by Shari Cross
A restricting ache takes hold of my throat and I have to blink back the tears that are pooling in my eyes. I move toward his bed and place my hand on it—still warm. He hasn’t been gone long. I move around his bed and don’t let myself hesitate before climbing out the window.
The chilling night air slams into me as my bare feet touch the cold, hard ground. I look down at my thin chemise and think longingly of my cloak hanging by the door in the entry of our home, but I keep walking, the frozen rocks grinding into my bare feet.
I make my way around the side of our home and through the gate in the center of the surrounding stone wall. After I close the gate behind me, I try to force my eyes to adjust to the darkness that’s thankfully lessened by the brightness of the moon. My gaze travels to the road, squinting into the silver, damp night, and I see him, a dark figure, moving silently before the trees. I run, ignoring the stabs of pain in my feet. When I’m close enough to him and far enough from home, I yell.
“Stop, please!”
At the sound of my voice he stops and turns toward me, the look on his face uncertain.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He lets out an anxious huff of air and I watch it form in front of him. “I don’t know. I just felt as though I . . . I thought that if I could find this river you say you found me in, something would come back to me.”
The conflict pulls inside me, a tug of war between the honorable truth and the self-serving lie. I know I have to help him. It’s evident in the desperation and emptiness in his face and voice that he’s hurting. But how far should I go? Part of me is glad he doesn’t remember. It means he’ll be safe and able to stay, but another part of me is disappointed. If he can’t remember Incarnadine, he can’t tell me about it.
“I’ll take you to the river, but you have to promise you’ll come back home with me. Promise you won’t leave.” There, a compromise. Mother’s always telling me to learn to compromise.
“Where would I go?” he asks, his voice drained of emotion, but he’s not looking for an answer. And, though I feel sorry for him, I can’t help but feel comforted as I realize that, at least for now, he has no reason to leave.
With new determination, I run to the stables. Once inside, I take two of the spare cloaks and one pair of boots. I hand him one of the cloaks, knowing he must be freezing in his thin tunic and breeches, and drape the other cloak around my back. Then I slip on the boots. They’re much too big for me, but it’s preferable to being barefoot and cold.
As I lead him to the river, an awkward silence falls between us. I search my mind, trying to find something clever to say, but nothing comes to me. Instead, I decide to ask the questions that have been pacing on my tongue.
“So, you don’t remember anything?”
“No.”
“Not even bits and pieces—there’s nothing at all?”
“No.”
“What’s the first thing you do remember?”
He stops walking, his head tilting to the side, his bottom lip pulling into his mouth. I can’t help but smile at the gesture—it’s the same thing I do when I’m lost in thought.
“The first thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing your face. It’s as though that’s where my life began. There’s nothing before that moment.”
My heart breaks for him and the pain he’s feeling. I don’t know what to say, though, so I say nothing, and continue toward the river. It’s the best I can do for him.
We step into the forest, a place that’s as familiar to me as my own skin. But tonight I don’t recognize it. Everything is bathed in a silver glow, like a place that until now only existed in dreams. I may have to sneak into the woods at night more often.
After several minutes of uninterrupted walking, the river comes into view. The water is eerily calm and still, a sheet of black glass reflecting the pale light of the moon. It seems as though I could walk out onto it and stand on its surface, bathing myself in the kiss of the moon. I pull my gaze away from the river and move it to his face, which is lined with thoughts, and not happy ones.
“This is it. This is where I pulled you out.”
We stand in silence for several minutes as he stares out at the water. Without warning, his hand grabs hold of mine, his icy fingers tangling with my own. I look up at him, startled, but he’s still staring at the river. I have never held a boy’s hand before, other than my brother’s. I imagined it would be strange, but there’s nothing strange about the feel of his hand in mine. I let my gaze drift over to the southern bank. The fog is there, its tendrils reaching toward the river as if offering it a loving embrace. A shiver spreads down my spine.
“Is there anything else you can tell me about how you found me?” he asks, breaking my reverie of the fog.
Guilt washes over me. Should I tell him the truth? Yes. But if I do, it will only make things worse. I’m not worried about being able to trust him, not anymore. It’s just that I can only trust myself to keep this secret and this secret must be kept. If anyone ever finds out he came from Incarnadine, they will banish him, or worse. They’ll consider him forbidden, perhaps even cursed. I can’t let that happen to him.
“No, there’s nothing else. I’m sorry.”
And I am sorry, more than he knows, but I saved him, and now I have to protect him. I don’t know why I’m so drawn to this sad, lost boy, but it’s as though part of him has crawled inside me and locked the doors. I can’t let anything happen to him. In this moment, I vow to do whatever it takes to keep him safe.
Chapter 4
HIM
“Come now! We’re going to be late!” Genoveve calls from down the hallway, her voice echoing off the stones and making its way toward us. Addalynne doesn’t waver from the worn pages of the book she’s reading. She hasn’t put her book down for what seems like hours, and from the intense look of concentration on her face, I’m not entirely sure she heard her mother. She’s lost in her head, a place I’m learning she likes to go frequently. I don’t know the girl well, but I know she spends most of her time looking for an escape. She wants a different life, and I only want to remember mine.
“Addalynne,” I say her name quietly, hesitant of pulling her from her story.
“Hmmm.”
“I think your mother is getting anxious.”
“She’s always anxious.” Her eyes don’t leave the page as she speaks, and with a flick of her finger she turns to the next one.
“What are you reading, anyway?”
She places the book on her lap and sets her amber eyes on me. “The Siren’s Call. It’s about mermaids.”
“Mermaids. I’ve heard about mermaids before.” But just like all the other times I try to access a memory, a door slams shut on me. I can picture the mermaids, I can remember details from stories told about them, but I don’t know how I know them or why. Sometimes I hear a soft voice speaking to me, a voice from my past, but after a few seconds the voice becomes contorted and then dissolves into a vacant echo. It doesn’t stop me from trying to remember, but it’s like trying to scratch my way through metal.
“Do you think they’re real?’ Addalynne questions excitedly.
“Maybe,” I reply with a shrug. “Do you want them to be?”
“Yes. I want all the stories to be real.” Her eyes burn with her words and, though I don’t want to turn away from her, the way she’s looking at me makes me . . . nervous . . . shy? I’m not sure, but it’s not a feeling I’m familiar with.
“Addalynne!” Genoveve calls again. “We’re leaving now, with or without you both!”
Addalynne gently nudges the book off her lap, letting it slide onto the bed. With a sigh, she stands and extends her hand to me. I unhesitatingly grasp her hand with my own. A mischievous smile tugs on her lips. “We better go,” she says. “If we’re late, we’ll miss Sir Alsius’s warnings. and believe me, you don’t want to miss them.”
The walk to the market is quiet, and I must admit, a little tense. Genoveve keeps turning back to
look at Addalynne, her eyebrows tightened with what seems to be a mixture of irritation and anxiety. Addalynne either takes no notice or has perfected the art of avoidance.
We turn the corner and come down a row of small, wooden houses. People are stepping out of their doorways, their arms filled with food to bring to the feast.
“Relax now, Genoveve. I told you we wouldn’t be late,” Robert speaks quietly, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on Genoveve’s back. My stomach knots. Do I have a mother and father somewhere? Is my mother worried about me? Is my father comforting her?
We step into the market square and my footsteps falter. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
Rows upon rows of wooden tables line half of the square. The tables are lit with candles and filled with wine, bread, meat, fruit, and pots of stew. People are scattered about, some eating and drinking, others laughing and dancing. Children are running around, chasing each other through the maze of villagers, while their mothers shout at them to not get too close to the fire.
The fire is burning brightly on the other half of the market square, casting long shadows behind it. There are three empty chairs behind the fire and a stack of logs waiting to be tossed into the flames.
“We’re going to go sit with Walter and John,” Gregory says.
“Very well,” Genoveve replies, and Gregory begins to walk away. I hesitate, my gaze shifting between Gregory and Addalynne. But Addalynne begins to follow Gregory as well, making my decision easier.
“Where are you going, Addalynne?” Genoveve asks, and we both turn to face her.
“With Gregory and . . . him,” she says, motioning toward me. I try to ignore the pain her words bring, knowing that my name is lost somewhere in the darkness of my mind, along with the mother and father who gave it to me.
“Shouldn’t you be asking permission to go with Gregory as opposed to telling us what you’ll be doing?”
“But Gregory didn’t ask.”
“Gregory’s not in trouble for disobeying us.”
Addalynne takes a deep breath. “Mother, may I please go with Gregory?” she asks, her jaw clenched so tightly I’m surprised she could get the words out.
I suppress a chuckle and look the other way, knowing that if I look at Addalynne, I’ll laugh.
“I suppose you may.”
Addalynne turns and walks away, and I follow.
I swallow the last drop of stew and bite into the warm bread, savoring every crumb.
“No! It’s going to be Wesley Gaunt. He’ll be the one to be knighted by the King,” Gregory says in what I’m learning is his argumentative voice.
“Wesley Gaunt?” John counters with a laugh. “Wesley the Weak is what he should be called.”
Gregory tosses a chicken bone on his plate and lets out an irritated huff. “Have you gone completely mad? He’s the strongest Schild the King has. He can take on ten men and leave them all bloodied and dismembered without receiving a scratch.”
“But he’s never been to Incarnadine,” Walter adds. “And Terryn Mowbray has.”
“No, he hasn’t!” Gregory shouts with a laugh, his head shaking in disbelief.
“Yes, he has. He even wrote a journal about it, detailing how he fought trolls,” Walter argues.
“Oh, yeah? What’s it called?” John counters, now seemingly siding with Gregory.
“It’s called the . . . the uh . . . the Tale of . . .”
“He doesn’t know,” John laughs.
“The Tale of Walter the Gullible,” Gregory adds. We all laugh at this, myself included, though I do feel a little bad for Walter, whose face is beginning to resemble an apple.
“Just because I don’t remember doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Walter’s words stop my laughter. “He’s right,” I say, because he can’t remember, and I can’t let that be the reason he loses.
“See,” Walter says with a smile, “even he agrees with me.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know his elbow from his ass,” Gregory says jokingly, and playfully tosses a small bone in my direction. I toss one right back, hitting him square in the chest. The hit cuts off his laughter, but makes the rest of us laugh more. “I’m joking. I’m joking,” he says with a gasp. “Clearly you haven’t forgotten how to throw.”
“No,” I reply with a smile. “That’s all instinct.”
The others begin to reach for seconds and I return to my bread. I take a bite and look down the length of the table, to the opposite end, where Addalynne is sitting with her friend Mary.
When we arrived at the table, Mary was sitting here with John and Walter. She quickly jumped up to embrace Addalynne before glancing over at Gregory, a subtle pink hue growing on her cheeks. As I watch her now, I notice that every few seconds she looks over at Gregory. But Gregory refuses to look at her. When he first saw her, he said hello, but his eyes never left the ground.
“Hey, umm, New One, did you want more lamb?” John asks me, and I can’t help but laugh. I’ve heard boy, kid, and even orphan, but I’ve yet to be called ‘new one.’ “Sorry,” John says, “It’s hard to address someone with no name.”
“He has a name,” Gregory intervenes.
“He does?” Walter questions.
“Of course he does,” Gregory continues. “The problem is that no one knows it.”
“Sure we do. It’s Orphan,” says a boy with hair so fair it’s practically white, as he approaches the table. He stops on the opposite side, directly across from me, and grabs a roll from the basket between us.
“Samuel, your ability to suddenly appear even though no one wants you here is truly amazing,” Gregory replies, his voice bleeding sarcasm.
Samuel Hunt. Addalynne told me about him. He has an older sister, Matilda, and his family works for the Lord of Faygrene, Lord Berrenger. Addalynne told me that Samuel and Matilda’s father do the farming for Lord and Lady Berrenger, and that their mother cooks and cleans for the Berrengers. Addalynne’s father works for Lord Berrenger as well, but he’s Lord Berrenger’s Bailiff, a much higher position than that of Samuel’s family, which explains Samuel’s tattered clothes and rough demeanor toward Gregory.
“Nice dagger, Orphan.” Samuel’s chin motions to the dagger at my waist. “Who gave it to you? Your father? Oh, wait, I forgot you don’t have one.”
I pull in a breath, my body tensing slightly.
“Did you not understand me before?” Gregory rises to his feet. “That was me telling you to leave.”
“It’s all right, Gregory,” I say. “He can stay. He doesn’t bother me.” I turn toward Samuel. “Why don’t you have a seat and join us.”
Samuel places his palms on the table, leaning toward me. “I don’t need your pity, Orphan. You’re no better than me. You’re nothin’ and you don’t belong here.”
A burning takes hold of my chest. I close my eyes, my hands curling into fists, and try to calm my anger. The last thing I need is to get into a fight. That would upset Genoveve and then she might make me leave. And if I can’t stay here, I’ll really have nothing left. I open my eyes. Samuel is still leaning toward me, and John, Walter, and Gregory have risen to their feet, ready to watch or intervene, I’m not sure.
“Ignore him,” John says to me. “He’s just mad that you get to spend so much time with Addalynne.”
Addalynne? What does this have to do with her? Samuel glares at John, and Gregory looks as confused as I feel, but his confusion quickly switches to anger.
“Are you after my sister, Samuel?” Gregory takes an aggressive step in Samuel’s direction.
Samuel looks down the table at Addalynne, just as she glances in our direction. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles just as Samuel says, “Not at the moment. But when her titties grow, I’ll be the first one to see ‘em.”
I jump to my feet and lunge for Samuel. Hands grab hold of me, keeping me back. I struggle against them as Samuel laughs and walks away.
“Let go of me!” I shout.
&
nbsp; “Calm down first,” Gregory says.
“Didn’t you hear what he said? You should be angrier than I am!”
“Yeah, I heard him, but I also know that this is exactly what he was wanting from you, so calm down.” I turn to look at Gregory, but instead my eyes find Addalynne. She has risen to her feet and is watching me. I stop struggling. The look of fear on her face takes all the fight from me.
Once the others realize I’m not going to struggle anymore, they let go.
Addalynne and Mary slowly make their way over to us, Addalynne’s gaze still weary. She stops a few feet away from me. “Are you alright?” she asks.
“I’m fine.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing worth repeating.”
She turns to Gregory. “What did Samuel say to him?”
Gregory runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “Like he said, nothing worth repeating. Come on, the council’s about to start.”
We take our seats in front of the fire. Genoveve and Robert are only a few rows of people behind us, and I can feel Genoveve’s eyes on us. Addalynne is looking at her mother with minimally tamed irritation. I turn toward Genoveve. She’s mouthing something at Addalynne, something that looks like, “Not tonight.” I turn away, letting my gaze settle again on Addalynne. Now she appears to be suppressing a laugh, and that laugh is dancing with the mischief in her eyes.
A cool breeze runs across my face. I lift the hood of my cloak just as Sir Alsius takes his place across the fire, facing the awaiting people. He’s old, much older than anyone I’ve seen in this village. The texture of his pale skin looks as thin as fine parchment, ready to blow away with the next breeze. Maybe the only thing holding it in place is his flour-white beard that hangs, long and stiff, down to his chest. His eyes haven’t lifted to ours yet; they’re pointed to the ground. His lips are moving slowly, and though the crowd is completely silent, no sound reaches us. Suddenly, he raises his eyes and their steel grey glare lands directly on me. I want to look away, but I can’t. It’s as though I’m as mobile as a statue, and I’m immediately struck with an image of myself unable to move, inside someplace dark and damp. It’s not until his gaze travels from mine that the memory dissipates, leaving me hollow.
