Chapter Twelve #2
I sip more wine, hoping it might soothe the fluttering anxiety within.
It is more than his ease in the kitchen that’s making me nervous.
After what I witnessed with the tsunami, I don’t know quite how to talk to him anymore.
Wariness lodges in my throat, so thick I’m certain I will not be able to get down a single bite of food despite the gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach.
I should tell him not to bother making me a helping. I’ll simply go back to my room and—
Soren sets down a plate in front of me.
My mouth fills with a rush of saliva. I stare, astonished, at the perfect stack of griddle cakes, golden brown at the tops and bursting with purple berries. They smell heavenly, like butter and sugar and sweet cream. I am abruptly ravenous.
“They’re no good cold,” he says, taking the stool across from mine at the heavy oak table.
I nod, still staring at my plate.
He douses his own with a pour of syrup from a porcelain tureen, then sends it sailing across the smooth wood surface with a sharp flick of his fingers. Jolted out of my trance, I catch it reflexively before it topples off the edge onto my lap.
“If you’re not going to use that mouth for conversation, you should use it for nourishment.” His lips twitch as he pauses with a forkful held aloft. “I must say, I find you strange when starstruck into silence, skylark. I much prefer you snappy and snarling at me to tongue-tied and taciturn.”
Gods, this man.
I shoot him another glare as I aggressively cut into my meal, my knife scraping the plate with a piercing shriek.
All annoyance vanishes the instant the first bite hits my tongue.
The syrup’s sweetness mixed with the unfamiliar tang of tart berry juice is a revelation.
I thought the sensory feast I experienced at the floating market would never be topped, but this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.
I cannot stop a low hum of pleasure from escaping the back of my throat as I chew.
Soren’s gaze flickers up to mine at the sound. “Satisfactory?”
I manage to swallow, still reeling from the flavors bursting across my tongue. “What kind of fruit is this?”
“You’ve never had a seaberry before?”
I shake my head and take a sip of the crisp, floral wine—a perfect pairing for the tangy berries—to wash it down. “They do not grow in the Midlands. Not anywhere I’ve been, in any case.”
“Ah.” He saws another forkful off his stack.
“I sometimes take the Ll?rian climate for granted. We have a long growing season on the mainland. What we cannot produce ourselves, we import from the Southlands or across the North Sea. And here in the capital, we have several greenhouses that keep us in plentiful produce during the colder season. They’re not far from the Easterly Beacon, if you feel the urge to explore tomorrow. ”
Tomorrow.
Will I still be here tomorrow?
Everything inside me feels tangled. Decisions that once seemed clear as the crystal of my goblet are veiled with hesitancy. Penn’s letter should’ve made the choice simple. He wants me back. I should return to Caeldera. There is no reason for me to stay.
There is no reason for you to go, a small voice whispers at the back of my mind. There is nothing down that path but pain.
The silence stretches as we eat for several minutes. Soren’s eyes linger on me across the table as he takes long sips of his wine. Studying me as I clear my plate, bite by bite. As usual, he discerns the direction of my thoughts without my ever sharing it.
“Have you replied to him yet?”
I stiffen on my stool, fork frozen halfway to my mouth. “No.”
“You don’t know what to say.”
My teeth grind together.
“I suppose I cannot blame you there, given his rather incendiary reaction to things that do not go his way.” Soren pauses. “Maybe a love sonnet to soften the blow?”
My grip tightens on my fork; I am surprised it does not bend in half.
“No, Pendefyre doesn’t seem the type for poetry…” Soren pops a berry into his mouth, chewing slowly. “You could sketch him a picture. That might better suit his reading level anyway. How’s your hand at drawing?”
I frown at his mocking grin. “This is not a joke. Nor is it your business.”
“Oh, but it is,” he counters, flattening one hand against the tabletop. His index finger taps absently as he speaks. “The last time he thought I’d taken you against your will, he showed up at the gates of the Acrine Hold with a battalion of soldiers, fully prepared to start a war to get you back.”
Some of my anger ebbs. Trepidation washes in to replace it. Surely Penn will not actually show up in Hylios looking for me…Surely he does not really believe I remain here as a captive…
“I like to think you’re wise enough to realize you have to stay.”
My eyes fly back to Soren’s at his unexpected announcement. He’s abandoned his meal, not even keeping up the pretense of eating as he fixes every ounce of his attention on me. The force of that stare is astonishing. It is all I can do to remain in my seat.
I clear my throat. “I may be tired now, but by the morning I’m certain I’ll be rested enough to survive a portal journey. If you’ll only—”
“I don’t mean stay because you’re tired or hungry,” he says, cutting me off. “And I don’t mean stay for another few hours or another night. I mean…stay. Stay here.”
My inhale is audible, my reply instant. “I can’t.”
“Why? You were to come here at midsummer anyway for Arwen’s wedding. That is less than a month from now.”
“Exactly. I’ll be back at midsummer, as scheduled.”
“You’re already here.”
“I wasn’t meant to be.”
“What’s meant to happen and what actually happens rarely align in this life. And we are usually better off for it, in the end.” His fingers flex against the tabletop. “Do you think people have any true concept of what is best for them? Of what will make them happy?”
I huff softly. “Because you are some great expert on happiness?”
“I never claimed to be. I’m merely pointing out that, more often than not, those who get precisely what they want in this world are disappointed to find it does not live up to expectation, let alone provide fulfillment.
It is the things that surprise us, the things we never see coming, that make this slow march toward death even remotely enjoyable. ”
“Careful, Soren. If you carry on with these sentimental worldviews, people will start to see you as an optimist. However will your fearsome reputation survive?”
He does not even crack a smile at my flippant remark, clearly not in the mood for levity. He takes another swallow of wine, eyeing me over the rim of his glass as his throat works. “Tell me honestly. What is so pressing back in Caeldera?”
“The restoration efforts—”
“Will take years. And are not your burden.”
“The citizens—”
“Are fleeing in droves, according to my sources.”
“I have patients—”
“Who will surely get on without you as they did before.”
“That may be true,” I reluctantly concede. “But there are also threats to the borders, which are—”
“Being dealt with by Dyved’s highly capable armies. And, it bears repeating, no burden of yours. Unless you plan to venture onto the ice shelf arm in arm with General Yale.” He pauses. “I cannot quite envision such a partnership, given the commander’s outright hostility when it comes to you.”
How is it that he always seems to know everything?
My nostrils flare on an exhale. “Reavers aside, there are other pressing threats. The Frostlanders—”
“Will turn their gazes back across the sea to easier prey after one strong show of force. They’re scavengers, not occupiers.” His fingers tap out a new pattern on the tabletop. “Now. Any more excuses to spin for me, or have you finally run dry?”
“You don’t—I just—” I take another sharp breath. “Pendefyre will be—”
“What?” he clips when I trail off, a flash of impatience in his face. “Angry? Jealous? Fuming at the loss of his possession?”
I set down my fork, hand shaking. “I am not his possession.”
“He keeps you like one.”
“I am not his to keep.”
“Aren’t you?”
My eyes narrow to pinpricks. “No. I am mine, and mine alone.”
“Right.” His voice drops lower, to a blatant imitation of Penn’s rumbling tones. “Give her back to me.”
The words he wrote in his letter.
Soren’s scoff is scathing. “What are you, a misplaced hat? Some lucky trinket he keeps in his pocket?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about when it comes to my relationship with Pendefyre.”
He scoffs again. “Clearly.”
“I will not be relegated to the role of a toy without autonomy, caught in some ridiculous game of tug-of-war between the two of you. I have my own mind, and make my own choices. Always.”
“Always? Then why do your decisions hinge on his desires?”
“You don’t know anything about my desires!”
“Don’t I?” His eyes hold mine as his head cants to one side, regarding me. There is an awareness in their depths that makes my stomach clench. “You want to stay.”
“I don’t.”
He drains the rest of his goblet. “In two centuries, I’ve never met a worse liar.”
I shoot to my feet, anger surging. “I am not lying.”
“You are.” He rises as well, then rounds the table toward me in slow, deliberate strides. “I can read your emotions behind those flimsy little shields you put up, but I don’t have to. The truth is written all over your face.”
Nearly tripping on the too-long robe, I backpedal away as he comes closer, my pulse spiking in alarm as I make efforts to solidify my—apparently ineffective—mental shields.
Whether it’s the effects of the wine or a leftover rush from his battle against the tidal wave, there is a disconcerting energy swirling around Soren.
Not the frothy, playful waves at the surface of his personality.
No, we are deep in uncharted waters. The look in his eyes makes my heart thud, my nerves ignite. My hands come up as if to ward him off.
“Soren, stop.”