I stepped forward, my hands in fists, suddenly furious that he was so easy to push away. “I would care if you died, you stupid goat’s behind. I would miss you. Like I missed you when you left for days and I didn’t know when, or if, you were coming back.”
My voice broke, the veneer of anger cracking and letting my pain and longing through. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I sensed on some level that he was as lonely as I was, and maybe he didn’t have to be. Maybe I didn’t have to be.
I stood close enough that the heat of my body met the cold of his. He smelled of soap and pine and woodsmoke and something enticing that was just him.
On impulse, I lifted my hand to the edge of his hood. As I slowly pulled it back, his hand came up and grasped my wrist. I stilled.
His lips were slightly parted, his breath cool against my forehead. Sometime in the past weeks, I had taken to wondering what it would be like to press my lips against his. I wondered whether it would hurt, whether it would sizzle, or whether our lips would just meld together like hot and cold air that make a mild summer breeze.
I lifted my forefinger and lightly touched his lips. He sucked in a breath but didn’t move away. His lips were cold but not uncomfortably so. I ran the tip of my finger along the smooth corner, over the ridged scar of the upper lip, and over the smooth lower one.
“Stop,” he whispered, the word tight, almost pained. “Stop.”
The breath caught in my chest. It felt as if I’d been slapped, the hurt shuddering through me.
I dropped my hand and crossed my arms to hide my trembling. I searched the shadows of his hood for the smallest sign of emotion, but he was cold and still. The ice statue had been buffeted by a hot wind and had not even melted at the edges.
“A filthy Fireblood showing her feelings,” I taunted, hurt and bitterness gathering into hard knots in my stomach. “You will have to beg Fors to wipe you clean, won’t you?”
His lips tightened, but he said nothing.
“Well, don’t worry. I’ll be gone soon. You can absolve yourself then.”
I turned, desperate to get away before I fell apart, and wrenched open the door. As I stalked out into the star-filled night, hot, shamed tears fell from my cheeks and landed, hissing, on the ground.
THIRTEEN
CLOUDS MOVED IN AND TRAPPED THE abbey under a canopy of rain. By unspoken agreement, Arcus and I avoided each other for the next few days. I was lucky to catch a glimpse of his hooded form through the window as he moved between the stables and his guesthouse. With a sinking heart, I realized he was probably embarrassed, perhaps even offended, though I doubted he could be as mortified as I was for my display. I had misread him completely and made a fool of myself when he clearly didn’t feel the same.
I used my burning frustration at still knowing almost nothing of their plans to distract myself from my shame. Finally, one evening, I decided I would no longer tolerate their secrets.
After checking the refectory, where the monks ate meals, I found Brother Thistle bent over his desk in the chapter house, a large square room with two columns leading up to a vaulted stone ceiling. A long table matched with velvet-upholstered chairs filled the middle of the room. Wooden benches lined stone walls under high, arched windows. The sun highlighted some faded gold leaf on the columns. The room was kept in better condition than the rest of the crumbling abbey because it was used to conduct business, where senior monks met with superiors from the Order of Fors.
“I should have known you’d be agonizing over your ledgers,” I said, my shadow blending with that of the column I leaned against.
He started, his hand sliding over the pages as if covering the words. “Ruby, I didn’t see you there.”
“And calling me by my first name, too. Things must be bad. Do we need to start selling the silver?”
He cleared his throat and stood. “Perhaps nearly that bad, but not quite.”
“Can you even see the numbers?” I moved to the desk and lit the candle with the tip of my finger. My eyes fell on a black book with gold lettering. Gods and People. “I was reading this book a couple of days ago.” The persistent rain had given me some rare free time to read in the library. I read aloud from the open page. “‘A fierce east wind will blow on the day the child of darkness is born, a child who will open the Gate of Light. And because Neb decreed there must be balance in all things, a west wind will blow when the child of light is born, a child who will fight the darkness and destroy it forever.’”
“Sit down, Ruby,” he said, motioning to the bench. “How much do you know of the prophecies of Dru?”
I settled onto the bench and considered my answer. I didn’t know much. My mother had hated prophecies. If my grandmother had even mentioned anything to do with one, my mother would have an uncharacteristic show of temper and say she didn’t want my head filled with such drivel.