I pour the last of his water over the dishes—I’ll need to fetch more for him so he can rest before returning to his labor. “Can I stay here for a while, Perg? Until Unach comes home.” I don’t have a shift today.
He regards me skeptically. “Are you lying about the beatings?” He touches his chin. “But I suppose if Grodd is nothing to you, Unach wouldn’t be, either.”
I deflate. “Let’s not talk about that, please.” Let me just be normal for a little while. Despite there being absolutely nothing normal about me.
“Yeah, if you want.”
Relieved, I turn my full attention to scrubbing.
Unach’s schedule has her returning at the eighteenth hour, so I plan to arrive a few minutes after that to start dinner. I prefer her rage to Azmar’s awkward indifference. When I arrive, though, Azmar sits at the tall kitchen table, a workbook in front of him. Unach is nowhere to be seen.
I almost retreat, but instead I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen. Being at the end of their rations limits our dinner options. I might as well pick up all our rations tomorrow.
I prepare the food in silence, skewer a hunk of liver over the low-burning fire, and occasionally glance at Azmar from the corner of my eye. He rests his chin in his hand, staring at the same page, tapping a pencil lightly.
Desperate to get over myself, I ask, “What are you looking at?”
He shifts, lifting his head. “The addition off the master armory. We’ve determined we should add a cliff anchor there, and I’m trying to decide how to do so with our budgeted resources while maintaining the city’s integrity.”
I glance over his thick arm to the book. Numbers and equations consume the left page, while sketches dominate the right, one of them unfinished. It’s all very symmetrical and familiar.
“Have you ever considered making it . . . pretty?” I suggest.
He glances at me, a short line forming between his brows. “Pretty?”
I shrug and continue into the kitchen. “Everything in Cagmar is so utilitarian. Even the council room limits its aesthetic.”
“It’s utilitarian because we must make do with what we’re given.”
“But even basic things can be beautiful.” Our gazes meet, and I look away, busying myself with dishes. “Where is Unach?”
“Charming another Montra at the south dock. She’ll be home late.”
I wonder. Not Troff, is it? Or maybe the south dock purely provides the meeting place. I reach for a plate and nearly drop it, the muscle at the base of my thumb cramping from overuse with the pliers. I move the plate to my elbow and rub the spot until it’s a dull burn.
The workbook shuts too loudly, or maybe we’re just too quiet. I peek over at Azmar, who sits with his hands together under his chin, looking toward the door, but nowhere at all. I cross closer to him and set the plates down.
“Lark.”
My pulse quickens when he says my name.
He waits for a breath. “Will you use it on me? Your fear?”
I blanch. “I would never—”
“That’s not what I mean. I want you to. I want to . . . understand what it feels like.”
My stomach clenches into a sick knot. “You don’t want to know what it feels like.” I know what it feels like, and it took me years of using it almost daily to learn how to compensate for the backlash, to understand the fear coursing through my veins, mirroring what I dealt to others. Even then, I’d only just learned how to fall asleep with dry eyes and keep nightmares away before I fled Lucarpo.
“I do.” Such an easy response.
I stare at him, the breadth of his face, the lines of his jaw interrupted by studs of bone, not unlike what I’ve been punching into that vest. My belly grows hot.
“Why, Azmar?” I’m angry, but my voice leaks out like I’m about to cry, and I hate it. “Why? So you can detest me, too? So you won’t have to feel this way about me anymore?” Maybe that’s an assumption, but Azmar came to my room. He told me those kind, heartrending things of his own volition. He let me get close enough to kiss him.
He also rejected me the moment I did.
His expression darkens. “That’s not why I ask. I simply want to understand.”
I shake my head and cross into the kitchen, though I’ve nothing to do here. I start reorganizing utensils to keep my hands busy.
Azmar follows me as far as the doorway. “I know it’s a trick of the mind. It will not change how I view you.”
“Please, Azmar.” It’s almost a whisper. “It will. And I cannot bear that.”
Several heartbeats pass. “It’s a blessing, not a curse.”
I drop the utensils and whirl toward him. “Then why has it brought me nothing but sorrow? Can all your fancy Engineering education and structural drawings tell me that?”
He’s unaffected by my outburst. Cool, calm, collected, as always. “Is Perg’s life sorrow? Is mine?”
I shake my head. “That’s not fair.”
“Perhaps not,” he agrees. “I will not ask again, if that’s what you wish.”
I glance at the door, wondering how late Unach will be. Wondering how I’ll be able to mask myself if she walks in right now. Becoming a legal servant was a bad idea. I wonder if such a thing can be revoked.
I feel closed in again, so I push past Azmar toward the fireplace, sinking onto one of the giant cushions. I rub an ache from my temples. “I won’t, Azmar. Not for curiosity, not for science, not for anything.”
He follows me, surprisingly silent on his feet, until he towers over me, like some ancient sentinel, and I . . . I am a mere human. “Even if I hurt you?”
The question startles me. “You would never hurt me, Azmar. Your promise aside, I know you. I’m not afraid of you.”
He considers this for a minute. The fire cracks behind me. I reach over and turn the meat.
Azmar sits beside me, making the cushion dip with his weight. “I’ve petitioned for my own quarters,” he says. “Unach won’t like it, because it will require her to downsize as well, or share with someone else.”
I stiffen. My heart beats too hard, catching on barbs in my ribs. “I see.” With Azmar out of Unach’s space, I’ll never see him. On occasion I’ll pass him in the corridors, or on the lift, or when Unach needs something delivered to him. It will be easier for him to forget me. Easier for me to forget him, too, I suppose, but the hurt blossoms like a poisonous flower, regardless.
“I would appreciate if you didn’t mention it to her until after Housing approves the request,” he adds. “Best to minimize her reaction, as much as possible.”
I rise. I should work on the vest. I need something else to think about.
Azmar grasps my wrist. His grip is like a stone left by the fire, pleasantly warm at first, but more and more scorching the longer he holds on.
“Lark,” he murmurs.
I twist from his fingers. “My name is Calia.”
He doesn’t respond. I dare to meet his eyes. They’re unsure.
So I repeat, “My real name is Calia Thellele. My nursemaid called me Lark. I didn’t want to be found after I left my father’s house, so I changed my name.”
I’ve had more names than those two, but they don’t bear repeating.
Azmar’s gaze is an iron manacle holding me in place. “Which do you prefer?”