by J. S. Fields
I looked at him, so taken aback by his request that for a moment I couldn’t speak. “Come… You don’t want to find Mother? Talk to her?” I rubbed my forehead. “Why would you want to travel with someone you hate so much?”
Sameer’s stomach growled again. He put his head down on the table briefly before speaking. “No, I don’t want to meet Amada the master manipulator, and you shouldn’t want to either.” His nose turned up. “I don’t need Amada’s permission to be a woodcutter, Sorin. I can take a dual affiliation as easily as any other master. I wanted to meet you, to try to understand Amada’s choice, but that doesn’t change anything. She picked you, not me, and if you stay here, you’ll end up locked back up in that forest hovel, thinking it’s your own choice. At least in a glacial town, you’d be a person, not a possession.”
“And alchemy?” I asked. That dream still clung to the back of my mind, despite its magic taint.
Sameer threw up his hands. “Forget damned alchemy! You could have a real life. And no one will ever even notice this.” He gestured at my breasts. “You’ll be in too many layers of fur and hide. Be a man. Be a woman. Be whatever. Just don’t be Amada’s pawn.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Emotions and rebukes and denial that Mother was involved in any of this swirled on my tongue. Sameer’s offer was too much, and I was too tired, and it was too warm in the inn after days on a glacier. And I couldn’t leave Magda. Wouldn’t leave Magda. Not again.
The little girl cut into the conversation. “Could we finish the transaction before you start yelling? Three rooms and four dinners. Fifteen stone per head.”
I blinked, and Sameer coughed. Fifteen stone per person? That would have gotten us rooms at the palace!
Magda pulled her smaller purse from her belt and toyed with the closure. The girl put her hands on her hips and tilted her head, looking every centimeter a grown proprietor if not for her dimpled cheeks and braids. “Seems high for soup and a bed. And we’ll only need two rooms, I think?”
My cheeks burned when Magda turned to me. We’d slept together on the glacier. We’d slept together as children. There was no reason for the fluttering low in my belly, unless I thought about Magda’s lips, or the way her fingers had stroked Watchara’s violin. There was no way the fuzziness in my head was entirely from the laudanum.
“Um.” I swallowed half a dozen responses before managing, “Yes, that would be fine. It’s just, uh, pricey.”
The girl sniffed. “It’s tii, and we’re the only inn with space left. We have a lot more visitors than usual this year. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
The idea of leaving the steaming soup behind hurt my stomach more than the hunger, but that many stone would likely wipe Magda’s purse clean. Yet she pulled the stones out and handed them to the child with no further hesitation, then sat, ripped a third of the bread from the loaf, and bit viciously into it.
“Thank you, Royal Daughter.” Watchara, who had remained quiet and withdrawn for the trip to Celtis, finally sat. She took her violin from her back, cradled it for a moment in her arms, then set it on her lap and started in on a bowl of soup.
Sameer gave a heavy sigh. “You’re not coming, then, I take it?” He downed his soup, although I could see from his wincing that it burned his tongue.
I shook my head as I sipped my soup, pleased with the richness of the flavor. “I can’t, Sameer.” I didn’t look at Magda, but he did, and I could tell by the expression on his face that he understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.
The girl brought us wine and water glasses. I drank both immediately, which further fuzzed my head. It didn’t matter though. We had spent enough time together in the past several days, and were certainly hungry enough, that we forwent conversation almost entirely as we ate. I didn’t know what to say to Sameer, so I didn’t say anything, and although Magda twice tried to engage Watchara in conversation, the master musician remained quiet.
I listened to the conversations around us instead as I chewed the hard rye bread. Excitement buzzed over the final two days of tii. A festival to celebrate returning spirits was planned for the day after tomorrow, and people were making food preparations already. And tourists. There were a number of conversations, both amused and frustrated, by the larger-than-normal crowds of tourists, especially those with guild affiliations, and the unusually warm weather the region had experienced of late.
After three days on glaciers and in forests, the conversations around me were quick to overwhelm. I finished my meal first and stood. My arm immediately went to my chest, but when I swept the inn, no one was looking. I pressed my arm in anyway. “I’m going to the room. See you both tomorrow?”
Magda looked up at me with a tired smile. “Good idea. I’ll be along shortly. Tomorrow…tomorrow we’ll have a big breakfast once the kitchens are up. We’ll get you and Watchara to a doctor, and then I’ll have to leave you and present myself at the castle.”
Sameer fished the last bit of broth from his bowl with a chunk of bread. “Good night, Sorin. Magda. Watchara.” He stood as well and managed a funny little smile. “I hope you both find your mothers. And good luck, Sorin, with your alchemy, or whatever you end up calling what you do. Preferably nothing with an unbound guild. Maybe tell Amada to shove her head up a donkey’s ass. From me, from you, whomever.”
Gods, if I told Mother that, she’d have a heart attack. I snickered. “Um. Sure. Thank you for your help on the glacier.”
He nodded, the edges of his smile threatening to break into any number of other expressions, then turned and walked away.
“You okay?” Magda asked as she motioned for another bowl of soup. I considered doing the same, but the idea of a warm bath and soft bed appealed more.
“Yes. No. There’s too much going on, and it’s hard to think. I’m going to bed.” I paused as I picked up the long key on the leather strap. “It’s…you’re okay with sharing with me, right?” I don’t know why I asked. She’d been the one to suggest it in the first place. But my insides were still jumping, and I wanted to be sure. Had to be sure.
The young girl brought over another bowl. Magda flipped her another three stone, then put her spoon on the table and stared up at me. “I was looking forward to it. Besides—” She pointed at my bandaged hand. “—my turn to tend a wound. Mine is still sore but mending fine on its own.”
That pushed the last wisps of Sameer from my mind. “I’ll bathe first, then,” I said, turning away from the table so she wouldn’t see the stuttering of my chest as my heart pounded beneath it. I remembered the warmth of her hand on mine, and the earthen taste of her lips, and walked purposefully to the stairs—wooden and skillfully made, the banister carved from a single writhing tree—to my, our, room.
The bath, already set up and steaming, was mercifully free of petals. I undid my clothes, sticky with dried sweat and my own blood, as best I could. I waited until I was in the bath to attempt to unwrap the cotton on my hand. The steam helped ease apart the strips of fabric, but as I got closer to the wound, the very act of unwrapping brought tears to my eyes. Gods, it felt like I was peeling off layers of skin, though I was still four or five passes from the wound itself. The more I tugged, the more the remaining skin underneath pulled and the farther the ache spread up my arm. I’d have to prioritize a doctor tomorrow, or whatever infection had started would only spread. If I left it alone, the opium covered the pain well enough. Best to just leave it for the evening.
I puffed air up, blowing curls from my face, and rewrapped the cloth. I had nothing new to wrap my hand in anyway. I scrubbed the rest of myself with the coarse soap as the last of the wine fuzziness cleared from my head, then stepped from the metal tub and toweled dry.
Two sets of sleepwear lay on the bed, both old, boxy cuts of white linen. The man’s had a turned-down collar and single button. The woman’s dress had buttons as well, but they were on the sleeves, near a gather in the cuff. The double bed made sense with paired clothing, but I still paused, conside
ring both. What a bother. I suppose I’d have chosen one with a button and ruffling somewhere else if given the opportunity. The hemline, perhaps, although a button there would be silly. Certainly, I wouldn’t want one without any embellishment. That would have been just as problematic as what was currently before me.
In the end, I took the man’s nightshirt and slipped it over my head. I placed the nightdress over the high edge of the tub just as Magda came into the room. She immediately took me in and fought a smile of her own.
“Sorin—”
I laughed and ran a hand through my damp hair, pulling at the curls to straighten them. “My choices were narrow, and I thought you might prefer the woman’s dress.” I had a brief thought to cross my arms and hide my chest from her, to make the shirt look more appropriate, but it bled away as quickly as it came. There was no need, not with her.
“It will work fine.” Magda shed her clothes without preamble and sank with a groan into the tub. I let my eyes follow her as I climbed into the bed, lingering on areas of her body I had strenuously tried to avoid in Miantri.
“Can I ask you a question, Sorin? What…what is it that you like? In people?” Magda turned to her stomach and slid beneath the water. When she came up it was to face me, arms wrapped around the tub’s rim. Droplets of water fell from her hair and nose to the floor below, and beaded on the tops of her breasts. She was pressed against the tub side, but my mind readily filled in the gaps. It was hard to look only at her face, and I heard a small chuckle as I tried to rein in my eyes.
“I don’t mind. It’s not like you’ve not seen me in a bath before.”
But this was different, and the way her smile faltered near the corners of her mouth told me she was aware of that as well.
“I like—” I paused, trying to choose the right words. “I like how the smithy has shaped you.” There. That was flattering without being too specific. I didn’t know what parts of herself Magda valued, and which she was disliking of, and I was perhaps too conscious of how the wrong words could injure.
“You like arms?” She moved one from the rim and eyed it critically. Muscles sloped from shoulder to wrist, but they were padded in softness.
I propped pillows behind my back and leaned against the wall, the blankets still under me. “I like a lot of things, including arms,” I returned.
“On men as well?”
I exhaled audibly. There it was. She had asked, to be fair, and it was unlike Magda to ask permission before an onslaught. I knew where this conversation was headed, and we’d put it off long enough. Still, I was tired, and while the wine had worn off, I didn’t trust myself or my words. I wanted her with me in this bed, without the silly nightshirts between us, but that couldn’t happen until we dealt with the intangible.
I crossed my arms, pressing my breasts to my body, as Magda took a quick scrub to her skin with the soap and washcloth, rinsed, and stepped gingerly from the tub, her wound still tender. This time I did avert my eyes, but needlessly, as she came to sit next to me on the bed after toweling off. It was impossible, then, to not see her, and the splay of her breasts, and the flare of her hips, and the triangular patch of hair between her legs.
“I do like men, sometimes,” I said as I reached for her hand. What I wanted was to run my hand across her thigh, to slope down to the inside where her muscle eased to suppleness, but Magda did not settle next to me. She scooted instead, and I followed until we both were propped against the headboard. Our hips pressed together, and I took her hand. “I like women more, I think.” Warmth crept across my face and down my neck. “I, uh…didn’t get to meet a lot of people in the forest. I, um, don’t have experience with either.”
“Hmm.” Magda squeezed my hand, then let go.
What in the world did that mean? She’d had every gender paraded in front of her since menarche, but as helpful as it would be for one of us to have some idea of what was about to happen, the idea of Magda having slept with another person did not settle my nerves.
“Magda?” I prodded, hoping she might offer more.
Magda smiled and reached for the hem of my nightshirt. She cupped her hand and tugged, bringing the fabric up to my midthigh. There, she released, and ran the backs of her fingers in circles across my skin. Goose bumps followed in her wake.
“I’ve had a million fantasies about this, Sorin. Since we were young.” She cupped my cheek and leaned in until our noses touched. “And I don’t have much experience either. You don’t need to look so terrified. Not about that.”
I pushed forward, and our lips met, just for a moment. Magda inhaled sharply before she stroked my cheek—not deepening the kiss, but not breaking it either.
“You taste like the forest. Like maple sap,” she breathed when I pulled back. She bit her lower lip, and I mirrored her, fighting a smile. I wanted to lean in again, but we’d delayed this conversation for too long already.
“You prefer women.” It was a statement, not a question, but I needed to hear her affirmation.
Magda’s eyes opened in surprise. Her fingers stilled, and she sat upright. “Yes. I have forever. I know I didn’t talk about it when we were children, but I suppose I never thought it was an option for me. We have courtiers like this, of course, and men who love men.” She gave a small laugh as her gaze fell back to the nightshirt, and my thighs.
I’d have taken the woodcutter’s mark, the witch’s mark, anything in that moment if Magda’s hands would have followed her eyes.
“Sorpsi’s entire textile district is run by those who were born one way…or born presenting one way, but changed later. That’s different than attraction though. More a body thing. Makes sense why they’d congregate in the textile district. It’s nice to be able to make clothes that fit when your body isn’t shaped like you want, right?” She looked pointedly at my breasts. “Except you don’t mind yours, I guess. Still, it’s not like this, or you, are new, or revolutionary. It’s…I mean, you haven’t really picked one or the other. People don’t just, just stop in the middle, I guess.”
Again, her eyes found mine. The earnest confusion that swam there tugged at me and drew me to my knees. I wanted to kiss her, and wipe away all the questions and doubt and have us be two people exploring two bodies, without all the awkwardness of, well, me.
But Magda needed an explanation, and I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have the words either of us needed. Instead, we stared at each other for an indefinite amount of time. Her gaze remained steady, but mine flicked from her eyes to her chest, lower, then back up again. I saw old scars and burns, lines of thin pink and wide patches of red. I saw lines from swords, pinpricks from chainmail, and on the hand resting on the blanket next to me, a dozen smooth areas on her knuckles.
I wanted to touch every mark, hear the story of every encounter. Hundreds of pale lines from knives and saws marred my own skin but did not contain nearly the same richness of story. I ran fingers over her upper arm, tracing the musculature. She was warm, from the soup or the fireplace, and her skin rough with experience.
“Sorin?” Magda asked tentatively, her younger self echoing through. I brought her hand to my waist and gathered the fabric there.
“Go ahead.”
Magda bit at her lower lip again, hard enough that I saw a bead of blood form.
I touched my fingers to her cheek, then brushed our lips together. She exhaled as I did so, letting go of some enormous weight. Still, she seemed almost withdrawn. She pulled back, just centimeters, but enough to give me pause, as if she thought her body might frighten me away.
“I’m not caught in the middle. I’m distinct. And I like women.” I moved my lips to her jawline. I trailed my hands along her arms, reveling in the complex skin. I’d read her correctly, for Magda renegotiated the space between us until I was on my right hip and she was kissing near the collar of my nightshirt.
“So do I,” she murmured and deftly undid the small button. The neck of the shirt spread, and Magda’s lips followed. Her hand slid up und
er my nightshirt and grabbed my rear, pushing me into her.
“I’m not a woman,” I reminded her. I lifted my hips enough to pull the nightshirt from under my hip. Magda did the rest, gliding the linen off my shoulders and to the floor below.
Her eyes didn’t leave mine, but her hands explored. The sides of my breasts. The hollow of my hips. My collarbone. The skin where my thighs became my bottom. I held on to her shoulders, wanting to touch her as well, but knowing if I let go I would fall into memories and desire, and I wanted to remember every moment of her touch.
“Take my hand?” Magda asked.
I took her hand as she moved to the center of the bed. She remained sitting, so, with my heart pounding against my rib cage, I sat on her lap, wrapping my legs around her. The intimate position surprised even Magda, but she only smiled when I leaned forward and kissed her.
Her arms went around my waist, drawing us closer together. I gasped as her breasts touched mine, then pressed, and then there was softness and heat, and her tongue tracing my lips, demanding entrance, and one of her hands pushing down past my belly, sinking into dark, damp curls. It was hard to remember the conversation, to see if she really understood my words, when all I wanted, in that moment, was for her fingers to press in or her thigh to come up. Anything to provide counterpressure for the desire she drove inside me.
Instead, she pushed forward, and I fell onto my back, Magda between my legs. I lay on the white sheets, with skipping breath and hips pushing upward as Magda, finally, looked at me.
I didn’t know if she admired the same things as I did—musculature built from dedicated repetition, scarring earned from tumultuous apprenticeships and experimentation. I watched her begin low, with my legs, pausing long enough over the dark patch of hair for a smile to curve on her lips before moving to my stomach, then breasts.
Here, she changed. What had been hesitant and curious became laden with desire. Magda didn’t move, didn’t bring her hands or mouth to me, but suddenly I was the barmaid in the capital, the server in Miantri. My skin itched, and I had to clamp down on the urge to move, to roll, to dress and hide and be something, anything, other than what she saw.
