“Shefali?”
“My catch displeases you,” I said, biting into a rough spot on the rabbit’s neck. I hated my new teeth—I had scratches all over my tongue—but they did have uses. Hard to cut this angle without ruining the meat. Far easier to bite it.
And I got a taste of the raw meat that way, as well.
My comment made you stop. Your lips parted; you tucked in your chin. Your brows inched closer together. “I never said that.”
“No,” I said. I turned the rabbit upside down and began peeling off its skin. When you get the right slices in, skin sloughs off easy. It’s almost soothing. “You did not say it.”
In response, you sheathed your sword. You stood right in front of me with your hands on your hips. I glanced up at you and twisted off the rabbit’s head.
“If I did not say it,” you said, “why are you so certain? I’ve had rabbit every meal for two weeks. Why should today’s serving of rabbit upset me more than the others?”
My mind was flint; your words were steel.
I strung up the rabbit from the spit, wiped my hands on my deel, and turned to you. “Because you are spoiled.”
To say that you gaped at me would be putting it mildly. Your lips formed an O, your ear met your shoulder. But your hands did not leave your hips, and the shock on your face soon gave way to anger.
“Spoiled?” you repeated. “Shefali, we have eaten rabbit every day—”
“You’ve eaten it every day,” I said.
“No,” you said, pointing a finger at me. “Do not make this—Of course you have not eaten it, you are not well! I am the one who has to put up with it.”
There is a certain kind of thrill that comes to you in the heat of battle. Blood pounds in your ears like war drums, and you can almost taste your own heartbeat. Steel meets steel, makes your bones sing. Colors split into shades you cannot name. Everything comes into focus; every beat of a moth’s wings is a lifetime.
So it was arguing with you. I hated upsetting you, but there was a part of me that … it was like burning a wound.
“Would you prefer having blackblood?” I said.
You scowled. “You know I would not,” you said. “I cannot imagine how you suffer, my love, and I have done all I can to help you bear the weight. But is it so wrong of me to want something different to eat every now and again?”
I waved my hand toward the trees around us. “Go,” I said. And it was like nocking an arrow, like drawing back the string. “Find a deer.”
Everyone laughed.
No, no. The demons laughed.
You flinched. Fury crossed you like a bird’s shadow; you turned away from me for a moment.
Victory washed over me. I could almost feel everyone patting me on the back. I’d won; you had nothing to say. I’d won and—
“This is not like you,” you said. When you faced me again, two wet spots were on your lapel, and your amber eyes glistened. “Shefali, this is not like you.”
Oh.
All of a sudden, my chest hurt.
I hung my head. “I … I did not…”
You sat on my lap. Rabbit’s blood smeared onto your fine robes. In your hands, you took my head, and you held me close to your chest.
“I do not want to lose you,” you said. “Sometimes it’s as if you aren’t there at all. As if someone else is looking out from your eyes.”
Sky’s thunder, I didn’t mean to—
No. That was the worst part. I did mean to hurt you; that was why I said those things, why I acted the way I had.
“I’m here,” I said into your chest. “Me. Shefali.”
You held fast to me. And you said nothing, but I felt your tears falling on my head.
I will not lie and say things got better after that. I will not lie to you, who lived it, and say I changed my ways in that moment. For the rest of the day, we sat far away from each other. You spared me the occasional pained glance—no more.
I tried to think of something to say. If I just found the right combination of words—wouldn’t that fix everything? I wondered what your father did in situations like this. As a poet, he’d know the words needed. He’d know how to write them, which characters to use, how to hold his brush.
I was no poet. I could not read the characters of your name. You told me once, what they meant—how your mother chose your name but your father chose the characters. When we stayed in the palace, you held my hand as I went through the strokes.
“The first character,” you said, “my father did not have much choice in. All Minami women share it. This means ‘quiet.’”
You lifted the brush, and my hand, and continued.
“But this one,” you continued, “is the character for ‘excellence.’ My father thought it fitting that I was born with a reputation for it.”
We wrote your name again and again, yet I still could not recognize it if I tried. How was I going to put together the words I needed?
I watched you. I could not read Hokkaran, but I could read the slump of your shoulders, the creases of your lips. At the end of the day when you went to bed, you did not wait to see if I was coming with you.
So no. I did not voice how afraid I was of losing you. I would rather lose my right arm, Shizuka; I would rather lose my tongue. In that moment, I thought I’d rather lose an eye than lose you.
I spoke none of this.
But I did try to find you different food.
So it was I saddled Alsha and rode out down the side road after you’d gone to bed. There was a village not far from where we camped. When I arrived, it was just after Last Bell. Only drunkards, vagabonds, singing girls, sellswords, and minstrels stayed out at this hour. I was not overly concerned. If someone foolish attempted to rob me, they’d find no cash seals or heavy coins—only a knife and unresolved anger.
Yet even these ne’er-do-wells spared an envious glance for me as I rode through town at night. Qorin horses are a fair sight larger than most Hokkaran steeds. Coupled with a likewise tall, dark-skinned rider, and I cannot say I blame them. You have always called me handsome, after all.
A throaty voice called to me. “Graymare-sur!”
I saw no other grays, save for a dappled silver gelding at rest in the stables. The woman was calling me, then. I admit I spared a small smile—calling an unknown Qorin by describing their horse is, perhaps, the most diplomatic thing a Hokkaran can do. “Horselover,” “brute,” “no-home,” these things I am deaf to. These notes blur together.
But Graymare, and Graymare-sur at that—these were new.
A woman stood on the veranda of one of the larger buildings. By its open door and the thick scent of smoke coming from it, it must be the village winehouse. She was not the only one standing outside: two other girls in bright robes flirted with men in armor a few steps away. But this girl was the only one looking at me.