and brought it to his mouth, much of my arm went with it.
I didn’t look. I wasn’t sure I could as he inhaled my skin, then exhaled with such heaviness that my stomach swooped.
Softness brushed my knuckles. His mouth. It then swept the top of my hand. I waited—braced for it—but he didn’t kiss me. He just slowly rubbed his lips over my skin before lowering my hand. As he did, he opened it. With tickling touches, he appeared to inspect it and each of my fingers.
The sun continued to move.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t seem inclined to let go.
I didn’t want him to. So although I should have, I didn’t make him.
A sigh broke the quiet. “Someone climbs the stairs.” Before I could panic, Voran stood and took my hand with him, pulling me to my feet. Scarcely a whisper, he said, “Your sad friend.”
I looked toward the walkway, then up at him.
He gazed down at my hand, still in his, then released me to collect the books from the stone floor. As he rose, I finally heard light, quick steps.
Then a pitched, “Ayla?”
I left the aisle just as Celestine arrived in the wing.
She halted. “There you are.” Her blond hair clung to her cheeks, damp from well duty. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
A book sliding onto a shelf drew her gaze to the last aisle.
She must have glimpsed Voran. Her blue eyes widened, and her plump lips parted. Her eyes darted to me, still large. Worry, perhaps even fear, entered her voice as she marched down the walkway and took my arm. “Come. We need your help.”
I went, and though the urge was hard to ignore, I didn’t look back. “What happened?” I asked. “Did Alixa pretend to hurt her foot again?”
“Worse,” she said. “She actually did injure herself while attempting to train this morning. I’d say that’s what she gets for showing off in front of Meront, but her arm needs to be reset and rested after she used it to block a strike from Haynes.”
I winced.
“He feels dreadful, and I feel dreadful for recruiting you, but we won’t have enough water if you don’t help. You know how the priestesses are with the males.” Her eyes rolled. “All of their hunting and hitting each other with wooden swords means they’re goddess-sent.”
Really, the priestesses rarely spent time among males—which made it difficult to speak to them, as many felt uncomfortable.
Celestine waited until we neared the end of the walkway to release me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said with a laugh. “Why?” Except I knew why she’d asked.
“The wolf prince was right there.”
“I know,” I said, as it would have aroused suspicion to say otherwise.
She whispered, “What did he say to you?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Celestine spun, walking backward as we left the wing. She frowned, then turned back to me. “Nothing?” Disbelief sharpened her tone. “At all?”
Brushing my fingers over the hand he’d held, I said, “Nothing at all.”