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“Aspe—”

“Air—”

I’d almost said her name, as she’d almost said mine. I couldn’t tell which of us shivered, or if we’d done so collectively, or if it had merely been a wisp of wind.

Flinging an axe, landing at its mark, and staying there required focus and force, two elements that we had been working on. It took countless throws for her strike somewhere other than the bushes, another countless throws for her to hit an object, another countless throws for her to hit thecorrectobject.

As my chin brushed her temple, sweat beaded across my nape, and the hem of my shirt scraped against the waistband of her skirt.

“Concentrate,” I murmured. “Know your weapon.” I shifted closer, my hips aligning with hers. “Know its weight and depth.” My thumb skidded across her hip. “Know its shape.”

My fingers tightened their grip. Her breath stalled, and she dropped the axe. Oh, I knew the effect I had on her, as she’d never disguised her fancy for me.

For a moment, I thought of something terrible. I thought of spinning her around and pressing those ample woodskin curves against me, to discover whether they might yield and mold, to explore the hard and not-hard contours of her.

I stepped aside, farther than necessary, needing a moment to recover the atrocity of my thoughts—unfaithful and unfair thoughts.

Her profile crinkled, then hardened into resolve. With her nostrils flaring, she raised the hatchet. Angling her body and positioning her arms as I’d instructed, she hurled it with an angry growl.

It struck, landing with crack into the stump, the handle extended midair.

Her reaction was immediate, and it made me laugh in spite of myself. I had assumed that I’d heard the loudest of this girl’s squeals.

I was wrong.

***

Around the terrace fire pit, Nicu spoke of home, of his Queen grandmother, his mother and father, and of Tumble, his pet ferret, blessed with the long life of a Spring critter. As a child, Nicu had brought the creature with him to Autumn.

Nicu spoke of his two best friends. There was Prettiness, a servant who worked in the castle kitchens. There was Pearl, a former prisoner of Summer, whom I’d been training as a knight; the Crown had endorsed the girl as a candidate for a soldier, making a rare exception regarding her untitled status.

Another thing the Royal family had earned an infamous reputation for: befriending inferior classes.

Lyrik flicked ash from his smoke cylinder into the flames. “I like the sound of your life,” he said.

“You’re not acting like it,” Nicu replied.

To that, Lyrik simply offered him the smoke, the thin roll sizzling at the end. Just as Nicu’s fingers brushed it, the squatter yanked it back. “Ah-ah-ah,” he taunted.

Holding back a laugh, Nicu swatted his shoulder, to which Lyrik grinned.

Baring witness to the exchange, I shuffled on the banquette. Nicu had always exhibited a heedless friendliness, hugging dumbfounded strangers and chatting his business within minutes of introductions. Among other things, his rash and aggressive kindliness sprouted from his condition, rendering it difficult for him to tell friend from foe. As a result, it pained him greatly to be fooled or rejected by others, and it pained me to witness it.

Over the years, it happened less and less, and he’d learned not to demonstrate such extreme affections upon meeting someone. Nevertheless, it still happened on occasion, and I doubted it would ever fully dissipate.

But this...this thing between him and the squatter.

This was different.

***

“What was she like?” the lumber maiden broached without looking at me.

We sat on the swings. I had just asked a similar question, inquiring what her mother was like, and she’d been telling me stories. Needless to say, her abrupt shift in topic had blindsided me, in the same way grief always did—gone for a while, only to rekindle without warning, as though I’d never felt it before.

To this day, it remained the one cyclical upheaval that I rarely saw coming. Oftentimes, the memories tore at flesh. In the past, I’d relished the feeling, relied on it as a morbid comfort, fearing what I might be left with otherwise.

What did I have, if I did not have my bereavement?