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A grin swooped across his face. I held out my hand for him to shake, like we’d made a deal. Instead, he brought my knuckles to his lips and brushed the skin. A courtly gesture that I’d never been on the receiving end of.

My senses ran amok. As he swept away, I watched him.

Utterly entranced. And utterly devastated.

I lifted those knuckles to my own lips, remembering the warmth of his mouth. And the shape of his hand. And the cold cut of the wedding ring.

21

Honesty

I remembered the solidity of her fingers, the density of her hand in mine, and the barest of trembles, which produced the faintest of creaks. The random grains in her skin had skipped across her wrists like freckles, the texture of small nicks against my thumb, yet she felt soft, far too soft to be real. The sight of her wooden hand, blending with the malleable feel of it, seemed a coexistence of opposites, balancing legitimacy and deception.

Such was the measure of my feelings about her on this eve...or perhaps longer than that. There was a realness to our interludes, one that I valued and distrusted.

As on other nights, I’d had fun with her. Yet I questioned it, the ease I often felt in her company, ever since we’d begun to meet at the swings. It had been ages since I’d behaved this freely with a woman, since I’d been this impulsive.

Which of my actions were pure? Which were illusions? Was I being authentic or simply caught in the moments?

I had sparred with her in the glade, having long desired a bout of practice. The outcome had not been what I’d expected, yet it hadn’t mattered.

I’d invited her to join me, with the plainest of intentions: to keep her near.

I had wanted her to stay, and she had benefited from the instruction. I did not regret it, nor would I forget her shoulders tucked within my own, her form twisting alongside mine, our combined grips on the hatchets.

Above all, I would not forget the shape of her hand in mine.

Indeed, I had felt more than mere gallantry at her doorstep. If I’d had my way, I would have indulged, admiring the steeples of her knuckles, the basins of her palms, the pads of her fingers, the wooden webs between them.

I would have paid special attention to her sounds. She made noise as anyone did, yet she made noise as no one did. I heard her in ways that I’ve never heard another before.

Tonight, I had moved with another body, more so than I’d had in...in a very long time.

Standing before her front door, I’d wanted to let her go.

Just as much, I’d wanted to hold on.

***

She groaned, swinging her hips in a rather expressive manner. “I hate you, by the way.”

I poked one of those hips with a stick. “You’ve mentioned that.”

She had also mentioned slaying and skewering me, though her vows would get her nowhere if she didn’t know how to perform the rudimentary moves.

Her training had commenced. Strengthening her frame had become the goal, exercises to build endurance and resistance. As such, I commanded her to jump and swing, to lift and lower, to sprint up stairways and across bridges. I accompanied her, and she panted alongside me, her footfalls ramming into the dirt as she cursed the day I was born.

Needless to say, once things progressed in intensity, her enthusiasm from that first magical night had perished on the vine.

Strength for combat then progressed to wielding her weapons. She practiced holding them, balancing them, routinely analyzing their functionality in tandem with their construction.

After demonstrating a fundamental rotation with one of her axes, I handed it over and strode backward, giving her space. “Try again.”

“If I had a copper for every blasted time you’ve said that.”

“Then I would earn the hourly rate you owe me for these sessions.”

“Keeping tabs, are we?”