“Wow.” Scratch leaned against her shoulder. “Complicated kid.”
“Oh, stuff it.”
“What do you want, Brella?”
“Now?” She smiled, luxuriously slow, letting her eyes flicker shut. “A bath.”
They stripped themselves silently and slid into the tub. Scratch was grateful she didn’t get a good look at the pair of them naked in the mirror. She expected she’d spot a scrawny, childish shrimp, literally paling in comparison to Brella’s broad, womanly shape. Perhaps once she’d had a few more meals and lifted a weight or two she could stomach it.
Brella moaned salaciously in the steaming water. “Untie my hair, please?”
Scratch obliged, gently prising the curls free. She liked this act nearly as much as kissing, having Brella’s trust for this. Tending to her care. It felt important somehow. Precious.
All this time searching for meaning, and she could have just plucked it from Brella’s hair.
“Can you imagine, Scratch,” Brella said when she was through, “what it would mean for everyone to have hot water? Like, okay.” Her hands flew out of the water, sending droplets into the air. “There’s a cobbler who comes into my pub a lot. Carwell. He has terrible back pain from hunching over shoes all day. So he comes into the pub, and he drinks until he can’t feel the pain. And all the while his wife is going out to the pump and bringing back buckets to boil for his bath. The bath helps,” she explained.
“Sure.”
“The thing is, though, she’s spent so many years lugging buckets that she has back pain, so now they’re both drinking.” Brella made a clucking sound with her tongue. “And nobody gets a bath.”
“Everyone should get a bath.”
Brella smiled broadly, showing every one of her teeth. “The revolution demands free access to baths.”
“Public baths!” Scratch cried. “Private baths!”
“Hot baths, cold baths!”
“Ice baths!”
Brella grimaced. “Ice baths?”
“You’ve never had military training.” Scratch flexed a muscle in her arm, inviting Brella to touch. “The ice baths almost feel good after that.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Maybe I’ll train you up,” Scratch mused as Brella prodded her bicep with mild curiosity. “Not to kill. No bloodshed. But I’d love to see you throw a punch.”
“Good thing I couldn’t when we first met.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
Brella ceased her poking. “No,” she said quietly, words heavy in the echoing, tiled space. “I wouldn’t have.”
Scratch drew her close. “You’re so good. You see a bath and you think of everyone else who needs one.”
“You needed one the most.” Brella wiped an invisible smudge off of Scratch’s shoulder. “Really. You look as though you’ve been fucked on the forest floor.”
A giddy laugh burst out of her chest. “What sort of tart would allow that?”
“An insatiable tart.” Brella booped her on the nose with a wet finger. “But if we’re talking of goodness, sweetheart, I have to say how much I admire yours.”
“Excuse me?” Scratch drew back. “Have you forgotten the bit where everything I’ve done up to this point has been for my own personal benefit?”
“Of course not. It’s only . . .” She wiped a bit of condensation from her heat-flushed face. “That’s not entirely true, is it? You always thought about James.”
“Okay, fine. He was the exception to my selfishness.”
“Maybe not.” Brella pursed her lips. “Maybe you didn’t have anyone else to care about because nobody cared about you.” Brella moved closer, slow as a lazy water snake. “But I think you’re dying to care; you just never learned how. I think there’s so much love inside you, Scratch, that once you feel safe enough to let it go, it’ll come flying out.”
Scratch made the split-second decision to completely submerge herself in the water. Underneath, the world was softer. Quieter. The burning in her cheeks could fade unobserved. The pounding of her heart could settle. When she reemerged, Brella was smirking, arms folded across her chest.
“Interesting exit strategy.”
“I’m from the Tangled Lakes,” Scratch said, wiping water from her eyes. “We’re water people.“
“Sure.” Brella arched an eyebrow. “Why do you think I call you sweetheart?”
“I try not to dwell on your quirks, Umbrella. Saves time.”
Brella splashed her. “It’s because you’re sweet, you ass.”
Scratch hunched down, wondering what it said about her that she was more comfortable with “ass” than “sweet.” “Nah.”
“How about I get to tell you that you’re sweet and you get to tell me that I’m brave?”
“How about we stop talking and we do that thing you suggested with mouths?”
“One thing first.” Brella held up a hand, catching Scratch before she could flop into Brella’s arms. “You asked me what I wanted.”
“Oh.” Scratch scooted back, eager to listen. “Yes.”
Brella breathed deep. Held it. Let it out. “I want to advise her. Not on how to get Ivinscont back, but what to do with it when she does. Taxes. Roads. Food stores. Gas lamps. Hot baths.” She gave a demonstrative little wriggle, causing a ripple of movement in the water. “I don’t know what that’s called.”
“Advisor.” Scratch’s mouth went dry, thinking of the great possibility of this. Yes, she thought. You’re perfect. “Maybe Minister of Coin, when she’s on the throne. Or a new title. ‘Minister of People.’”
“The People’s Minister.” Brella’s mouth stretched in a dopey smile. “I wonder if there’s a precedent. If someone could give me access to the library here, I’d be unstoppable.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Scratch ran a pale finger over Brella’s nose, her eyebrow, her lips touched by stray freckles. “And us?”
“Undecided.”
“Brella,” Scratch hissed as Brella tugged her down for a tight, clumsy embrace.
“I’ll keep you, Scratch,” Brella whispered, rich voice hushed in the yellowy gas lamp glow. “That’s my plan.”
Scratch flushed, heat prickling at her cheeks. “That sounds fine.” Her breath hitched. “I like your plan.” A thought found her like a dart. “Brella, what did I leave in the Between?”
Brella blinked slowly. “What?”
“I leave of myself when I walk through the door. What did I leave?”
“Oh, you didn’t notice?” Brella indicated her pile of clothes, languishing on the bathroom floor. “Knife.”
“Wha? Oh.” She looked over. Her kitchen knife, along with its trousers-crafted sheath, was nowhere to be found. “I thought it would be more ephemeral. Like, I don’t know . . . springtime?”
Brella snorted. “If you want to look for meaning in it, you may feel free.”
“Nah.” She stretched her arms over her head, feeling the satisfying click in her spine, then dropped them over Brella’s shoulders. “I’m not a poet, after all.”
Brella nuzzled into her side. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
Outside the window, the stars were familiar once more. There was The Barber with his celestial shears. The Rider atop his sparkling steed. The Cheesemonger slicing Soft Eddard with a knife of starlight. But now Scratch knew these gods weren’t alone. There were more infinite formations in the scrambled suns of the forest. Inscrutable skies that revealed gods upon gods, glowing through hidden layers of inky night. There were more than she could imagine, and there would always be more.
“Never,” she said, and melted into Brella’s arms.
Acknowledgments
Walk Between Worlds taught me how to write. And while writing this book has been one of my greatest joys, it was also a long and lonely process, and I only made it through because of the love and support of my people. Thank you to Alessandra Amin, Nour El-Rayes, Justine Champine, Megan Detrie, and Kati Sherril for reading w
hat was then known as “Scratch” at various stages of unfocused word vomit, and managing, despite the chaos, to provide me with wildly helpful notes. Thank you to Anna Burke for the edits, the pep talks, and steering me towards Bywater Books. Thank you to Jenn Alexander for showing me how to find a title. Thank you to Tuck Woodstock, Kathy Tu, and T Kira Mahealani Madden for your beautiful words. Thank you, thank you, thank you all.
My deepest appreciation to the fine folks at Bywater Books, especially to Salem West for the initial twelve-pages of notes, followed by the months of continuous support. Thanks to Stefani Deoul, who is terrifying and wonderful and was 100% correct in saying the three consecutive sex scenes needed to be cut. Thank you to Ann McMan for the beautiful cover. It has been an honor working with you all on this book.
Thank you to my family, especially Dad and Jolean, for assuming that this book would be good before you even read it.
And thank you, Kelsey, my wife, for making all of this possible. Thank you for cooking when I was too zonked after a day of writing to even think about food. Thank you for prioritizing getting me an office. Thank you for putting up the wallpaper and the shelves and for fixing the doorknob. Thank you for saying, “Go up and write, I’ll handle everything else.” Thank you for liking my book, even though I thought you hated it. Thank you for forgiving me when I told my family you hated it. None of this would have been possible without you.
About the Author
Samara Breger is a writer and performer from New York. In her previous life, she was an Emmy-nominated journalist, covering sexual and reproductive health. Now, she writes books about magic and feelings. She has a crush on every character.
Follow Samara here:
Twitter | @SamaraJBreger
Instagram | @yesjbreg
Copyright © 2021 Samara Breger
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Bywater Books First Edition: August 2021
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61294-226-1
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