They lay on their backs in the tramped down patch where Henry had spent a good three minutes chasing his tail. Overhead, white tufts of thistledown floated beneath a blazing, blue sky. Everything glowed golden and otherworldly, and the scent of blossoms drifted on the same currents that swirled the fluff.
“So the custodian found you in a basket on her doorstep,” Marten said. He chewed on a stem and fiddled with the heap of fluff they’d collected into a pile between them. “And you have no idea where you came from. It makes so much sense.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a bit cliché.”
“Maybe.”
He ran his fingers through the down, then turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Well it explains how you know so little about pretty much everything we are.”
“What?” She sat up. “I’m the one who has a gargoyle, remember?”
“Right.” Marten laughed, but he didn’t move from the relaxed pose, just gazed off toward the edge of the pocket. In the distance, far beyond the membrane, stood a perfectly preserved castle. Three stout, black towers broke the horizon, surrounded by a circuit of crenellated wall. “What about that? What do you know about that?”
“I told you. I’ve tried to get there, but I can’t find the pocket.” The one they lounged in ended at the far boundary of the thistledown patch. “Henry flies there, though. I’ve seen him pop in from that direction.”
“And outside the pocket?”
“I can’t step out here. It only leads to other bubbles.”
“We should tell Hadja about that.”
“Why?” Her frustration leaked into her voice, and Henry perked up, lifting his head from the long thistles and rumbling a warning. “Easy, go back to sleep.” The gargoyle had allowed Marten’s presence on her word, but he hadn’t warmed to the strange man in his territory.
“You see, you should know why.”
“I’m not blind, Marten. Hadja has more skill than any human I’ve met, but she still is human.”
“And everything you know about us, about yourself, comes from humans.”
“So what?”
“So you know what they know about us, but not what we know about us.”
That stumped her. His point had implications that made her nervous. If there were secrets, things the blooded kept from humans, she wouldn’t know them. True, but she’d found the pockets on her own. She’d spent enough time with the Gentry that she considered herself an expert, and she’d made strong allies amongst them. And no matter how self-important he sounded, she’d have bet her thistledown he didn’t shift pockets as well as she did, that he’d been impressed by her skill, and of course, by Henry. Gargoyles were thought to be as extinct as unicorns or elves. No gobelin builders outlived the Final War, and all the surviving castles were supposed to be in ruins.
“Satina?” He sat up now, and she’d been too lost in thought to notice the shift in his position, or the shift in his mood. Now he looked directly at her, and his eyes shimmered and flashed with something she should have been sharp enough to pick up on. “Hadja would be a good teacher.”
“Would she?” Something about his expression made her feel suddenly warm. His lips twisted into a smirk, and she found herself staring at them. His skin sparkled in the pocket, and his hair looked less gray-blond and more straw gold.
“So would I.”
“What’s that?”
His hand lifted and he brushed the free tendrils of her hair back from her face, tucking the strands behind her ear. A storm of electricity rocketed out from that soft touch. She felt it in her spine, her toes, her all over.
“I could teach you,” he leaned in until only inches separated them. “Things too.”
His lips just brushed hers and the storm started again. Her hands clenched into balls of unspent energy. She twisted to position herself closer, to give the sparks something to do. Marten moved excruciatingly slow. He pressed his mouth against hers again, traced her jaw with his fingers, and then opened her lips. Satina’s chest seized. Heat washed from his kiss down into her body. Marten’s hand moved to her neck. He kissed deeper, but still painfully slowly.
She’d never imagined feeling like this. This wasn’t in any of the storybooks—and she’d read a lot of storybooks. She’d been raised in an archive, after all. Marten kissed her leisurely. He drew out each touch, played with his lips against hers, and the pocket boiled around them.
Satina’s hands bound up into his shirt, clutching at him both for purchase and to somehow drag him closer. She hung from him, dizzy with the sensations she’d never felt before, drunk and weak and completely at the mercy of whatever he chose to do next.
He pulled away enough to tip his head down and trail a soft kiss along her neck. Satina’s spine arched as the shock tingled through her. Too much sensation—she felt herself falling into it, and knew she’d be lost and helpless if it went on, went farther. And she wanted it to go farther.
“Marten,” her voice pleaded, but whether for him to stop or go on, remained ambiguous. A spark of fear lit when his fingers traced the neckline of her gown. It gave her enough courage to clarify. “Wait.”
She shook all over. Her breathing came too fast and shallow to provide much air, and her eyes had teared suddenly and without provocation. She tried to focus, to form rational thoughts, but everything blurred at the edges. He had her ensorcelled.
“What is it?” Marten’s words came out weak and swollen with feelings held back. “Satina?”
He placed his hand under her chin and lifted so that she had to meet his gaze. Real tears fell now, and he frowned at them, at whatever he saw in her eyes. It only made her cry harder. Her shoulders slumped forward, and Marten settled an arm across them, pulled her in to sob against his shirt. He smelled like thistledown and magic, mysterious and dangerous. Satina breathed him in and wept for no good reason.
“I’m sorry.” She caught her breath enough to squeak out an apology, but the sound of it only made her cheeks burn. He’d think she was ridiculous, a child, like Maera.
“Don’t be.” He brushed his hand down her hair again, but the gesture was stiff now, controlled. She heard him sigh before he stood up, and the space he left behind chilled her. “I’m an imp, Satina. I’m used to rejection.”
“I—no.” That hadn’t been her intention, had it? She could see the defensiveness in his stance though. He’d definitely taken it that way, and now she got to look at his back, at the sharper set of his shoulders. When he spoke again, it was to the distance, to the castle, maybe to the past or something even farther beyond the edge of their pocket.
“Why did you become a Granter?”
“To help people.” But she’d hurt him, she could hear it dripping from his words. When he turned to look at her, his eyes glistened with it. Her chest panged for him. She wanted to explain it, to tell him, she’d only wanted to breathe, had only gotten scared, but her voice wouldn’t come. Her words refused to save them.
“Why?” His lips twisted around the question. His mood had fallen past pleasant now. There would be no reaching out, no more kissing.
“I don’t know. I guess it just seemed right…and good. Granters are good. They help people find happiness. I don’t understand what could be wrong about that.”
“I bet you don’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She knew he lashed out, that she’d hurt him, but the tone of his voice still stung. The condescension, the complete dismissal of her skills made her fists knot for new reasons.
“It means you live your whole life like it’s a storybook.”
“So what?”
“So—so what?” He left his mouth open and stared at her. His jaw slid a little back and forth and then he snapped it shut. “So what? The stories you’re living for were not meant for us, Satina. Don’t!” He put both his hands up and shook his head. “Don’t argue. You know this much. Who wins in your storybooks? The Granter?”
She want
ed to say yes, to insist that the good side always won, but she could see in his expression that he meant something else, that he’d only mock whatever she answered.
“Does the Granter ever get a happy ending, Satina? How many stories have an imp as the hero?”
“Of course not.” She blurted it, and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Yeah. I didn’t think so.”
“But…” But what? Did she have an answer for that?
“In your stories, Satina, we are no better than slaves. That is what you choose by Granting. Slavery.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Now she stood up. Henry lifted his head from the thistledown and growled, but she waved him back to sleep. “Nobody makes me do anything.”
“Maybe not, but what do you get for it? A morsel of bread for your trouble? What about a kind word, a room with a decent bed, a little respect?”
A little respect. No, not that. She got more requests, sometimes demands—she thought of Maera then and bit her lip—sometimes tantrums. But to ask for the human world’s respect would be asking them to overcome generations of fear and mistrust. She could hear Marten’s thoughts on that matter without them being said. Hadn’t they earned it yet?
“I didn’t think so.”
She wished he’d stop saying that. “So why bother with me then?” Maybe she could steer the conversation back in their direction, away from huge truths and generalization. “If Granting makes me such a sellout, why didn’t you send me away the first time I came to town?”
“Because you’re dangerous.”
“Excuse me?” She’d expected a very different answer. “I’m what?”
“You need someone to straighten you out.”
“Oh, and that’s you?”
“Obviously not.” He sniffed and stuck his chin in the air. “I thought maybe Hadja could do it.”
“A human? I thought you just said—”
“Hadja isn’t a normal human. You see? If you’d been taught properly, you’d know all that.”
“Now, I’m the ignorant fool again? What I know or don’t know is none of your business. I get by just fine on my own! In fact, I’m damn good at what I do!”
The shouting was too much for Henry. He got up and trundled to Satina’s side. It worked perfectly to emphasize her point. She reached out and patted the stony neck. I have a gargoyle, the gesture said. What do you have?
“None of my business.” Marten lowered his voice, but his eyes flashed yellow. “Your carelessness could get us all into trouble. You have to see that. You’re too trusting. You took a human through the pockets, Satina. That kind of thing puts every one of the blooded at risk.”
“The Gentry had no problem helping me.”
“The Gentry are safe inside their pockets…at least, most of them are.”
“That’s not fair.” The fiend. The fluttering of bloody wings. Satina whispered, “That wasn’t my fault.”
“No. But it could have been.” Marten’s voice softened, but he kept going, kept right on making her feel like a traitor. “This is not a story, Satina. It’s real, and it’s serious. People can get hurt.”
People already had. She took a breath and leaned more of her weight against Henry’s bulk. “I know it’s not a story,” she said. “What you mean, is that I’m no hero. That I don’t get a happy ending.”
“Not likely.” He laughed, sharp and with bite. “Not any more than I’m prince charming.”
They stood in silence while the thistledown wafted between them. Then Henry woofed and bumped her with his nose, breaking the spell. Marten stooped and picked up his pile of down, nothing more to say on his part, and what answer could she possibly give? What did her hopes mean now, in the face of his absolute contempt for everything she did?
Skinner. She’d come to town thinking he was the villain, and he—maybe all their kind—painted that label on people like her. Not likely. Not taught properly.
She tucked a few stray wisps of fluff into her own bag and then reached for the bubble wall. It was time to leave in so many ways she couldn’t begin to count them.
Chapter Twelve
Unlikely Page 12
