Page 49

HAPPINESS FOR FREE

WREN

“ H ello there!” A deep voice fills the silence around me, startling me from my seat on the small stone bench where I’ve been long enough that my legs have gone to sleep, and I jerk back in surprise.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you!

” A young man — my age, maybe a bit older — smiles at me, white teeth flashing, small indents in his face to either side of his mouth.

He is open, friendly, and I don’t trust him immediately.

No one here offers friendship for free. “Why aren’t you at the welcoming?

” he asks conversationally, casually, as though people speak to me all of the time in such a way.

My eyes widen before I can school my face, and I don’t answer.

“You don’t seem as excited as everyone else…

” he notes, still smiling, still out of place.

I shrug, which seems as good an answer as any, and which he somehow takes as an invitation to sit beside me.

This is all too familiar, too relaxed, too close , and I try to surreptitiously slide sideways.

He notices, forest green eyes crinkling at the corners, and I wonder what the world is like where he grew up, that it encourages such a generosity of joy.

Kicking at a stone in front of him, he tries again.

“Everyone else is at the gathering?...” It’s a leading statement, but I am not one to follow.

I never have been. And my tongue is not used to loose words or informal conversation.

Oddly, the longer I am silent, the larger his grin grows, until I imagine his cheeks must hurt from the force of it.

I try not to admire the way his full mouth curves, his low voice filled with laughter, his considering gaze.

I fail. My silence becomes his own, and he regroups, falling into a thoughtful quietness, looking around the village with curious eyes.

It feels safe for a moment taking him in.

Shooting surreptitious glances at him from my peripheral vision, I try to study him without making it obvious.

With his coloring he could almost be from our mountains.

But he is too…too alive. Too vibrant . Too large .

He’s every bit as tall as Rannoch, though still not as towering as Silas.

It’s …just…his legs are like tree trunks .

Arms strong and muscular, as thick as most men's thighs. He has an almost intimidating strength, because it’s not one borne of necessity, but desire.

The ease of his life is written in his body — no scarcity of food slimming him down to straining muscle and sinew, no hard winters or poison rain scarring his skin.

But the place his differences are most noticeable are his soft mouth and his dancing eyes.

His lips tip up at the corners, even at rest, and the bright glance he darts my way is not guarded or narrowed, just open and interested.

After a few minutes, he turns back to me, seemingly unbothered by having to make a third attempt at pulling words from my throat.

Raising a callused hand, he shoves a mop of dark hair, shorter on the sides and thick and shaggy on the top, like our ponies coats as we go into the storm season, from where it hangs in his eyes in order to focus on my face.

For a brief, ridiculous moment my fingers twitch, the impulse to run them through his hair so strong I have to fight against it.

He is a sort of danger that I don’t understand. But it is danger none-the-less.

“Lots of bone here,” he offers finally, most of his smile gone now, though one side of his mouth curls up still. “Have you looked your fill? Sussed me out? Do I pass muster?” He knew I was watching him, gave me time to do so unencumbered.

If I do not speak, perhaps he will leave.

If I do not speak, perhaps he will leave .

And suddenly, I don’t want to lose this taste of everyday, this little piece of being seen. And so…so I try. As much as I am able.

First, however — I reach up to my face and point a single finger at my eyes.

His face drops, realization dawning, and I feel unexpectedly sad for having to mislead him.

But there are teeth in the night that do not care for any sadness of mine.

“If I had to hazard a guess, then…yes.” The words are whispered, barely words at all.

It is enough, though, and the half-smile expands back into his full grin.

“She speaks!”

Narrowing my eyes, I nod. “ She has a name,” I snap out, and he holds up his hands in apology.

“She could tell me her name,” he replies cheerfully, not at all intimidated by the threat of my bite, “and then I’d say something clever like, ‘My name is Kaden. I’ve been wanting to hear your voice since the moment we walked into the village walls and I saw you in the shadows, like a flickering candle. ”

I frown harder, shaking slightly, though I don’t know why. Calm down, calm down. “Why?”

“Why…why did I see you? Why do I want to hear you? Why do I think you looked like a candle?” I shrug again, and he laughs, the sound musical.

Drinking it in, my mind chants over and over danger, danger, danger.

This casual happiness could be addictive in three short days.

It’s too much even in this moment. I can’t imagine how painful a lifetime of it would be.

Holding up a hand, he ticks off his fingers.

“I can’t tell you why I noticed you as soon as I walked in.

But you glowed in the shadows, fading in and out like a ghost. And I couldn’t look away.

Which is saying something in the City of Bone.

” The last is almost sardonic, and I don’t like the sound in his easy voice.

There is a hint of fang there, of venom, then he slips back into sweetness as he continues.

“Why do I want to hear your voice? You look like you have a century of words trapped in your head, and I want to know what they say. Everyone else here rushed up, couldn’t stop talking, touching, looking.

You stayed back and didn’t move, and then drifted away.

” Looking down at the ground, he kicks the rock again, and adds softly, “I wanted to see where you drifted. ”

How to speak? I don’t have the practice, don’t know what it is like to be someone other than just the BoneKeeper. Taking a deep breath, I stare at the wall beyond him. “I don’t like crowds.” It is all I can offer, but it seems to be enough.

Nodding encouragingly, he picks up a piece of straw and plays with it, twisting it this way and that in his giant fingers.

“I thought as much. I knew if I wanted to find you, I’d have to go as far from the madding as possible.

” He shifts, uncomfortable on the stone.

He’s used to cushions and soft things , I think, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out of my mouth.

“I am not soft.”

I’ve surprised him, and feel an unfamiliar flush of…

what is this? Embarrassment, I’d say, but I’ve never been embarrassed, not.

.just as a girl with a boy…so the feeling is almost sickening in its intensity.

My face feels hot, and I look away from him.

He is careful when he replies, cautious, as though walking where he is unsure of a safe step. “No, no, I would not say you were…”

The words are gentle, but cause unexpected, and I’d wager, unintentional, hurt.

My shoulders fold in around me, shielding me.

So much bone to protect one stupid, delicate heart.

Reaching out, I run my hand along the wall, where tiny pieces of bone are mixed with the binding mud, locking the giant stones in place, and I slice a finger on a particularly sharp fragment, just enough to draw a drop of blood.

It brings me back to myself, and I straighten.

I am not soft, and I would not survive if I were.

Not like this man-child, who has nothing but full cheeks rounding out his square jaw, and sweet eyes that will not keep him safe from the Storms.

“We are not a velvet people,” I reply, remembering the material on the couches in the Council House. My words are edged, almost accusatory, and he sighs.

“I misstepped, but I’m not sure where. Can we start over?

I’m sorry.” He is killing me. This casual kindness, this willingness…

he is killing me. Suddenly I realize there are other ways to die than by the flame or by the knife, and it scares me.

My heart is missing beats that have been steady since I was born .

Keeper.

Lorcan is quiet on my back, his voice tense. There is no warning, though, and he says nothing else. I want to answer, but am distracted by movement.

“I’m Kaden…” he starts, holding out his hand, and I stare somewhere over it for a long time, too long really, til the moment becomes awkward.

He startles suddenly and rolls his eyes.

“Forgot already,” he mutters, then says more loudly, “I’m holding my hand out to you.

” I have no idea what to do, but he is patient, waiting for me to make up my mind, until I lift my own hand and hold it out as well, reaching until it bumps his gently.

. I’m not sure what I am meant to do now, so I just leave it there, odd and stiff.

For some reason it makes him smile, though I’m not sure where I’ve gone wrong.

His thick, strong fingers wrap around my smaller, paler ones, and I tilt my head, studying the movement.

We are somehow just…holding hands now. And — well, I like it.

But I don’t know how to extricate my fingers, and I think I’m misunderstanding something.

He gives no clues, just sits happily holding my hand in his, until I sigh in exasperation.

“Alright. I give up. What did I do wrong?”