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“Your focus is drifting, Othala Celehar,” Othalo Rasaltezhen murmured, the low sound of her voice jarring me out of my ruminations. I flinched.
“Apologies, othalo,” I said, returning my eyes to hers, and suppressing any outward sign of the discomfort I still felt whenever I found myself caught and pinned by that searching yellow gaze. I carefully steadied my breathing, returning my mind to the familiar mantra from which my thoughts had strayed. I repeated it carefully until the meditation took hold, and with it a measure of calm. No matter how many times we did this—and it was upwards of a dozen sessions now, by my count—I continued to rely upon that old discipline. It rendered more tolerable the awareness that this young woman was peering inside me, prodding at the intangible damage to my soul.
Rasaltezhen had assured me, repeatedly, that this careful scrutiny did not actually permit her to see my thoughts or witness my memories. Instead, she offered the metaphor of a weaver examining a tapestry, one torn in places and snarled in others, mending the broken threads and untangling the knots until the pattern was restored to wholeness—though she’d added, as an afterthought, that no one without mazei training could really comprehend the precise nature of this type of visualization.
If her patient repairs were having any effect, I certainly saw no evidence of it.
Sometimes, like today, these sessions were almost entirely silent. On other occasions, Rasaltezhen would abandon her air of abstracted focus in favor of more direct questioning—about the nature of my calling, the experience of witnessing for the dead, the things I’d experienced in my past prelacies, or my feelings regarding my fellow Ulineisei and the clerical hierarchy in general. Her inquiries were always carefully phrased, deliberate in their regard for my privacy, but she posed them without hesitation, and I did my best to answer without evasion. It was, in that sense, an intimacy I permitted no one else—and her, only under duress.
As a result, I could not escape the feeling that she perceived certain things more clearly than I might wish. Though I had not told her the full story of Evru's death and my part in it, I had no doubt she understood the general shape of the matter. She had arrived at the theory, after our first meetings, that the loss of my ability to hear the dead was not solely the revethavar’s doing, nor the simple burnout of Ulis’s gift, but rather a case of compounded damage—of older wounds in my calling that had been reopened and twisted into more elaborate scars. My answers to her subsequent inquiries about the possible sources of that damage had undoubtedly revealed a great deal. I found myself glad, then and now, that she always addressed me in the formal.
I had no real hope of recovery, of course—no trace of my ability to hear the dead had returned, though I tested it when presented with the opportunity of a corpse. But she remained convinced that her invisible labors might eventually succeed, and I had promised Anora to try. So I came to the Sanctuary of Csaivo, once or twice a week, and endured these patient and mysterious attentions.
“All right, I think that’s enough for today,” Rasaltezhen said briskly, releasing me from her gaze and stretching her shoulders as if they ached. “I ask that you eat a proper meal this evening, othala, and avoid any more strain. It is vital to relax, if you can, and rest—remember, healing is also work. It will not come easily if you continue to overtax yourself.” I vowed to do my best, though she knew well that rest was difficult for me, and sleep rarely untroubled. Thanking her again for her efforts, I fled.
Food, at least, was a promise I could keep, for I had made arrangements yesterday to meet Anora for supper. The Ulvanensee was not far, so I set out on foot. I found Anora in the ulimeire, and was not surprised to find Tomasaran at his side. She had seized upon my recommendation to observe the operations of the cemetery and made it a regular practice, insofar as she could spare the time from her duties as a witness. I was pleased to see her growing more comfortable in her prelacy—she could have no better tutor than Anora in the tending of a benefice. As for the work we continued to pursue together, I was deeply relieved that there had been no more murders in Amalo—that we knew of—since poor Tedoro's death, though Tomasaran had coped bravely with two suicides and a rather gruesome accident on the Vestrano tramline.
“Will you join us for supper?” I asked her, after greeting them both.
“Thank you, but I’ve promised to dine with Merrem Nadaran and Min Nadin—who’s been asking after you again, Celehar. She has a new quilt almost finished, not to mention Cemchelarna gossip to relate.” I smiled at that, despite my earlier mood, and Tomasaran bid us both farewell, departing for the tramway.
“The Chrysanthemum?” I suggested, turning to Anora. On the walk over, and after we were seated in his favorite booth by the window, I endured his kind inquiries about my progress, or lack thereof, at the Sanctuary. Rasaltezhen maintained that her diagnosis of the damage I bore was no judgment on the strength or purity of my calling, but it was hard for me to believe her correct. I had been both shocked and uncomfortable when Anora confronted me with his awareness of my grief—but he had kept his word not to pry, and while I had not burdened him with the details of my past, it had grown easier to speak freely of my difficulties and my doubts. Foremost among them was my worry that if Rasaltezhen was right, then the impact of the revethavar was surely in some measure the consequence of my own failings. I knew Anora disagreed with me on that point, but he always offered me the gift of listening, and when he objected to my conclusions, it was with thoughtful observations rather than useless reassurances. I found myself grateful, now, that he had made that personal overture. I had not realized how exhausting it had become to always be keeping that mask in place, little though it may have concealed in the end.
I was rescued, eventually, by the arrival of a pot of isveren and a very promising plate of salty cheese pies, and as we ate, the conversation turned to Tomasaran. I thanked Anora again for sparing the time to assist with her training.
“She is making remarkable progress,” he agreed. “Wilt need thy tutelage for a while longer, but I hope thou art comforted, knowing Amalo has its witness for the dead—and a fine one at that.”
“It is a relief, truly,” I admitted. “Even an my gift were to return, I would be glad of her still.” It was the truth. I had always depended, in some measure, on the assistance of others for those aspects of witnessing that could not be revealed by the dead alone—but now that I was the one helping Tomasaran, I had come to realize just how much of our calling lay beyond the scope of the gift itself.
“And thy further obligations?” Anora asked, delicately. He was aware of the existence of the other duties that occupied all the time I could spare from Tomasaran’s apprenticeship, though he was not apprised of their nature. No one in Amalo was.
“They continue,” I told him, and he left the matter at that, and instead launched into a story about the funeral he had conducted a day previously for a man who turned out to have been keeping two families, each secret from the other, on either side of the Mich’maika. The telling was leavened with a touch of the grim humor that is common among those of us who spend our days in the presence of death, and it reminded me to count my blessings, scant though they sometimes seemed. I did not regret my lack of a benefice.
After we parted outside the Chrysanthemum, I walked through the Airmen’s Quarter, taking the long way back to my building—the dusk air was gentle and pleasing, and I had a great deal on my mind. Passing the tram station, I almost gave in to the temptation to board the line to Cemchelarna and stop in at the Vermilion Opera—but that would make the third time this week, and I tried to ration my blessings carefully. Iäna and I met often, nowadays, in his box there during performances or afterwards at Torivontaram. In the privacy of my own mind, I was no longer in denial about my reasons for seeking out his company. I recalled, again, what he’d said to me in the face of my anguish after the revethavar: I did not think my regard for thee was any particular secret. But I still kept too many secrets of my own from him to decide yet if I could risk revealing this one.
At home, I put a five-zashan piece into the gas meter and went out on the landing to feed the cats a tin of sardines. The half-blind queen accepted her customary ration of caresses and the marmalade tom permitted me to scratch his forehead for a moment, but the brown tabby kept its distance, as usual. After washing the dishes and changing into my nightclothes, I hesitated over my shelf of Barizheise novels, thinking to reread the first part of the one Iäna had found for me the previous week until the meter’s time was up. Instead, though, I found myself seeking out another text, one carefully secreted away. The much-folded paper fell open easily in my fingers, and I sat on the edge of my bed and reread the words I had revisited time and again these past three months.
To our kinsman by marriage Thara Celehar, servant of Ulis and witness vel ama of Amalo, greetings and sympathy. Word has reached us of your recent injury in the service of Ulis. We grieve for the loss of your gift, and hope it may be rectified in time. Having read your deposition regarding the explosion at the Amal-Athamareise airship works, and recalling also your accounts while you witnessed for the dead of the Wisdom of Choharo, we have asked Archprelate Tethimar to second you temporarily to a charge of our own devising.
We have for some time desired more varied and reliable sources of information regarding conditions in the cities of the Ethuveraz, particularly those in which large-scale manufactories are now found. And, as we have noted to the Archprelate, a witness for the dead is but one kind of witness vel ama, for truly, it is not only the dead who are denied the capacity to speak for themselves. We ask you to bring your calling to bear on this matter, as a witness for the city of Amalo—to give an account of the many who live and die there without any chance of making their voices heard in places like our court. We do not command you to investigate any particular incident—though if one you find significant should occur, you may make it a part of your inquiries. Indeed, you may consider any matter that impinges on the welfare of the Amaleise people as being within your remit. We ask that you record your observations, discreetly, in messages to be conveyed to us by a trusted courier at regular intervals. In time, we may also request your presence at the Untheileneise Court, in order to hear your impressions in greater detail and security. The Archprelate will inform Prince Orchenis and the Amal’othala that you are conducting an errand in his service, one with which they need not concern themselves.
With gratitude for your faithful service, and our personal wishes for your renewed good health, Edrehasivar VII Drazhar.
Though I had all but memorized the words by now, I was still taken aback—not only by their kindness, but by this evidence of a respect for and faith in my capabilities that far exceeded my own. I refolded the letter, carefully, and stowed back it in its hiding place. When the lamp guttered out, I climbed into bed, and remained awake thinking for some time.
***
As if I had summoned it with those late-night wonderings, the request from Cetho came the next morning, in the person of a liveried courier—the very one who had appeared from time to time to collect my dispatches. He stood at attention outside my office (or rather, the office that Tomasaran and I now shared) in the Prince Zhaicava Building, while I scrawled a brief and apologetic note of explanation and left it for her on the desk to discover later, in place of myself.
The courier had a carriage, and it brought us swiftly to the mooring mast beyond the Zheimela Road, where we boarded an airship bound for the capital. It astonished me once again how great a span of distance on the ground could be covered in mere hours by air: it was not quite noon when we docked beside the spires of the Untheileneise Court. As we disembarked, I told myself that the queasiness in the pit of my stomach was just the result of a mode of travel to which I was unaccustomed. The courier escorted me through the broad avenues of the court to the Alcethmeret, stopping at the threshold of the Tortoise Room.
The door opened, and a voice I recognized as that of Csevet Aisava announced: “Mer Thara Celehar, Serenity,” as I entered.
I bowed, deep and formal, and lifted my eyes to meet those of the emperor. I thought Edrehasivar looked older, though I could not tell how much of that was the burden of his throne, and how much just the transformation of a youth—as he’d been, when first we met—into a young man.
“Welcome, Mer Celehar,” he greeted me. “We do regret the lack of notice, but we hoped to speak with you sooner rather than later, and our schedule—” he spared an eloquent glance at Aisava— “is sufficiently crowded at present that we wished not to miss this unexpected opening provided by the delay in Lord Pashavar’s return from Thu-Tetar.”
“We are pleased to be at your service, Serenity,” I said.
“As your journey has caused you to miss the meal, will you take luncheon with us?” he asked, to my surprise.
“Of course, Serenity,” I assured him. He rose, and his nohecharei ushered us into a small and private dining room, where he bade me sit. Once the servers had poured us tea and finished laying out a rather astonishing spread, he nodded, and the nohecharis and nohecharo withdrew to the edges of the room—not exactly out of earshot, but distant enough that we might enjoy the illusion of privacy.
Edrehasivar turned to me. “Wouldst speak with me frankly, as thou didst before?” If I had been surprised at the invitation to dine with him, I was shocked outright at this gesture of intimacy.
“I—yes, Serenity, if you—if thou wishes it so.” I had not expected to find myself thus in his confidence again. I felt a little faint, but a sip or two of the truly remarkable aikanaro revived me enough to regain my composure, and I set about answering the wide-ranging questions he asked over the course of the meal, covering all manner of topics that made it obvious he had been reading my letters with close attention.
As we spoke, Edrehasivar—no, Maia, for he had bade me think of him so with his use of the familiar, even if I could not imagine saying the name out loud—did me the honor of explaining in more detail his motivations for setting me this strange and engrossing task.
“It was thy first letters from Amalo, while thou wert witnessing for the Wisdom of Choharo, that planted the seeds of it,” he told me. “And later, when I spoke with Mer Shulivar after his arrest—” he repressed a little shudder, one I could understand—“I realized there was still a great deal more that I needed to learn—things that neither the court nor the Corazhas could teach me. I could spare no time for it then, in the upheaval after the Tethimadeise conspiracy, and by the time the trials were finished the preparations for the wedding had begun.” He and the Empress Cstheiro had not yet been married even half a year, I reminded myself. I’d missed the celebrations in Amalo, being occupied with the ghoul in Tanvero at that time.
“But why entrust this to me?” I asked, emboldened to be as frank in my curiosity as he had been in his explanation.
Maia smiled, with a wry twist that only made him look older than his years. “For all that I can command the resources of the Ethuveraz with a word, I have discovered that there are things I will simply not hear about unless they find their way to me through unexpected avenues,” he told me. “Had it not been for an opera singer’s affection for a member of the Clocksmiths’ Guild, the foundations of the Wisdom Bridge would not have been laid a month past—indeed, I might never have seen the proposal for such a bridge at all. The chance by which thou came to witness in Amalo provided another such window, and it left me curious. I asked Archprelate Tethimar, some months ago, to send me a copy of thy testimony about the accident at the airship works, and found it compelling reading. I had already relayed to him my interest in seeking out members of the prelacy who could contribute similar perspectives—unlike the other Witnesses, even those who are also witnesses vel ama, you operate outside the Judiciary. When he told me of thy injury—and mentioned that thou wished to remain in Amalo despite it—it seemed both fitting and helpful to provide thee with a task suited to thy calling.”
“Thank thee,” I said, in earnest—for despite the burden of another secret to bear, it had been a comfort to me to have something to occupy my time beyond training Tomasaran in the work I could no longer do on my own. I had been surprised by how much I'd enjoyed writing those letters, much as I now found myself enjoying the opportunity to speak so freely of Amalo and all that I’d seen and heard there, without having to censor my observations and conclusions.
Maia returned to the subject of my investigations, and particularly the plight of the foundling girls in Amalo, a topic about which he expressed no little concern. He was openly fascinated by the account of my encounters with the photographers during the investigation of Osmin Temin’s crimes, and our conversation detoured into a more explicit description of how Iäna and I had broken into the school and followed the trail to the source of those images, thereby introducing me to another facet of the city.
“And Mer Pel-Thenhior,” he said, and paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “He is thy particular friend?” I was so startled that I dropped my spoon, and then winced at this shocking display of ill manners.
“Forgive me,” he said, and I winced again, to be spoken to so by an emperor. “Meant not to pry, Thara. Only that when the Archprelate relayed thy wish to remain in Amalo, I hoped it might be because thou hadst found some companionship there.”
“Even an it were—companionship of that nature?” I managed to croak.
“Even so,” he replied, his tone serious. “I have found marriage to be an unexpected solace,” he added, and for a moment, a fugitive smile overtook his sober expression. “Hast led me to consider any number of things in a different light,” he concluded.
“Oh,” I said, stupidly.
“There are others like thee in this court,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “and none of them strike me as any less worthy of that happiness.”
I was distracted for a moment by an entirely inappropriate desire to ask him who. Certainly none of the people I had encountered during my miserable sojourn in Csoru’s household, though there had been a fair amount of gossip about the Count Nethenel. And I’d had my suspicions about Maia’s secretary—the couriers were almost as open regarding such matters as the artistic circles in which Iäna moved. But before I could disgrace myself by asking, there was a rap at the door, and Mer Aisava entered, apologetic.
“Serenity, we are afraid your meeting with Lord Berenar can be postponed no further.”
Maia—Edrehasivar—sighed, and dabbed his mouth with his napkin, standing. “Thank you again, Mer Celehar,” he said, his tone still warm. “We will not ask you to linger in Cetho long, but the next airship to Amalo is not due to depart until tomorrow. Will you join the court for dinner? It would please our wife to make your acquaintance.”
I acquiesced, still half-stunned, and bowed, taking my leave. I had noticed, of course, that he had revealed no disgust when hearing my confession of events in Aveio, but it was another thing entirely to think that the emperor himself might not simply tolerate marnei, but—approve, even, at least enough to wish us the same happiness he had apparently found in his marriage.
At dinner that evening—grateful that Csoru was not in attendance—I found myself watching Edrehasivar and Cstheiro, noting the quiet fondness that crept over his face whenever she steered the conversation with the sure hand of one more accustomed to dueling with words than he. I recalled a jibe of Csoru’s, the suggestion that the then-Dach’osmin Ceredin was known to duel with swords, too, like a man, and wondered if it was true. My cousin had always scorned her rival as unwomanly, and mocked Cstheiro's circle of friends, the women in particular. Then, rather more shockingly, I thought of the fact—much commented upon even in Amalo—that the Archduchess Vedero had not yet wed. It had of course been widely rumored, before his treason and death, that she was to be betrothed to the Duke Tethimel. But enough time had passed that it would no longer be indelicate to expect an announcement. And still—I forcibly halted this line of thought, my face heating. I knew there were marnaio, of course, women of my kind, but to my knowledge I had never met one. It was hardly my place to speculate about such matters.
***
After a meeting the next morning with Archprelate Tethimar—which left me fighting off tears when he prayed for my healing, and offered a personal blessing—I returned to Amalo by airship, this time alone, arriving late in the afternoon. Despite the ominous shade of the stormclouds massing in the sky to the west of the city, I went straight to the Prince Zhaicava Building in case there was need of me. Tomasaran looked skeptical when I explained my absence had been on an errand from the Archprelate, but refrained from asking questions—not least because she was already preoccupied. Azhanharad had apparently fished another corpse out of the Mich’maika, and sent word for her.
We made our way through a grey drizzle to the Vigilant Brotherhood’s chapterhouse, and duly followed the subpraeceptor down the stairs to the crypt where the body lay. Tomasaran recited the prayers and set her hand to the waterlogged skin of its face with no sign of her prior hesitation. After a moment, she stepped back, wrinkling her nose.
“An accident,” she informed Azhanharad. “He fell in.”
He frowned. “Are you certain, othalo? He was reported to have gone missing after a dice game that ended in arguments loud enough to draw attention.”
She nodded, firm. “He was so drunk that I’m not sure how he managed to keep his feet at all. He didn’t know he was near the Mich’maika until he already was in it.”
He accepted her explanation, and left to make his report. Before we took our leave, Tomasaran caught my eye, then looked meaningfully at the corpse. So I walked over and repeated the blessing, intent on speaking the words with real meaning even though what followed had become a perfunctory and always futile gesture. I laid my hand on the dead man’s brow, and reeled.
When I realized Tomasaran had grabbed my arm and was shaking it rather frantically, I looked up—somehow, I had fallen to my knees without noticing it—and said, “I felt him.” I was still dizzy, remembering the sensation of the world spinning, the fire of sorcho in my veins and the cold slap of the water’s surface.
It was faint, only an echo of my earlier witnessings, and it proved elusive when, having managed to regain my feet and some measure of my wits, I tried again. This time, he was as silent and unresponsive as any other body I’d touched since the revethavar. For a moment, I wondered if it was merely a hallucination, some product of exhaustion and my mind’s upheaval after the events of the past day—but I knew, even then, that it had been real.
I shook off Tomasaran’s excited concern, though I promised I would seek out Othalo Rasaltezhen and Anora both on the morrow to report this new and confusing development. We parted outside the chapterhouse, the rain now a downpour, and I stumbled home nearly blinded, having also forgotten my umbrella. I didn’t know what to make of the possibility that my gift might be returning, even in some altered and diminished form, much less how I felt about it.
I was startled to find myself suddenly on the street outside my building—and then startled again when Iäna appeared, crossing quickly from the teahouse across the way.
“Thara!” he greeted me, exclaiming over my bedraggled state. I returned the greeting in kind, still halfway in a daze, and realized that he must have had been waiting for me. Drops of rain caught in his braids and sparkled there, reminding me of the diamonds Edrehasivar had worn last night at dinner. Already it felt like a memory from another world.
I invited Iäna inside, too distracted by cold and confusion to mind the prospect of him seeing my shabby quarters. I'd been to his flat a handful of times, but he had never before visited me here. He followed me up the stairwell—past the eyes of a cat glinting in the gloom—and after I dropped two coins in the meter, cranking up the heat and divesting myself of my waterlogged coat and shoes, I explained what had just happened in the chapterhouse.
Iäna looked thrilled. "Dost mean thou hast recovered thy gift? Oh, Thara, I am so glad."
"I don't know," I said, uncertain. "Only for a moment, if so. But it was more than I have felt since I encountered the revethavar." I raised my hands, gesturing bewilderment, and he nodded, still smiling.
However, after a moment more, his smile fractured, and he said, abruptly, “There’s something I must tell thee.” I offered him my good chair, seating myself across from him on the threadbare chaise, and waited for him to continue.
“While thou wast away yesterday—in Cetho, I heard?—I went to the Ulvanensee,” he began, hesitant, as if he did not wish to continue. “To speak to Othala Chanavar, about Imreio—one of the foundling girls at the opera; she met a young man and eloped very suddenly, so I was wondering if one of the others in Othalo Prenevin’s ulimeire might wish to take her place. Anyway, it matters not—only, there was another prelate nearby, and he must have overheard me mention your name, and it turned out that,” Iäna swallowed, “he was visiting from Aveio.” His eyes met mine, and when he saw the look on my face his ears dipped low.
It was like hearing the revethavar’s voice again—the breath punched from my lungs, my limbs paralyzed with dread. I couldn’t speak, or move. A distant part of my mind wondered who the visitor was, if it was someone I’d known personally, or simply a stranger who had heard, as all the Ulineisei in Aveio had surely done, about the scandal. It mattered not; nor what version of the tale he had carried with him and recited to Anora. It was plain that Iäna knew, and, cowardlike, I could not meet his gaze.
The dreadful silence stretched out a moment longer, and then he said, “Chanavar told him off, before he’d even finished speaking. He said thy devotion to Ulis was unassailable, and that he was glad to have thee serving in Amalo. It seemed—it seemed to me that he was not unaware of thy,” and Iäna halted, presumably unable to find a suitably delicate term.
“Shame,” I finished for him. The word came out as hoarse as any I’d spoken in the weeks after the sessiva had scorched my throat. There was a burning sensation there now too, as if the roiling contents of my stomach had crawled up my gullet.
Iäna made a furious noise, which surprised me enough to look up at him, and I was shocked again by the distress on his face.
“Thara, what shame was thine? Even in that fool’s account it was plain that thou wast not the one who—“ he broke off, again searching for words.
Eventually, he said, “I am sorry,” and I flinched. He continued, haltingly. “I did not wish to—to intrude on thy secrets. Or press thee for thy company while thou wast still in venhezhina,” he added, using a Barizhin word that meant mourning a loved one.
“No,” I told him, still raw. “Thou hast nothing to apologize for. I—I could not bring myself to speak of it.” I paused, my eyes burning. “Didst not mean to deceive thee,” I whispered.
“Little wonder thou’rt beset by nightmares,” he said, and the fierce, sudden compassion in his voice—the realization that he understood what I'd been reckoning with all this time—shook me like an earthquake.
I remembered again what he’d said to me the night after the revethavar’s attack. “If thou hast not reconsidered thy offer of comfort,” I began, and my voice trailed off. I stared at him, helpless. “Thy regard is not unreturned,” I said, unsteadily.
Iäna reached for my hand. I hadn’t realized I was trembling until he touched me, and I heard nothing save for my own uneven breath and the blood rushing in my ears. He approached me slowly, with great care, every motion signaled in advance. Some wild part of me thought of the brown tabby on the stairwell, the one that always shied away from my touch. I moved to stand, but he sat on the chaise, a handsbreadth away.
I turned to him, then, and as if moved by some force outside of my body, sagged forward, slumping against his chest as his arms came around me, solid and warm. He tugged me closer, and I let him—feet coming up off the floor as he learned back against the arm of the chaise, drawing me atop him. The heat of his body was radiating all along the chill of my own, and there was nothing to do but lay there, speechless, while his hand stroked up and down my spine in a gentle, soothing caress. There were no words for it—not even an aria would be adequate to describe the sensation of that touch. I pressed my forehead into his shoulder and just—felt it, as the shivers racking my body gradually melted away. It occurred to me, at some point, that it was pleasant to be embraced by someone considerably taller and broader than myself. A novelty, compared to the lovers in my past—Zhemena was more or less of a height with me, and Evru had been delicate in build despite his longer limbs. I was surprised to find myself making the comparison with no more than a slight pang.
“Is this all right,” Iäna murmured, his hand creeping to the base of my neck and then my ear, where the wind had shaken a few unruly curls loose from my braid. I still couldn’t speak, so I just nodded against his collarbone, and then sighed as he untied the ribbon and finished the wind's work, his fingers combing through my damp hair, untangling the strands and stroking gently until I felt as if some knot deep inside me had come undone along with it. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, breathing together in the quiet of the room, the storm still thundering outside. I must have dozed, for some time much later, when the lamp had gone out, he nudged me awake again and guided me stumbling to the bed, supported by his arm. He tucked me in and pulled the blankets over me, and I put my hand on his wrist, then, feeling the fine shapes of the bones there beneath my fingers.
“Stay,” I told him, and he did not hesitate before climbing under the covers, stretching out on the narrow mattress and fitting me into the shelter of his body.
Later, we managed to speak of it, a little. “It is the kind of tragedy better suited to an opera,” he said at one point. “It’s awful, to think thou hast lived it.” I found that strangely comforting, and managed to tell him so. And then I kissed him, soft and simple, seeking no more than that—for the time being, at least. He kissed me back, and it felt like a gift and a promise both.
Eventually, the sound of the rain ceased, and everything around us was still. I slept and did not wake, and if I was troubled that night by dreams, there was no trace of them when I opened my eyes. The first rays of sunlight spilled through the window, glinting off Iäna's earrings, and I lay there in awe at the warmth of it, watching him sleep.