by May Peterson
He shook his head so fully it almost spun, swiping hands in protest. All right, it wasn’t nice to tease him, although secretly I enjoyed making him blush. Taking a deep breath, he put both hands on the table and signed, “Yes. Rhodry.”
I smiled. I could get used to seeing my name twined in his slender fingers.
Rosemary stared when she brought us tea. “What are you doing?”
“Studying,” I announced. “Mio’s going to compose the first handspeak opera.”
Mio’s expression became complex, pointed. Had I been insensitive? Knowing me, probably. I half wanted to tell him that I’d pay good lucre to see such a thing, even more after this evening. Mio could fascinate me with his hands and expressions more than an orchestra could with the grandest instruments.
We spent the next several hours practicing, mostly him signing and me checking. The hard part was I’d have to understand the language too, so we went until I could understand him without looking in the book. Then we reversed. I made good progress with that alphabet, dammit. His eyes took on some shine while I spelled out “ghost alert in the garden.” When he signed back an affirmative “Yes, Rhodry!” he actually laughed. It was a silent laugh, a sight which might have been eerie any other time. But not to me, not then. It was easy to imagine his voice strumming from his shaking chest. It was easy to imagine, in that moment, what a happy Mio would look like.
If we had been on more familiar terms, I could have reached across the table, squeezed his hand. If it wouldn’t have been wrong.
Cecilio brought us dinner in the study. Mio had graduated to sentences like, “How are you today, Rhodry?” which I had to scramble to translate. I simply had to come away from this with some tidbit of mastery. I practiced it under the table as the night drew on. When Mio wiped sleep from his eyes and yawned, I revealed my victor’s spoil.
With proper circumstance, I signed triumphantly, “Lemon drop,” and pointed at him.
His cheeks reddened, but he smiled.
Poor diurnal Mio was drooping by the time we arrived at his room. I told him to sleep in as late as he wanted. He shut himself up in that tiny little servant’s room.
Idea number two.
It was strange, how eager I was to see the sun the next day. Mio would be awake and waiting. Rosemary caught me on the stairs, tsking. “You’re going to drop off from sun strain.”
We met again in the study, Mio braced for the endeavor. Instead of having breakfast and luncheon, I had Cecilio supply us with goodies so we could work uninterrupted.
We began with all good intentions, fury and honor, and yet by sundown the gilding had worn off. The day before had lit a hope in Mio, bright as the moon, that I watched gradually dampen. This was going to be harder than I’d thought. We’d come so far, and he was learning at an alarming rate—much faster than I was. The trouble was that it didn’t matter how quickly he attained handspeak if I couldn’t understand him.
I held my own with the basics, but each new translation pushed me further back into the book. “What would you like for dinner, Rhodry?” he began, then went into, “Perhaps we could have—” and the rest lost me. I flipped, frowning, through the pages, while he patiently repeated it. No luck. “Rhodry, should I—” He tried, but I was losing the simple things now.
“I, uh, can’t remember that sign.” I nodded as he repeated it.
He took a breath and began spelling it, but the alphabet was still tricky to me. I flipped back to it as he kept spelling, his fingers growing more anxious.
“Mio! Slow down.” I slammed the book shut. “I can’t keep up.”
He drooped to the table, deflated. A limp hand rose up and signed “sorry.”
At least I’d understood that. I kneaded my temples. “No, don’t be. I’m the one who can only handle beginner sign.” So much for mastery. And here I’d thought that a little linguistics would be a welcome break from my usual human-bear-adulterer nonsense.
This had seemed like such a safe thing to let myself want; it was so small, and wasn’t only for me. I knew what it was like to have your screams all padlocked up within you.
Somehow it had become what I wanted more than anything to see that Mio found some relief from that. I needed to be someone who didn’t just lead souls to hell, but could lead them out, too.
With fucking handspeak. I sighed.
Mio slipped a sheet of paper under my face. Lord Rhodry, it said, like addressing a letter, You don’t need to do this for me. I never expected anyone to do so much. It is enough. I tire of being unable to offer anything in return. It is enough.
He gathered up his papers, closed the book; I was growing familiar with his sad face, how composed and neat it was. It said, I will not impose on anyone. He gave me a small, rueful grin, commiserate in our mutual defeat, and signed one more time, “Sorry.”
God, defeat? Shoving the chairs away, I took his hand. “The hell it is. Come with me. I want to show you something.”
It had been two days. I was too used to things being hard. Mio frowned questions as he hurried, once again nearly beside me in his effort to keep up. His hand felt more warm and smooth than anything I’d felt in ages.
In the western hall, I threw open the drapes, let the starlight stream in. “That is my suite.” I pointed to the doors at the end of the hall. I knocked on the one beside me. “Open this one.”
He hesitated. But then obeyed—and his face changed.
Cecilio and Rosemary were fast workers, and I owed them for this. Just down the hall from me, and I hadn’t been in here for years. But all the frost and dust were beaten out, the dingy canvas and old pieces removed. The length of the room showed off a clean, polished table and chairs, and plush evening-indigo curtains, thrown wide to admit the moon. Two walls of bookshelves, stocked with everything I could find. They’d even managed a little sleeping area, the bed from the guest chamber behind a changing screen.
Mio stared, unmoving. I gently nudged him. “What do you think? Look there.” By the reading desk, I’d had my old showcase brought up from below. Eirlys’s cherrywood violin, the flute I never played, her worn stacks of composition. “I assume you play. They sure as hell weren’t being used where they were.”
Mio flicked his wide, blinking gaze at me. His fingers jumped into, “I—no—” but I didn’t have to translate. I don’t understand.
“I want you to stay here. It’s a little small with everything jammed in, but it’s close to my own room, so I can watch over you more easily. Tomorrow I was going to bring the pianoforte up, if you like.”
He went strangely still, then pointed to himself. For me?
“Oh, come now, it has to be more comfortable than that tiny room downstairs.” I leaned closer until our heads were almost touching. “I didn’t want you to stay because I didn’t want to be responsible for anything happening to you. But I would be if I threw you out. If you’re going to live here, you may as well have a place to call yours.”
He seemed so bewildered. Then, like a storm breaking softly into rain, his arms were around my neck, the tips of his hair brushing my chin. He buried his face in my chest.
“Mio—” I sighed. He was shaking. No—sobbing. Like I had tipped him over, spilling the pain of what he had lost.
Even his tears were absolutely silent.
It frightened me to do it. But I wrapped my arm around him, felt his slim form, smoothed back his hair. It was so soft. Just like that, I held him and let him cry.
“I’ve got you,” I said. “I’ve got you.”
Chapter Seven
MIO
The curtains in my room were not hunter green. They weren’t red. They were blue-violet.
I still felt audacious calling it my room. Like I was assuming too much of the landscape of his world. However, the difference in color from the rest of the manor seemed to confirm, this is yours.
I ran my fingers along the velour lines; they, and my little fireplace, made this the warmest room in the house. That night, well past midnight, I piled blankets under the curtains so they covered me completely, and huddled there until I slept. I decided against my usual practice of jamming the door with a chair; if this was to work, I had to be able to let Rhodry in. I slept more easily than I had in weeks.
I began to understand why small spaces had become so important to me. Sometimes, when I stood in the grand foyer or on those palatial stairs, exposed on all sides, I would slip out of my senses. I would drift back to that open stage, pinned by bright red sensations, a thousand half-crimson eyes riveted on me. I would founder in that nakedness, my throat croaking distorted tunes of its own accord, a force parading around my lack of will. And I would stop being able to breathe.
And then Rhodry would appear and break the spell with a grin. “Try not to look so impressed, lemon drop. I work hard to be this humble and you’re going to ruin it.”
Ah, Rhodry. My dear Rhodry.
He drew my eyes as he moved, a black and shape-changing flame. All light and darkness centered on him, the sundial of my new world. Day and night no longer mattered; the only divisions were times with Rhodry, and times without him.
Our lessons sprawled into the night. I craved those darkened stretches of the day, the great gloaming hours filled with him. Cecilio infused me with rounds of tea so I could keep up. In two days, dawn became my herald of sleep. We wound through sometimes entirely silent conversations. It was called “handspeak,” but involved much more than hands—face, body, motion. The language was rich and playful on its own, but Rhodry’s fingers and expressions gave it life. Warmth, aglow in his eyes, lighting his meaning. I was surprised at how natural handspeak was. Rhodry had more trouble. Frequently he threw up his hands in the midst of one of my replies, laughing and shaking his head. “Lemon drop. You win. Can we start again?”
I would start as many times as he liked. Maybe we’d never be able to talk fully. But I didn’t care. Being near him was a joy beyond any verse or song. I wasn’t only there to talk. I wanted his strange mix of self-deprecating humor and debonair smiles. His rough charm and air of tenderness. The way his eyes glowed as he watched me sign.
He had taken me by the hand and, moment by indigo-tinged moment, was leading me back to my voice.
Back to my life.
Excitement woke me early the next afternoon. Rhodry might sleep yet for a while, but I could wait. If I took breakfast in the dining room, we might meet there.
I sat over my last cup of tea for two hours while the clock droned. Cecilio sighed with vigor as he swept through the room, as if waiting for me to depart. Rhodry hadn’t yet appeared a little before sunset. Surely there was no reason to worry? He’d always slipped into view sometime before dusk, as if bringing in the nightfall. Had I demanded too much of him, again, that he should rise so early? I had no idea the strain sunlight put on him. My fingers worked the tablecloth into anxious knots.
I was leaning my head down on the table when he arrived, his shadow passing over me like a pleasant chill. I bolted up. “M-my lord, I—”
“There you are.” He leaned on the doorjamb, amusement or fondness crackling across his face. “You keep disappearing on me, like a little cat-soul.”
The heat of my skin rose. I bowed slightly. “Did you sleep well?”
A moment for him to process my signing. His expression matured into a grin. He indicated a hamper on his arm. “I want to show you something.” In a moment, he crossed the space, leaning in. Gently, unexpectedly, he took my hand. His voice softened. “Will you come with me?”
I was trembling in his grasp. He must feel it. If a spark of magic were added to the mix, he might sense my longing to pull that hand to my chest, feel his pulse against mine. How had I allowed this to take such deep root in me? Gulping, I nodded.
He did not let go as he led me from his house. His fingers were always so strangely cool, as if he carried some of his wife’s winter inside his flesh. I wished he would touch me more. That his hand would gain ground, claiming the territory above my wrist. With a shock, it hit me—I would yield it all to him. Whatever region of me he wanted would be his, and every uncharted truth within.
The sun lingered in the sky, rose painting the grass. Rhodry took me out on the hills, the pink glow making his skin luminous. I seized his sleeve and signed. “Rhodry, the sun...won’t it hurt you?”
“Ah. The accursed star of fire.” His tone was as acrid as cigarillo smoke. “Don’t mistake me. If I could exorcise the damn thing, I would. But I’m not going to burn up. Besides, it’s less painful after a few years.” His grin became velvet. “There’s a little place I go sometimes, when I can’t stand being in my own house anymore. I thought...it might be a nice change.”
He sounded hesitant now, almost shy.
White-and-pink streaked flowers dotted the greenswards like winking smiles. The timber of a wilderness charged the air. The trees opened to a downward path. Rhodry guided me inward, the branches hemming me in. It was a glade, glowing softly with evening. Moss-carpeted stones decorated the enclosure, stretched wide under a canopy of silent arms. A creek glittered nearby.
Rhodry set the hamper on a stone and produced a thick blanket, splaying it over the slope. “Are you warm enough? We can go back if you like. But...” A lantern, which he must have pulled from the bag, flared in his hand. “I’ve brought treats?”
I looked at him. The offering in his expression, eyes bright as silver coins. The long green story of his home, his land, running the distance behind him. The now cold years of his life and afterlife. The surrounding emptiness struck me as never before, as if we were walking through a tree-studded cemetery. How often had he come to this place, alone, in his kingdom of snow?
“This—” I gestured to the trees, the hills, signing slowly. “This is all your land? Yours and Her Ladyship’s?”
“Every last blade of grass. Except that one.” He pointed around my feet. “That one’s a defector.”
And his humor slid around me, leaving marks on my skin. I laughed, silently, until the shaking had me doubled over. He watched me, eyes alight. Just like that, he could warm my wounded nerves. Nerves that had always slept and never woken. Until him.
We sat, Rhodry tugging a spread from the hamper until the blanket was half covered. Cold lamb with fig sauce, and heaving slabs of salted, rare beef. Herbed bread with tomatoes, soft Gallais cheese and tart Portian pears. He nudged over a basket of raspberry tarts and a pouch sticky with caramel-scented dates.
“I wanted Cecilio to make actual lemon pastry for you.” He shrugged and licked the fruit residue from his finger. “I must’ve offended some Portian sensibility. He all but told me to fuck off.”
I laughed again, almost tipping against him, and not caring. “Well,” I signed, “all the better. It would have been cannibalism.”
His smiled hovered in indecision, as if still translating my signs. A glance at the book made it a full guffaw. “God in heaven, you’re right. I’ll make a predatory lemon drop of you yet.”
He was sitting so close. I hadn’t realized how narrow the blanket was. His supernal chill stroked my face, made the late spring crisp. I could lean into him, press my face against his broad chest. If this were another world, and I a different creature. If I had been naturally grown as his, instead of transplanted from the streets. If I dared asked how to please him.
He palmed a wine bottle, frowning. “Mages really aren’t meant to drink, are you? Fuck me.” An eyebrow rose apologetically. “Is water all right?”
At my nod, he began filling an ewer at the creek. We clinked glasses, his dark as blood and mine clear.
Under the waning sun, we gathered around the handspeak book and lantern. I watched his hands as they tried to speak with me, tried to keep up with my need to speak back. And as they brushed mine over the dat
es, tapped the brown pages in thought. He needed me to model words for him some more. But the attention he paid was worth the difficulty. I gave words like dinner time, sunset, and thank you to the air, and he followed as if I were lighting his way.
I still had to slow my words so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. Breaking for a second dive into the food, I signed on impulse. “How long were you and Her Ladyship married?”
His mouth fell open, endearingly, as if disarmed. “You know, I...had to think for a second. It’s been eighteen years. We were both seventeen when we married.” His focus drifted to the house. “But... ’till death do you part.’ We parted.” A sour smile flickered. “Three years, then.”
I shouldn’t have asked. Losing any family would be wound enough. But to have them appear again, unable to move on? “Do you...ever talk to her? Does she come to you?”
He had said the curse of her afterlife had made her a spirit of vengeance, murderous and terrible. And yet surely even a few words between them, a sign there was heart left in her, would be a relief?
Acid lingered in his gaze, but it wasn’t aimed at me. “I’ve tried. But she cannot speak back. Her curse took her voice.”
Oh. The image of her in the photograph flared across my vision. Sly-eyed and smiling, caged in her own silence.
The lack of my voice abruptly seemed trivial.
Maybe I could speak again. Rhodry had taken my muteness and cleansed it, bathed it, kept it safe. He’d not asked me to change it. Maybe my voice, unshackled, would not harm him.
And maybe I could help him. To not be so alone.
Rhodry slipped into an embarrassed laugh. “Mio. Forgive me. This is all ancient history, from—quite literally—another life.” He knocked the face of the book against his forehead. “Can we start again? I need an awful lot of help with my damn verbs.”
I moved quickly, before the courage swelling in me changed back into cowardice. My hand cupped his over the page, stopping him gently. He paused, and his eyes didn’t lift from where our fingers touched. His cool skin felt suddenly warm.
