The fight went out of her, and her shoulders slumped. “I wonder that sometimes too.”
“Esther.” He touched her cheek to bid her look at him—something he had done often enough over the years. This time when she met his gaze, she could almost convince
herself she saw awareness in his eyes. Almost. “One over-aggressive dolt should not ruin your special day. Take it as affirmation of the beautiful young woman you have
become.”
She attempted a smile—he did, after all, remember it was her birthday—but it fizzled out quickly. “It is not only that, though it is a perfect example. When he approached
me, I had no clever words to save myself. Why can I not be like Kasia? You ought to have heard her that day the Persian man approached her, right before her death. She was
witty and smart. She was fearless, while I cowered behind her.”
His thumb brushed over her cheek and set her heart to hammering. “You were a child, Esther, and Kasia . . . she was too reckless for her own good. It is better to escape
quietly where you may.”
“Her recklessness earned her admiration and respect, and the man let her go—with a romantic story no less. My cowering did not help with escape at all.”
“You did not cower.”
“Sometimes I feel as though I live my life in fear, Zech. You would not understand that.” She turned away, fearful even now that she would see distaste in his eyes, and
started for home again. “Always afraid those I love will leave me. That I will not be what I ought. That when the days of my life are fulfilled, I will have no story to
tell.”
“Esther—”
“Kasia may have died too soon, but still she lived. She had suitors eager to marry her even though she had no dowry. She had a stranger who fell a little in love with her
after one interaction.”
“And she had fears.” Zechariah leapt into her path. “She feared letting you down. She feared not being able to show you that life could be full, even with loss shadowing
you. I imagine when she was being carried away, she feared how devastated you would be.”
She sucked in a breath only to heave it out again. Unbidden, memories crashed through her. Kasia, outside in the kitchen that last day, joking about suitors. Kasia,
searching her house for Esther’s bracelet. Kasia, so full of life and love for others.
Kish, face ashen as rain poured over him, with the news that Kasia had sneaked off to the river and had not returned. The panic, the fear, the tears that rivaled the
monsoon.
Zechariah the next morning, telling her to face reality. Holding her, drying her tears, fetching the silver bracelet for her. As if that mattered after losing the only true
friend she had ever known.
His fingers encircled her wrist now, as if the same images flashed before his eyes. “You never wear your mother’s bracelet anymore.”
“It was broken,” she said, gaze on his hand. It practically swallowed her wrist, and the skin was work-roughened. Nails chipped, cuticles uneven. Scratches marred his
knuckles. Strong hands, honest hands. Oh, for them to hold her every day. “That was why it fell off.”
“So get it repaired.” His voice was a low thrum, like the creak of wood warming in the sun.
“Then it would not be the same bracelet my mother gave me.” And she would remember that last day, full of hope and fear, every time she put it on.
He put a hand against her cheek, again urging her face up. She wanted to resist, knowing he would see how much she loved him, how much she wanted what he refused to give.
But she looked up—and forgot how to breathe. His eyes had never gleamed so intensely for her before, he had never gazed at her like this, then glanced at her mouth. Surely
he did not mean to kiss her—it must only be her overwrought imagination, so desperate for his attention. He had made his feelings—or lack of them—clear many a time.
But they could change. He could realize she had grown up. Surely it was possible that this one thing might go right for her.
He swallowed, then released her and took a step back.
And that, she supposed, was the answer to that.
*
Zechariah mentally cursed himself and took another step back for good measure. Still he was unsure what had happened. Memories had crowded him, and her pain, so sharp even
after two years, had pierced him through. But never before had that made her seem like anything but a sister.
It was not her. It could not be her—it was only that his mind had already been on dangerous matters, his senses already heightened. That was all.
He cleared his throat and fought the urge to sprint away. “Come, we should hurry. I am late.”
Her brows drew together, and she lifted her hands to clutch her elbows. Her basket swayed. “What were you even doing here, Zech? You are not dressed for work.”
He bit back an angry defense and smiled. “I have a few measurements to take. Since there will be no labor involved, I thought I ought not drag shavings with me.”