Chapter Twenty-Two #3
Khiran had found it uncomfortable at first. He admitted, later and only to her, that he feels woefully unprepared on how to interact with someone so small.
His only experience with someone her size had been Malik—a boy in mind only.
The roles he took in the world’s affairs had rarely merged with family life.
Even when they did, it was hardly anything more than passing.
Jiro, absolutely delighted by his obvious discomfort, teases him mercilessly, but there’s a warmth in his eyes when he watches them. Anna understands why. Ami, with her countless questions and insatiable curiosity, softens Khiran’s edges in ways only Anna had once thought herself to be capable.
In the span of a few months, he seems just as fond of her as the child is of him.
Anna’s certain he wouldn’t have burdened the girl with his discomfort, but children often understand more than they’re given credit for.
It is no surprise that she would have noticed the change in him, no matter how valiantly he tried to hide it.
Anna swallows the emotion lumping in her throat. “She’s a smart girl.”
The acknowledgement sits between them, loud in the silence. Jiro doesn’t say anything else, but as he pulls back onto the road he holds out his hand between them in offering. Anna squeezes it, lets him tether her the way she once tethered him, the entire drive back.
“We should plan a trip.” The words leave her, more inspiration than thought.
It’s been four days since her trip to the pharmacy.
Outside her window, frost glitters like a thin sheet of snow in the gray early morning light.
Her mug warms her hands as they sit together on the couch.
The smell of coffee reminding her of fresh figs drizzled with honey and the Bazaar she only ever saw a corner of.
Khiran’s gaze slides to her, her thickest quilt wrapped around his shoulders. “A trip?”
“Yes.” She shrugs. “We aren’t running anymore. What’s stopping us?”
His stare is searching. “You would leave The Tree?”
Anna tilts her head, thoughtful. “Jiro has offered to check in should we need it.”
“He’s only human.”
Brows rising, she reminds him, “So are we.” When his only answer is silence, she takes a sip of coffee as she studies him. “You think it needs protecting?”
He shrugs. “Is that not what it chose you for?”
“No,” she says, her answer swift and sure in ways that only the truth can be. Her connection to The Tree is gone, but she still carries the echoes of its memory. Its wishes, her purpose, are as clear to her as if they were imprinted on her heart.
She shifts, facing him fully and settling herself more deeply into the cushions. “Silas told me a story once. His story.” Khiran’s gaze sharpens, curious despite his dark mood. “He thought he was dying until he followed a fox out of the desert and found his feet cradled by The Tree’s roots.”
“What’s your point?”
“The First didn’t choose Silas. The Tree did,” she says, holding his stare. “Don’t you think it’s strange? That he refused to leave his throne?”
Khiran scoffs, the sound bitter and dark. “He couldn’t be bothered.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “He couldn’t risk not being able to find his way back.”
She offers him a smile. “The Tree doesn’t need me for protection. It will hide itself and us until it’s ready to help those who need it.” She reaches over, takes his hand. “So, where should we go? What wonders will you show me? We should start planning now so we can go in the summer.”
His eyes drift to the window, pulling the quilt more firmly around his shoulders. A grin pulls at his lips, crooked in ways that are so familiar, her heart stutters. “Somewhere warm.”
Anna wakes moments before dawn.
Beside her, Khiran still sleeps, his breathing even and his expression lax. Spring has finally brought warmer weather and a reprieve from the pain that haunted his nights. Everything is as it should be, but Anna has the strange sense that she didn’t fall out of sleep on her own. Something woke her.
She slips out from under the covers, careful not to wake him, and threads her arms into her robe before slipping out the front door. The birds chatter from the branches in the gray predawn as she stands on the porch, eyes searching for something she can’t place.
There’s a feeling in her bones, a gentle nudge on her heart, telling her to look. Her bare feet lead her into the center of her garden, the ground damp beneath her toes. It’s only as the sun peeks over the mountains in the east, bathing everything in dawn’s warm glow, that she understands.
Hanging from The Tree’s lowest branch, plump and ripe and golden, is a peach.
The breath leaves her lungs, her eyes tracing the gentle curve, admiring the morning dew clinging to the fuzz.
Slowly, carefully, she steps closer. There are no whispers, no roots tangling and prodding at her heart.
It is only her, standing in the garden she cultivated, in front of the tree she has dedicated the rest of her mortal life to nourishing.
She cups her hands, wanting to feel the fruits of her labor.
It drops into her palms.
A message she doesn’t need the whispers to understand. A gift. A nudge.
Anna sucks in a breath, her heart beating so fast it feels more like the humming of wings. She looks up at The Tree. The fruit in her hands feels as fragile as a bomb.
One. There is only one.
She swallows, regret sour on her tongue. “I won’t do it without him. I can’t.”
A breeze whistles through the branches, sunlight glinting off the leaves. All Anna can think about is the shattered mirror on the bathroom floor casting blood-tinged reflections on the walls. Her fingers curl, fuzz tickling her palms. “I need him the way you needed me,” she murmurs. “Please.”
She receives no answer. She never will. Not until she accepts.
Teeth biting into her lower lip, she dips her head and tries to breathe through the heaviness weighing on her chest. That’s when she notices it. The peach in her hand, the one she thought to be flawless, isn’t.
A seam runs down the middle, splitting it into two perfect halves. Two buds, two peaches, grown so close together they’ve fused into one.
A gift, not just for her, but for them both.
A laugh escapes her, watery and bright as she holds it close to her heart. “Thank you.”
She brings the peach into the kitchen, cutting it down the middle without resistance. When she pulls the halves apart, the center is hollow.
A gift that cannot be replicated.