Chapter Twelve #2
They strode past crowds on a white-sand beach, but Pedr displayed no rush.
He browsed over cocoanuts cut in half, fruit with a yellow rind, a collection of squat, silver jars with questionable contents, and different pairs of glasses with varying thickness.
Their painted rims were garish instead of subtle.
Mila’s eyes couldn’t keep up, so she slowed her pace to drag them over every single detail. This is what she’d wanted to do at Erevast island, but hadn’t been able to. Pedr didn’t release her hand, neither did he hurry her.
Disbelief accompanied her from knick-knack to knick-knack. All of this unexpected stuff is what she’d missed all those years trapped in the castle. Her aunts and mother had hidden her away in the Westlands, wishing she could wield arcane, and kept her away from the world.
Pain swelled with the question of why?
Pedr released her hand and came to a fast stop.
She avoided bonking her nose into his back by sheer surprise.
He pulled her behind him as a group of four men walked by, eyeing her.
The lead man slowed, a hand lifted. She caught a glimpse of Pedr’s mutinous glare before all four men averted their eyes and scuttled on.
Pedr sidestepped, keeping his body between her and the group until they vanished.
She swallowed a flutter of shock. Oh, how lovely, his rampant protection.
Stulla never mentioned this aspect of being near a man.
One more scan of the crowd and Pedr returned to her side.
He stood closer, eyes darting around. Her fingertips tingled for want of his heat again, but blood rose to her cheeks at the thought.
Did she have the courage to grab his hand?
She didn’t.
Pedr gestured to a table off to the side.
“Here,” he murmured. “She’s selling rosenvatten.
I want you to smell it.” Mila approached slowly, smiling at a tentative woman behind the table.
The woman wore a wrap around her dark hair and a loose, shimmery dress that danced in the breeze.
Her gaze lowered when she curtsied to Mila.
A table filled with sun-sparkling jars stood between them.
Pedr said, “Orva.”
The woman responded with a heavy accent. Before Mila could ask, he whispered in her ear, “Many of the islands have different greetings. The one I just gave is unique to Krackalack, and means we’ve been here before. We’re more likely to get a better price this way.”
Mila closed the rest of the distance between her and the table. She reached a hand out, hesitated above the closest jar, and asked, “May I?”
The woman smiled with bright white teeth, nodded.
Her purring, chattering words blurred through Mila’s mind.
Some of them familiar to the languages her aunts taught her, but indecipherable for pure speed.
Pedr cocked his head and listened, his reddish strands swaying.
By the time the woman finished speaking, he smiled.
“She says that she remembers me.”
Mila smiled. “You buy love perfumes often?”
“It’s my hair. Sets me apart.” Lips twitching, he tapped one jar on its corked top. “These are rosenvatten, but she says this is a very special one. The only one she has.”
He picked it up, handed it to Mila. She accepted, holding a glass vial shaped like a heart, half the size of the others.
A rosy liquid filled the inside, speckled with shredded crimson flakes.
The others had a color-infused liquid, but nothing else.
Sculpted edges and warbling designs lined the inside.
The simple exterior gave way to a complicated, chiseled interior littered with tiny white gems.
How did someone sculpt the inside of the jar? Mila inspected each curve by holding it near her eye, fascinated.
“What’s special about this rosenvatten?” she asked.
“It’s potent.”
“Oh.”
“Very potent.”
“It’ll make two people fall in love?”
“Purportedly.”
The woman spoke again, brow high. She and Pedr engaged in a halting back and forth.
Though he may have been here before, he clearly wasn’t fluent.
Until breaking away, Mila hadn’t experienced the discomfort of not understanding someone while standing in front of them.
The woman’s facial expressions did most of the work.
A smile lingered in her eyes, softening all the words.
Pedr set a hand on Mila’s shoulder and replied to the vendor in a huskier tone that lacked the lyrical flow to match, but affected Mila all the same. Why did he touch her? What could they possibly be saying?
To Mila, Pedr said, “My command of this language isn’t great, but I think she reports that this rosenvatten comes from roses near the northern citadels.”
“Citadels?”
“Ah, not worth mentioning in detail right now. They have something called magic. Similar to the arcane, but different. It’s less controlled and more wild, which makes it very dangerous. Supposedly, this rosenvatten is inherently magical.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have no idea, but I’d like to find out.”
Did she imagine nuance in his tone?
Heat?
He reached into a pocket, extracted a handful of coins. Sorting through them very quickly, he muttered under his breath, curled them together, and dropped a palmful into the woman’s hand. Her eyes widened. She curled her fingers around them and thrust them back, head shaking with vehemence.
Pedr waved a hand at the woman, urging her to keep all the coins.
To Mila, he said, “Pick which one you want. You can choose the special one, or any of the others. I gave her more than enough to cover whatever you want.”
“But—”
He gently squeezed her shoulder. “It’s a gift for you. Something you can remember this trip by.”
Tears misted her eyes. She’d never received a gift because her aunts never exchanged them. Amalia and Stinna and Liora thought gifts would spoil Mila, though Venna sometimes brought her tiny flower buds, and Stulla sneaked extra dessert.
Not trusting herself to speak, Mila nodded.
The woman studied Pedr and Mila carefully, hand in her pocket, eyes bouncing back and forth. Mila felt her intent stare as she ran her fingers over the glass jars, so lovely and brilliant the way they caught light and tossed it.
She stopped at the small, intricate heart with swimming, crimson flecks inside.
“This one.”
The woman attempted a second time to return some coins, but Pedr refused. Frustrated, the woman reached below the table, withdrew something, and held it out. Pedr hesitated, then accepted. She dropped it into his palm and he quickly whisked it into his pocket. He lowered his chin and said, “Ta.”
The woman smiled.
“Ta.”
Pedr nudged Mila on the shoulder. “Put the rosenvatten in your pocket, just in case. This market is usually quite safe, but that’s a very coveted trinket.”
“What did she?—”
“I’ll explain when we’re away from the table.”
They drifted away as Mila cast one last smile and waved over her shoulder. Beaming, the woman held up a long hand and curled it up and down.
Pedr led Mila toward an empty spot of beach beyond the occasional stall. Halfway to the foaming water, she asked, “Can we go there?” and pointed to a rocky place farther out. Only two islanders congregated near it, and none close. Waves bashed the rocks in violent, white sprays.
Amused, he asked, “You like dangerous places?”
“I like seeing new things, as long as we stay away from the water’s edge.”
He set a hand on the small of her back.
“Whatever you want, Mila.”
Pedr guided her as they crossed the beach, but she didn’t remember a single thought, step, or landmark.
All her attention focused solely on the heat of his palm, the way he scanned the crowd, walked to the side and just behind her.
His smell reminded her of a whispering sea, salty air, a building storm, and secrets.
The humid sea air created a thick haze she never experienced in her rocky home. It lay heavy, pressing from all sides.
“So?” she asked.
“What?”
“What did she give you?”
Smiling ruefully, he withdrew a black velvet bag from his pocket. He reached for her hand, elevated it. Delicate leaves tumbled onto her fingers, soft as the bag, and darkest crimson.
“Rose petals. Said it’s from the original rose they used to make this rosenvatten. If we have both, your rosenvatten will be more . . . magical.”
Mila smiled, delicately tracing each petal with the pad of her thumb and finger.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For?”
“The rosenvatten.”
“Oh.” The corners of his lips curled up. “Sure.”
While he carefully returned the petals to the bag and tucked it into his pocket, she admitted, “I’ve never received a gift.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
His voice elevated. “Really?”
Mila clutched the jar in her hand. She wanted to extract it, study every delicate etching again. “Really.” She turned to look at him, the weight of her heart in her eyes. “It means so much. Thank you.”
His lopsided, uncertain smile appeared. “You’re welcome.”
“I don’t have monies to buy something for?—”
“Not necessary. I don’t like gifts.”
“You don’t?”
He shook his head.
“But you like to give them?”
“Maybe?”
Laughing, she cried, “Obviously, you do!”
“Well . . . yes. For you.”
“Am I different?”
His eyes darted to her lips and back. “Absolutely,” he whispered.
Mila didn’t have the power to break his stare. She reached up, touching his cheek with her fingers.
“I want to give you something, too.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“You being on the ship with me is far more powerful than any gift.”
“Me being with you is a gift?”
His low murmur of, “The most powerful kind,” rocketed fire through her blood. It twirled, potent, until her heart curled in terror and elation. She’d never experienced the twin dichotomy so intensely, nor had a reason to grieve and rejoice together.
Her gaze dropped, unable to maintain his. Not sure of what to say, Mila stopped walking. Mist sprayed off the ocean and surrounded them, thickening the air. She stepped back, unnerved by the cool sensation despite the distance.
“Pedr, I?—”
He rushed to say, “I’m sorry if I’ve scared you,” without meeting her gaze.