Chapter Three #3
“I used to be ashamed of it,” she admits.
The confession pulls at her chest, a string still stubbornly twining around her heart no matter how many times she’s tried to cut it loose.
“Maybe I still am, just a little. It’s hard wearing our differences with pride when the world looks at them with contempt.
It took me a long time to realize that it’s not my skin that’s the problem, but people. ”
She looks at him, sees the way he shifts, the way his eyes go dark with memories and nightmares.
Anna thinks of the way Carl saw him as a thief before a starving child.
Thinks of the pier full of jobs and the dock workers—the ones that turned him away and the ones who offered him only a fraction of what they should—and she knows that Jiro understands what it is to be other.
To be ostracized for something as out of his control as where his ancestors came from.
Gently, her hand rests on his shoulder with the softness the world has robbed him of.
Connection in the form of touch. She’s prepared for him to pull away, to curl inward the way he always does when he feels the need to shield himself, but he leans into her hand.
The tension in his shoulders relaxes beneath her palm as if her touch is balm on a wound that was left to fester longer than it should.
Once, so long ago it has become more fact than memory, she lived a life alone in the woods.
A life where the only words spoken to her were threats and the only touch she received was the feeling of rough hands dragging her away.
Until a stranger with dark eyes and sun-kissed skin pressed a peach into her palm and soothed the oppressive silence with a kindness Anna hadn’t felt in years.
It dawns on her, with a swiftness that temporarily robs her of breath, that her presence in Jiro’s life may very well hold the same earth shattering impact. She thinks of the way she once looked up to Khiran, idolized and feared him, and her stomach twists uncomfortably.
Jiro doesn’t know of her immortality. It’s Anna’s hope that he never will; that he’ll spend a few years growing under her roof, so he can build up the strength to take on the world once he leaves.
She hopes, with a fierceness that makes her pulse hum, that Jiro will only ever see her as a woman and nothing more.
That he’ll see her flaws—see that the empathy that guides her actions is entirely human.
He doesn’t have the centuries she did to learn the difference.
In the end, it takes Jiro five weeks to finally start treating her home like his own.
Anna discovers her suspicions were correct about his talent in the kitchen.
Where he once seemed uncomfortable making meal suggestions, he’s begun taking it upon himself to plan their weekly menu.
Anna chimes in occasionally, but for the most part he takes charge.
He seems to thrive when given the opportunity to control some things for himself.
Anna suspects it’s been a while since he’s had the luxury of choosing his meal versus making do with what he was given.
It is, again, something she understands more than he knows.
There is a freedom that comes with knowing you won’t go to sleep hungry; a weight that’s lifted from your spirit.
She has never had to remind him not to be wasteful—he’s as conscious as she is over every scrap of food.
Anna washes a few carrots in the sink, her hands working out the bits of soil clinging stubbornly to the gnarled roots. “Jiro,” she says, tipping her head in his direction. “Could you grab me some rosemary from the garden?”
He pauses, his knife still in the process of peeling a potato as his brow furrows. After a moment of quiet frustration, he asks, “Which one is that again?”
Anna tries to hide her smile as she cuts the top off a carrot.
The herbs she grows seem to be very different from the seasonings he grew up with.
It’s one of the few things he still feels uncertain about.
With how chaotic her herb bed is, she can’t altogether blame him.
“The one you said looks a bit like pine needles.”
He sets the potato, half-peeled, on the table with the knife, wiping his hands on the apron Anna helped him sew last week. “How much?”
“Just a stem should do,” she hums, cutting the carrot lengthwise into long spears.
He leaves the kitchen door wide open when he leaves, the early summer breeze brushing against her skin like a cool kiss.
It’s a habit Anna’s noticed but chooses not to comment on.
Deep fears have a way of manifesting into small, but telling, actions.
She suspects it will take months before Jiro will close a door behind him and trust it to open when he returns.
She’s gathered the lengths of carrot together on the cutting board, just beginning to dice them into finer bites, when the sound of Jiro shouting drifts from the open doorway. There’s an edge to his voice, fear masquerading as bravery, that makes her heart jump.
Anna thinks of Khiran’s warnings, that it’s not if but when they’re found, and feels her heart plummet.
The knife drops from her hands, her feet quickly taking her through the open door.
Her mind scrambles for another line of reasoning, but she doesn’t get any visitors, not this far up.
The only people that wander these hills are her and—
The garden comes into view and, with it, the sight of Jiro brandishing a shovel like a weapon. The man at the other end is as familiar to her as her own heart.
Relief comes as a sigh painted with the colors of his name, the tension in her shoulders relaxing. “Khiran.”
He glances up at her, a question in his gaze. He’s wearing tan slacks and a tweed vest over a cream shirt. It isn’t unlike something she would see a banker wearing in town, but the indigo fabric wrapping the package he holds clashes against the western style.
Jiro points the end of the shovel towards Khiran’s chest. The expression he wears might be more intimidating if worn by an adult, but the bravado lacks strength when the top of his head barely reaches Khiran’s shoulders.
“I don’t know who you think you are or what you’re selling, mister, but you should leave! ”
She moves quickly to Jiro’s side, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, the anxious edge in the boy’s eyes stirring guilt. “I should have warned you. Khiran visits often.”
Khiran meets her gaze, eyebrow raised. She can practically hear his thought: Visit?
Anna pointedly ignores it. Instead, gently coaxing him to lower the shovel. She notices, with amusement, that he still has a stem of rosemary clutched in one of his hands.
Jiro pins him with a distrustful look but dutifully lets the shovel drop, the blade giving a metallic twang when the tip strikes a rock. He glances at the fabric bag hanging from Khiran’s crooked finger. “What are you? One of those door to door salesmen, or something?”
Khiran’s answer is glib. “Not in this life, anyway.”
Anna interrupts before Jiro can speak the snarky retort she can practically see him holding. “Let’s take this inside, shall we? Jiro? Would you be so kind as to put the shovel in the garden shed for me?”
Jiro doesn’t seem thrilled by the request, but he nods before handing her the sprig of rosemary. “Here.”
Anna takes it with gratitude. “Thank you.”
Once Jiro has walked the first few feet toward the garden, she links her arm through Khiran’s as they head towards the house. She can feel the weight of his questions the entire way, but he doesn’t speak until after they’re well out of earshot.
“I’ve only been gone six weeks,” he accuses, but there’s a thread of laughter in his voice that makes the words sound more amused than angry. “When, exactly, did you take it upon yourself to adopt?”
“I didn’t adopt him. I hired him.” When he looks no more convinced, she raises her chin pointedly. “He helps me around the house.”
“Ah,” he breathes. “And I suppose he has to live in, what with the journey being so far.”
“Exactly.”
He hums. “His clothes look new. Suspiciously similar to that fabric I brought you last spring. A uniform, I suppose?”
She smothers a smile, releasing his arm to enter the kitchen. “I’m so happy you understand.”
He grabs her hand, forcing her to face him. Whatever amusement that lit his eyes only a moment before has extinguished, leaving a quiet regret in its place. “He can’t stay, Anna.”
She frowns, lips parting—ready to protest—but Jiro is coming in. The sound of the door shutting cutting her off before she can start. She sends Khiran a meaningful look that promises they will continue this conversation later.
He answers with a subtle nod. Later.
Jiro has yet to shed his scowl. “You just come whenever you want, then?”
Khiran sets his package on the counter before shrugging out of his coat. “One tends to do that in their own home.” He holds the coat, momentarily uncertain. Anna realizes he’s not sure what to do with it now that he’s unable to make it disappear with a bit of magic and a flick of his wrist.
She quickly steps forward, kissing his cheek and taking it from his hands. “I’ll put it in the bedroom. How was your trip?”
Khiran glances at the stranger in his kitchen. “Apparently not as eventful as your time at home.”
Jiro looks between them, blood draining from his face. “Wait. You’re married?”
Oh.
Anna’s lips part soundlessly. They’ve never discussed how to refer to each other—they’ve never needed to. They’re tied together in ways that went beyond mortal ceremonies and vows.
The corner of Khiran’s mouth twitches, a suppressed smile. “What do you think?” he asks in perfect French. “Shall we admit to living in sin, or will you drag me to the nearest chapel and make an honest man out of me?”
Anna rolls her eyes, swatting his arm. “I’m a modern woman. I demand a proposal on bent knee.”