by SJ West
“Neither of us knows what’s going to happen in the future,” I remind him. “Right now, I just want to go find this bakery and try out these beignets you seem to like. I suggest we take one step forward, so we can see where it will lead.”
Silas lowers his arms. He stares at me for a moment as if he’s trying to decide what his next move should be. I’ve already made mine, so if he wants to spend more time with me, he’ll have to decide what he wants. Finally, he makes a decision and holds one of his hands out for me to take.
“I like that plan,” he says, giving me a genuine smile.
As I loop my right arm around his left one, Silas escorts me onto the cement sidewalk, and we walk along it until we come to an establishment named Brent’s Cakes. The store is simple in design, like most of the ones along Main Street. It has a red brick-and-mortar façade with a painted wooden sign hanging above the door with the bakery’s name stenciled in blue lettering. Through the storefront’s plate glass window, I see a thin, short man with a black pencil moustache walk out from behind two swinging doors, carrying a tray filled with small, square-looking donuts.
“Are those the beignets you mentioned?” I ask Silas.
“Yep. I told Brent I wasn’t sure what time to expect us here, but he told me to come anytime. Looks like we got lucky, though. We’ll get to eat the beignets while they’re still warm. Usually when I come after work, he only has cold ones left.”
I can’t help but smile at Silas’s enthusiasm. He literally looks like a kid who’s about to enter a candy store.
As we walk in, a tiny silver bell mounted on the inside of the door rings, announcing our entry to the shopkeeper. Brent looks up from his work as he stands behind the counter and smiles at us. When he sees me, I can tell that Silas didn’t forewarn his friend that the Princess of Cirrus would be the person he was bringing to his establishment this evening.
Brent quickly wipes his hands on his black-and-white apron before rushing around the corner of the counter to bend the knee in front of me.
“It’s an honor to have you in my establishment, Princess Liana. If I had known you were coming, I would have …”
“Please, Brent,” I say, interrupting him before he can go any further, “don’t kneel in front of me. I’m not my mother, and even she would tell you not to do it. We don’t ask people in our territory to do that.”
Brent stands to his feet and looks worried. “I’m sorry, Princess. I meant no disrespect.”
“You didn’t disrespect me,” I assure him. “Now, let’s do this the right way.” I hold out my hand for him to shake. He does so readily, which is a great relief to me. Sometimes I have to tell people what to do in this sort of situation because they don’t feel like they should touch me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Brent. Silas tells me you have the best beignets in town.”
Brent smiles sheepishly. “Well, they’re the only beignets you can find in town, so I guess they would be considered the best.”
I laugh at his joke, which seems to make him relax.
“I’m just glad Silas took pity on me,” Brent tells me.
My head tilts of its own accord as I immediately ask, “How did he take pity on you?”
“I lost a lot of money to him last night in our poker game, but instead of taking my cash, he asked me to keep my store open for as long as the two of you need a place to talk, eat beignets, and drink coffee tonight. Of course, he didn’t tell me his date would be you, or I would have offered it up for free.”
I glance over at Silas as he shuffles his feet nervously. I get the feeling he didn’t want Brent to tell me about the arrangement he made, but I find it endearing that he secured a warm, comfortable place for us to sit and chat. Brent’s casual use of the word “date” seems interesting as well. I wonder if that’s what he believes is going on, or if Silas referred to our being together as a date when he arranged this evening.
“Are those fresh beignets?” Silas asks Brent. I presume his question is meant to move us off the subject of our “date” and onto one that’s less embarrassing for him.
“Just out of the fryer!” Brent announces happily as he retakes his place behind the counter. “Let me sprinkle them with some powdered sugar, and I’ll bring them over to your table.”
“Thank you,” I say while Silas also expresses his own gratitude.
I feel Silas place his arm on my right elbow to direct me toward one of the five small round tables in Brent’s bakery. He pulls out my chair for me and makes sure I’m settled comfortably before taking his own seat. Almost as soon as we sit down, Brent is at our table with two small white plates that each hold three beignets covered with powdered sugar.
“You know,” Brent tells me as he sets my plate on the table in front of me, “if it wasn’t for all the work your parents are doing to improve conditions down here, I never would have been able to open this store up.”
“Why is that?” I ask.
“When I was a kid, it was hard enough to just find food to eat to stay alive,” he tells me, “but after your parents came to power, things got so much better here for most of us. I never would have thought we would have enough excess flour and sugar to make it possible to open a bakery of my own! It’s almost like a miracle.”
“Then I guess I can cross your name off the list of resistance supporters,” I joke. Unfortunately, my humor misses the mark because Brent turns as white as the snow still falling outside.
“Am I a suspect?” he croaks.
“No, no, no,” I’m quick to reassure him. “That was just me trying to be humorous. I’m sorry. My jokes don’t always work on everyone,” I laugh, hoping to disarm the situation.
Brent does indeed begin to look relieved, which in turn eases my guilt for causing him worry.
“How about some coffee?” Silas suggests to Brent.
“Coming right up!”
While Brent goes off to get our coffee, I decide to try one of the beignets. All of the powdered sugar forces me to be careful not to breathe too hard when I take a bite. I find the fried dough to be airy and delicious, which leads me to take a second bite as soon as I swallow the first.
After I eat my first beignet, I ask Silas, “Is your plan to fatten me up, because these are delicious! I’m not sure I can stop at just three.”
Silas smiles, looking pleased with himself that he was able to provide me with a new experience—one I haven’t even had in any of the cloud cities I’ve visited.
“I’m sure Brent would be more than happy to fry you some more if he hasn’t made enough already. I hate to admit it, but I eat at least ten of these a night.”
“Well, ten is a bit much for me, but I can easily see eating five in one sitting,” I declare. “I’m sure if I did that, I would be as big as a house in less than a month.”
“But your metabolism should be much faster than a normal person’s,” he points out. “I doubt eating five of these a night would do much to your figure.”
I proceed to eat my second beignet. Brent brings us both ceramic cups and a pot of coffee, which he simply leaves on the table so we can help ourselves to as much of it as we want. He also brings over a platter with at least ten more beignets on it already powered and ready for our consumption.
“Just let me know if you need anything else,” he tells us. “I’ll be in the kitchen, cleaning it for the night.”
After Brent leaves, I ask Silas, “Just how good of a poker player are you?”
“Extremely good,” he replies. “I’ve had a lot of practice keeping my emotions to myself when I have to. Have you ever played the game?”
I shake my head. “No. My family leans more toward chess and checkers. I’ve known how to play those practically since I was born, but poker isn’t something that I’ve ever played. Would you be willing to teach me?” I ask him. “It sounds like fun.”
“Hmm,” Silas says, as he considers my proposal. “We would have to find something to bet with.”
He looks around Bren
t’s shop and seems to spot something he thinks will work. He walks over to the counter and picks up a small wooden box. When he returns to the table, he pours out the contents of the box and a multitude of wooden toothpicks roll out onto the surface. He begins to divide them into two piles, and I lend him a hand to help make the chore go a bit faster. Once we each have our share, Silas goes to the kitchen and asks Brent for a deck of playing cards. In just a few minutes, we have a game of poker started.
I discover that Silas is a very patient teacher and seems to enjoy helping me learn how to play the game. When I win a hand on my own without his guidance, he acts proud of my accomplishment and not resentful at all that he lost to me.
On our fifth hand of play, Silas leans forward and whispers, “I can tell you have a hand that you think you can win with.”
Surprised by his intuition, I have to ask, “How in the world do you know that?”
“You have a tell,” he says, leaning back in his chair as he smiles at me. “Whenever you have a good hand, you start twisting your hair around your index finger.”
I immediately pull my finger out of the loops of hair around it and nervously laugh because of how easily he was able to read me.
“Thanks for the tip,” I tell him, trying my best to clear all emotion off my face, making me realize I’m doing exactly what I saw Silas do earlier in the barn when I was asking him questions about his father.
“Is playing poker how you became so good at hiding your feelings from people?” I ask him.
“No,” he answers. “I learned that when I was with my father. If I didn’t show fear, he was less likely to beat me.”
I feel my throat suddenly go dry at the thought of Jered hurting anyone, much less his own son. I decide to change the subject and push all of my toothpicks into the ante pile.
“I’m all in,” I tell him. “What are you going to do now?”
“Hmm,” Silas says, squinting his eyes at the cards in his hand as if he’s trying to figure out what I could possibly have to make me so confident that I’ll win.
“Since you pretty much wiped me out the last hand,” he says, “I’m not sure I have enough to cover that bet.”
“If you don’t want to fold, then bet what you have, and I’ll take the rest as an IOU,” I tell him.
Silas looks up at me and asks, “What exactly would I owe you?”
I smile sweetly and do a fair impression of batting my eyelashes at him. “You’ll have to take a chance in order to find out.”
Without hesitating further, Silas pushes the rest of his toothpicks into the pile. He stands up and goes over to Brent’s register to grab a pen. When he returns, he takes one of the white paper napkins from a pile of them on the table and proceeds to write the letters IOU and sign his name underneath them. After he places the napkin on top of the pile of toothpicks, he declares, “All in. Now, show me what you have in your hand, Princess.”
I lay the cards out on the table so he can see my royal flush.
He groans in defeat and shows me that he only had a flush with spades.
I laugh with pure glee and take all of his toothpicks plus the white napkin with his IOU written on it. I then proceed to divide the toothpicks into two piles.
“Are you wanting to play again?” Silas asks, sounding amused.
“Of course! I’ve finally found a game that I’m good at. I’m horrible at chess. My parents always beat me.”
“You mean they’ve never let you win against them?” Silas asks as he begins to help me split our game pieces in half.
I stop separating the toothpicks and just look at him like he’s crazy.
“Why would they do that?” I ask in bewilderment. “How would I learn to play well if they just let me win all the time?”
“Some parents like to bolster their children’s confidence by letting them win,” he explains. “I just thought your parents might allow you to beat them on occasion.”
I shake my head. “No. My parents aren’t like that. Anything I win at, I have to earn, and quite frankly, that’s the way it should be. Letting someone believe they’re actually good at something when they’re not is wrong. It doesn’t help them improve their skills or strategies. It just fosters a sense of false confidence.”
Silas smiles and nods his head in agreement as he continues to help me separate the toothpicks again. I discreetly fold up the napkin with his IOU and place it in the pocket of his coat. I’m not sure what I’ll use it for yet, but I’m sure it’ll come in handy at some point during the night.
About midway through our second game while I’m pondering the four nines in my hand, I feel the tips of Silas’s free hand touch the tips of the one I have resting palm up on the side of the table. He lightly runs the pad of his thumb across my four fingers, which causes a pleasurable tingling sensation to radiate up my arm. When I turn my gaze away from what he’s doing and look at his face, I find him watching me as if he’s waiting for me to tell him to stop touching my hand. When I don’t make a protest, he seems to take it as a sign that he can go a little bit further.
He lays his cards down on the table and stands from his chair.
“We never did get to finish our dance,” he says, holding out one of his hands for me to take.
I stand from my chair and lay my cards on the table to take his hand with mine. He slowly draws me into his arms until our bodies touch.
“There’s no music,” I say as I look up into his eyes.
“I don’t think we need any, do you?” he replies intimately. The softness of his expression is both expectant and uncertain. I have no idea if I can trust Silas, but my heart wants to give him a chance to prove not only to me, but also to himself, that he’s more than a tool to be used in either Abaddon’s or my aunt’s schemes.
“I wish you could see yourself like I see you right now,” I tell him as I lift my left hand and graze the back of my fingers across his left cheek.
“How do you see me?” he whispers, closing his eyes briefly at my gentle caress.
“As someone full of potential who can’t seem to find a way to step out of the shadow he’s been forced to hide behind all these years. I don’t know what kind of torture you went through in Hell that broke your spirit and made you believe you have to do what you’re told to, Silas, but this life you’ve made for yourself here in Stanton seems to suit you. I can help you keep it, if that’s what you want. All you would have to do is ask.”
“That would lead to complications that even you can’t imagine,” he replies, looking torn between taking me up on my offer or continuing to be Abaddon’s lackey. “I won’t put your life in danger because of me.”
“I can’t be harmed,” I tell him. “Not in any mortal sense anyway. Don’t you know that I have a Guardian Angel? Even if I die, I’ll be brought back to life, at least until I’ve accomplished whatever plan God has for me. So don’t use me as an excuse, Silas. My life isn’t on the table here, but yours is. And … I know you don’t want to talk about him, but your father would do everything within his power to help you too.”
I feel Silas stiffen in my arms and fear he’ll try to pull away, causing me to lose this moment with him. I know he’s on the brink of leaving me, so I do what comes naturally. I drape my arms over his shoulders and rest my head against his chest, waiting for him to begin our dance. He doesn’t move at all at first, but after a few seconds, he wraps his arms loosely around my waist, and we begin to sway to an imaginary tune.
As we slowly shuffle our feet and turn in a slow circle, I soon find myself smiling with happiness. I’ve been on dates with other guys before, but there was always an underlying current of them wanting something from me—either social standing or monetary gain. None of them said as much, but I could see it in their eyes and the way they treated me when we were around others. With Silas, I feel like all of our cards have been laid out on the table now and we each know what the other has to offer. I would love nothing more than to be the reason Silas and Jered both f
ind peace after so many years of strife keeping them apart, but I also understand how sometimes such a rift can never be mended.
After a while, Silas stops moving his feet, which forces me to follow suit. When I raise my head to look up at him, I see him grimace in pain, and I know exactly what’s about to happen. Without asking, I phase us back to the barn, but I don’t take us to the lower level. I phase us to the top one where the bales of extra hay are stored.
Silas immediately lets go of me and takes two steps back.
“Is it time for you to change?” I ask, simply wanting my suspicion confirmed.
“Yes,” he says in a low voice as if he’s trying to hold back the fact that he’s in pain.
I swiftly walk over to him and place my hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at me.
“Then I better do this quickly,” I warn him before leaning up and pressing my lips to his.
At first, I’m not sure Silas intends to kiss me back. It could have been the fact that I surprised him with it that caused the delay in his reaction, but he soon recovers and wraps his arms around my waist, holding me close. For the moment, his transformation seems to be the last thing on his mind because our kiss has completely consumed him as much as it has me. The warmth of his mouth against my own causes me to become lost in this moment in time and etch every sensation I feel into a memory that will last me forever.
Minutes pass before Silas pulls away from me, his face a mask of pain.
“I’m not sure how much longer I can hold the transformation off, Liana,” he tells me. “You need to go.”
“Silas,” I say, gripping his arm to force him to keep his eyes on me, “I want a chance for us to see where we can go from here, and the only way to do that is if you talk to your father.”
“I already told you—” he begins to protest, but I cut his words off short by holding up the white paper napkin with the IOU and his signature on it.
“I’m calling in your debt to me,” I tell him, pushing the napkin against his chest to force him to take it. “All I ask is that you talk to your dad and listen to what he has to say with an open mind. I’m not asking you to forgive him, just listen to his words. My parents aren’t going to let me keep seeing you if they believe you’re working for Abaddon or my aunt. If you won’t listen to Jered for yourself, then do it for me. Give us a chance. Please, give yourself a chance to be happy for once in your life!”
