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People will show you who they are; you need only watch.

Hard.

There was a reason I worked alone. To say I didn’t have a teacher’s patience would be a terrible understatement.

After we staggered through letters, and stumbled through the basics, I couldn’t help but think Lysander would be so much better at this.

He was so patient, and good-humoured, and it was really my thinking of Lysander that kept me trudging onward, but after Rook made the same mistake four times in a row, I shouted, “It’s almost like you don’t want to learn! ”

“It’s almost like you don’t want to leave,” Rook mocked, sitting back in his chair. “I’ll never learn anything with these dreadful teaching methods.” He crossed his arms. “Perhaps you do not love your brother?”

I slammed the book shut. “We’re done!”

Rook flinched, only slightly. When he spoke next, it was soft. The way one might speak if they were caught behaving poorly. “We’ll take a break,” he corrected.

My response was an unamused grunt.

Rook leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the desk. He looked around the library, and then at me, as if he were unsure of what to do next. He rapped again, an annoying, repetitious thrumming that drew all my focus.

When I could take it no longer, I hissed, “Will you sto—”

“Come, I have something to show you.”

Rook led me out to the veranda, and we descended the crumbling steps. He walked down a path around the side of the castle, until we came to a gigantic mass of brown hedges. An unkept archway led into the decaying bushes, and I realized immediately what it was.

A hedge maze.

I paused at the entrance, between the tall hedges.

Rook coughed and said, “Um. Hold on. If you’ll just…

” He walked along the hedge and turned a corner.

His head reappeared. “Come.” I rolled my eyes at the command but did as he wished.

Around the corner, a large hole was torn through the outer hedge.

I peered in. To my surprise, holes were torn through all the walls, in a neat line. “Defeats the purpose of a maze, no?”

“Well…” Rook rubbed his neck. “The first time I went in, I got lost and couldn’t find the way out and, uh…” He threw up his hands. “Well, I panicked.”

A laugh sputtered out of me. As if he’d forgotten the sound of joy, Rook bristled.

I bit my lip. Fake laughs were allowed; real laughs were not.

Rook smiled—it was uneven and crooked, owing to the scar—but a smile nonetheless.

Whether Rook enjoyed my laughter or delighted in knowing he was the cause, I wasn’t sure.

Seemingly lost in his thoughts, Rook waved to the maze in an ‘after you’ gesture.

One-by-one, I crawled through jagged holes. I scanned left and right, terrified of what creatures might call the rotting maze home.

Behind me, Rook murmured, “I’m here.”

Knowing exactly where Rook was, I snapped, “Yes, I know,” with no small amount of irritability.

It was only after my remark that I realized Rook had meant it to be comforting, to ease my wary looks.

Somehow, I found that thought even more annoying.

I hastened through the hedges, eager to get this over with.

Stepping through the final hedge, I was struck with such vibrancy that my irritations simmered.

Within the centre of the dying hedges lay a small park. Patches of green shamrocks kissed my boots while I walked. Three trees with pale lilac buds rose up, a remarkable reminder of life in the centre of the rotting maze. Petals wafted in the breeze, landing at my feet.

What a lovely dye they would make.

With great difficulty, I resisted the urge to scoop up the petals and stuff them in my pockets.

Rook would certainly have questions, and I wanted him to know less about me, not more.

As I paused beneath the shadow of the trees, enjoying the delicate scent, a trilling coo drew my attention upward.

Turquoise peacocks sat amongst the branches.

I’d only ever read about them, and I hurried forward.

I craned, trying to glimpse them better.

Suddenly beside me, Rook said, “Here.”

Cupping one hand below mine, he withdrew something from his pocket.

Carefully, Rook dropped a fistful of seeds into my palm.

More trills echoed above, and in a flurry of iridescent feathers, the peacocks flew down.

Their heads bobbed as they gathered around, and I knelt, offering seeds.

The bravest peacock pecked me, and I drew away, startled.

I mustered my courage and thrust my hand back.

In no time at all, five peacocks surrounded me, each taking turns pecking my palm.

Rook knelt, but I paid him no mind. I marvelled at the feathers splayed across the ground, each one tipped with a brilliant emerald eye.

I scanned the area, hoping for discarded feathers.

Perhaps, when Rook wasn’t looking, I could tuck a few beneath my shirt.

Rook followed my eyes as they searched the ground but said nothing.

He picked a shamrock and fiddled with it.

To my disappointment, I didn’t see a single feather.

I focused on the peacocks, trying to memorize the colours and patterns.

Maybe, one day, I could create something half as beautiful as them.

A gown with skirts trailing along the ground like their remarkable feathers…

“Why were you hunting the Hound?” Rook asked.

“Hm?” I mumbled, still fixating on the feathers.

“In the Hollow,” Rook said, “why were you out there, hunting the Hound?”

Reluctantly, I turned from the peacock. I collected my thoughts, and said, “A friend of mine… You’ve been massacring his goat herd. I was merely taking care of a pest.” A lie, sprinkled with shards of truth.

“I don’t eat goats,” Rook mumbled and plucked the leaves from his shamrock. “Were they a close friend?”

“Hm?”

“Were you close with him?” Rook’s eyes flicked up, watching me. “The man you nearly killed me for?”

I brushed seeds from my palms. “Why?”

Rook shrugged and muttered, “I’m just making conversation.”

I wanted to know why he thought it was any of his business, asking after my friends, close or not. Be friendly! My thoughts screamed. We need him to trust us!

“He’s just a friend.”

Rook tossed his leafless shamrock aside. “Do you…have family?” he prodded. “Besides your brother?”

I frowned, wondering how truthful I should be. “A mother. And sister.”

“Father?”

“He…” My throat seized. With great difficulty, I said, “He died, a few years back.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sniffling, I glanced away. “I won’t lose my brother too.”

“Shall we get back to it?” Rook suggested. I nodded and stood. Wearing a pained grimace, Rook did too. Before I could leave, Rook held up a peacock feather. Delicate fronds floated on the wind.

After a long pause, I took the feather.

Rook and his crooked smile disappeared through the hedges.

***

Through the library windows, the sky was black.

Rook and I sat across from one another at the writing desk.

In the dim firelight, I squinted at the text.

Rook seemed to have no problem reading in the shadows.

We’d spent the afternoon trudging through a collection of fairytales.

I’d asked Rook to choose his favourite and do his best to re-read it out loud.

He’d chosen a dark, but romantic tale, about a girl from a far-off land and her lover.

Though no one knew what became of them in the end, they lived on in local folklore.

I hadn’t told Rook it was my favourite as well.

Rook read aloud of a magnificent ball, with beautiful gowns and dancing. I didn’t tease him when he stumbled over a word several times, just repeated it correctly. Rook glanced at me, to my chin slumped against my palm. After the conversation about Lysander, I hadn’t been in the mood for banter.

Rook closed the book. “We should stop for the night.”

I yawned and pushed back my chair. As I rounded the desk, I noticed a lacquered box on the mantle.

Made of warm cherry wood, it was quite like one owned by my mother, a relic from her well-off childhood.

Wondering if this box operated the same way, I walked over and tipped open the lid.

A plunky melody filled me with nostalgic joy.

Memories of slipping on my mother’s pretty jewelry returned to me.

And the pretending! Pretending I was somewhere far from the responsibility and the stress—even then.

Rook cleared his throat.

I turned and found him standing before me. So still, like the tall shelves behind him. With deadly focus, he offered me his hand.

“Dance with me.”

Staring at his hand, a voice in my head hissed, Bite it! A second, more reasonable voice, whispered, Take it!

Forcing a creaky smile, I placed my hand in Rook’s. He led me to the centre of the library and slid an arm around my back. Careful not to let our bodies touch, I mirrored his steps while we danced.

“My father could play the vielle, and he insisted I learn to dance,” Rook said.

“I didn’t appreciate it at the time but…

” He lowered his voice. “Well, sometimes you don’t realize you miss something until it’s taken away.

” My response was a grim nod. Was it really dancing Rook missed so terribly?

In my hand, Rook’s thumb brushed my finger.

A dance was rarely performed alone.

“Despite my lack of enthusiasm,” Rook continued, “I was voted the best dancer in our village.”

I snorted. “Were you the only dancer?” Rook spun me away, and when he brought me back, I thudded his chest with an indelicate, “Oof!”

“There were three of us, thank you.” Rook laughed a deep rumbling laugh that vibrated his chest and tickled my back.

“Although, Yannick fell from his horse the day prior and had an awful limp.” Rook twirled me to face him.

We swayed, and I shied away from Rook’s curious eyes, which reflected faintly in the dim light.

Even in my periphery, his eyes arrested my thoughts.

The lightest blue, like a cloudless sky against the summer wheat.

“Actually,” Rook started. “I remember the night of the festival well. Our neighbour’s son had a dog, a real mutt.

It was big. Might have been half-wolf. Anyway, that night, the dog wandered into the Hollow.

Well, of course, you probably know more than anyone what that meant for the dog.

The child was beside himself.” Rook sighed.

“I figured I’d just have a look, not go too far in, especially at night.

I knew it was stupid, but I was young. And the child had lost his mother the winter prior and… ”

Frustration scrunched Rook’s nose, and he muttered, “I just wanted to see if I could find the dog.” Rook swayed, pulling me gently with him while we danced.

“And, wouldn’t you know, I found it! Poor thing got stuck in a bear trap.

” Rook shook his head. “I freed it—but it lashed out.” Rook winced, as if receiving the bite to his cheek all over again.

“Anyway, the dog lived. Though, I feared my mother would discover it maimed me and butcher it herself. I told everyone I’d tripped and fallen on a rake.

” Rook chuckled. “I was a clumsy child. They believed it.”

Rook danced with such elegance, his movement smoother than a stream.

If you told me he was clumsy, I’d have called you a liar.

We continued dancing; I offered nothing of my childhood.

In my silence, my thoughts wandered to Lysander.

The pain must have shown—must have yanked the corners of my lips into a frown—because Rook said, “I’m sorry you’re trapped here, and I’m sorry about your brother.

Truly.” Rook’s hand traced a soft circle along my back, and my chest brushed his.

Somewhere between steps, we’d drifted closer.

“Thank you,” I murmured. We turned in another lazy circle, and I found the courage to look—to see the sympathy softening Rook’s eyes. Before I knew what was happening…I smiled.

Rook tripped.

He recovered, but stepped on my toes as he righted himself. Blushing, he put a fist to his mouth and said, “I apologize for my missteps. I haven’t done this in a very long time.”

I thought about the last time I’d danced. “It’s been awhile for me too…” I trailed off as Rook spun me away. I spun back into his arms— it was my father.

Twinkling lights sparkled in the rafters above, and people danced all around. The barn was alive with laughter and music. “To the happiest couple!” Ruven’s father shouted, hugging his eldest son and his beloved.

Ruven’s eldest brother’s wedding.

That was the last time I’d danced. My father had laughed and spun me away. He’d smelled of sandalwood and mead. I remember the way his calloused hand felt in mine.

Shaking away the memory, I released Rook and stumbled back. I covered my mouth, and an unstoppable wave of tears burst forth.

An aghast Rook sputtered, “Was I really that terrible?”

I stared at him, at the monster who’d taken my father.

What am I doing?

“I…” I clenched my eyes, humiliated. “I—I have to go,” I said and ran from the library. I didn’t stop until I was safely in the sage room. Crumpling into an old chair before the fire, I held my head.

Grief is a fickle thing. Most days, it gets easier. But every so often, a smell or some memory drags us back into the arms of our loved one. Time or distance can’t protect us; in those memories, we lose them again and again.

And some days, it doesn’t get easier.

As I sat with my grief and my guilt, a boot shuffled along the stone steps outside the room. I ignored it—and the gentle knock on the door.

For there was no more space at the fire.