Ky burps, raps his chest with his fist. “If you’re still hungry—”
I shake my head, my bangs making my eyelids itch. They’ve grown too long. Need a trim. “I’m so stuffed. All I want is sleep.”
He stands, and crumbs tumble from his lap in a mini rockslide. Then he crosses to the rocker and drags it along the floor toward the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” He sits on the rocker, leans back, and props his feet up, boots and all, on the mattress. “Guarding you. In case you didn’t notice, sitting on the opposite end of the room didn’t quite cut it last time.”
I scoot over, slip off my boots, and slide beneath the blanket. “Just don’t kick me in the face with your big feet, okay?” Yesterday the comment would’ve been meant as a jab. Tonight it feels more like a joke from one friend to another.
Friends? Maybe.
“I make no promises.” Without another word he closes his eyes.
I turn on my side and study him, Joshua’s opposite. Joshua always has a clean and finished look about him, even when he needs a shave, which is most of the time. Ky, on the other hand, is a mess with his blond hair curling out at his car-door ears, dirt caked underneath his fingernails, myriad pimples dotting his skin. There’s something so relatable and real about him. I can’t look away.
Long after his breathing slows, I’m still wide awake. I can feel him, smell him. I touch the bandage wrapped around my palm, unravel it. There’s a scar but no pain. Ky did that.
The ache of Joshua’s rejection is an open sore yet to heal. I’ve spent so much time wishing for something more with him. Maybe it’s time I stop wishing, start healing. Then, someday, there’ll be nothing left but a scar like the one on my palm.
A scar. But no pain.
TWENTY-THREE
Wounds
Second Day, Third Month, Third year of Father’s Jasyn’s Reign
It has been just over three years since the king and queen disappeared. Guardians have searched the provinces over, and still no sign of Aidan or his bride. My heart hurts to imagine them in pain. Or worse, dead. At first Father seemed to hurt for them too. For an entire year after the disappearance he rarely came out of his room. Refused to converse with anyone. Now a thirst for control consumes him. He cares only for the Void and its power. Thank the Verity I have found comfort in a companion.
Thank the Verity for Tiernan Archer.
The day of the disappearance, Tiernan found me weeping in the library. He offered me his handkerchief. I realized then that I loved him before I knew his name, I loved him more with each kind word he spoke. With every beat of my heart growing louder as he gazed at me with understanding eyes. We have remained friends these three years. But today . . . today will be different. Because today I turn sixteen. I am no longer a girl but a woman. Today I will tell him how I truly feel . . .
I stir. Shiver. Did I kick the covers off? I blink awake. Must’ve dozed off while reading when I couldn’t get to sleep. Where’s the journal? I search for it with my free hand.
My free hand?
First I feel it. Skin on skin. Callused fingers curled over my smooth ones. Then I peek across the bed at the still-sleeping boy. So peaceful. Innocent. An unexpected stint of hesitation. Ky’s hand is warm, and I don’t want to let go.
Move.
I . . .
Get up.
I force myself to pull away, the fire of Ky’s touch lingering on my skin when I do. He’s still in the rocker, back arched, arms and head resting on the bed’s edge. Somehow, as we slept, my hand found his. Or did his find mine? I can’t ask him. He’s still asleep, oblivious to my dilemma.
I flex my bandaged hand. It’s sore, but I won’t need the Illusoden again, probably didn’t need it last night. The stuff wears off too quickly anyway. Better save it for an emergency.
Beyond the window pink streaks an indigo sky, ushering in the dawn and melting into the mountain we passed on our journey. I roll over. The journal lies akimbo on the floor, half of it hidden beneath the bed. I leave it. Don my boots. Creep out the door. Resolve pushes me forward. Joshua’s going to listen to what I have to say. Here goes nothing.
Muffled voices waft up from the first floor. I breathe on my palm, then inhale. Cheese breath. Nice. I’m in desperate need of a mint. And a shower. Please let there be a shower.
At the bottom of the stairs, I find Lark in her youthful form whispering to Grizz. They halt the moment they notice me. Lark stiffens. Grizz clears his throat, then stares with intent at the open book on the counter. No echoed greetings today. Is he using his Calling now, committing to memory every word on those pages?
“Good morning.” Lark smiles, takes me gently by the arm, and leads me down the hall to a quaint washroom complete with indoor plumbing and fresh towels.
Bingo.
“You’ll find everything you need in here. Hot, pressurized water from the spring and clean clothes. Just leave your old ones on the floor and I’ll get them washed. Feel free to use anything in those bottles and holler if you need something else.” She blinks. A sliver of yellow surrounds her blue irises. Funny how those little things are easier to pick up on after knowing someone’s secret.
I nod a silent thank-you. Step inside. Lock the door. A small window over the claw-foot tub admits the morning light. I draw the embroidered curtains and sit on the tub’s edge. My brain is worse than my locker at school, all unorganized emotions and unfinished thoughts. I shuffle through the piles, selecting what I’m certain of.
Mom. My top priority, all things aside.
Joshua. Wrong. Certain is the last word I’d use to describe him. Try nine letters, a synonym for enigma. Conundrum. Mom, the ultimate crossword junkie, would be so proud.
Ky. Not as perplexing as Joshua, but still an ambiguity. He saved my life. Three times. He’s proven I can trust him, but is it really so easy for us to switch from enemies to friends in such a short period?
Guess I’ll find out.
I peel away my clothes piece by piece, the layers of me. Ky’s jacket, smelling like him, a scent I’m growing more accustomed to. Fall. My shirt, the one I wore the first time Joshua held my hand in the subway. Flutter. Mom’s Uggs, the ones she may never wear again. Thud. My jeans, the ones Mom bought me even though they were way too expensive. Drop. Every article represents something, a significant moment, a fraction of my heart.
A mirror on the back of the door confirms my fears. My hair is a tragedy, dry, the ends splitting. Without a flat iron or product, it cascades from my unconditioned scalp in kinked waves. My face is plain aside from the birthmark, my brown eyes lost without shadow or liner. I just stare at myself. This is me. Deal with it.
After I bathe, smelling of lavender and rosemary, I survey the clothes Lark set out. They remind me of Robyn. A long-sleeved, cream-colored peasant top and a knee-length eggplant pinafore dress. Between the folds rests a braided leather tie. At the bottom of the stack, a pair of gray knit leggings and a cardigan made from the same material. A bra and underwear, plain white, thin, complete the ensemble. The bra is one piece, with no clasps or underwire. I slip it on. It’s so light I feel as if I’m wearing nothing at all. The rest of the outfit hangs off my frame. Too long. Too baggy. At least I’ll be comfortable.