Page 151

And with one final caress, I let go.

My body grew wings. My mind spanned those wings.

And my heart flew.

I used to think, what did it mean to say farewell? Was it enough to say that word once? Or must one say it endlessly, repeatedly, throughout life?

Did one live forever withfarewellon their shoulders, on the brink of their lips? Did we ever recover enough to truly say farewell?

I had not known before, for I had never tried.

I’d not had a reason until now.

37

Fantasy

I ran the wood peeler along the edge, a strip of bark flaking from the surface. I’d been adding a subtle curve to the axe handle, a twist up its length, hoping it would live up to practicality while also looking badass. An axe handle with style. With an attitude.

The test would come when I threw it, gauging how it measured up against the impact or whether the handle’s design would compromise the user’s grip, forcing a person to wield it differently.

I reclined on the stool and held the shaft aloft. “Thoughts?”

Mother turned in her own seat, from the desk adjacent to mine. She inspected my progress, her eyes lucid and peaceful today.

“It’s a beauty,” she said.

I gnawed on my lower lip. “Really?”

“Well.” With her awl, she indicated the top of the handle. “I would level that out more.”

She was right. Squinting, I saw what she saw, the uneven surface.

I got to work on that while Mother continued with her own project, a bookshelf that she’d been commissioned to make. The sounds of carving and scraping filled the room. Spiced leaves bumped against the window, a tepid morning light filtering through and illuminating Mother’s hair.

Dust and wood stains covered our hemp aprons. My knuckles had begun to stiffen, requiring another adjustment soon. My wrist had nicks from previous cuts, from previous attempts to get this handle right.

Above my desk, I’d pinned a dozen drafts of weaponry: crossbows, swords, hatchets, staffs. Mostly, I’d been working on getting the wood elements of each one right first, while communicating—via missives to the lower town—with a blacksmith, metalsmith, swordsmith, and bladesmith for the rest.

Small steps. Lots of duds at first.

I was improving. I’d even had one order, a humble job, an enhancement rather than a fully customized design. Not a bad way to start, though. I’d earned enough to buy more work materials, fancy birdseed for Punk, and a new embroidered smock for Mother.

Oh, and a sack of marshmallows for me.

From outside, a blast of wind rattled the shutters. At the same time, I heard the spark of steel on steel, overlapping with a horse’s whinny. My head snapped up, my grip on the peeler tightening, the same way my heart did. As if those outdoor noises signaled...as if they meant...as if it might be...

After a moment, I shook my head. How stupid of me.

This had been happening less and less, but still. Every once in a while, I heard something, or I saw something from the corner of my eye, and I thought...I thought maybe...maybe it was...

Of course, it wasn’t. It had been three months.

A palm rubbed my back tenderly. I swung in my seat to find Mother’s gentle gaze on me, the lines of her face crinkling. I’d told her about my time away from her, the friends I’d made, the love I’d found. I told her about Aire, my head in her lap and my tears soaking her apron.

We had told each other lots of things when we reunited. So at least one relationship, one in this whole messy story, had been salvaged. I couldn’t have asked for more than that, for more than her.

I gave her a weak smile. “I’m fine.”