“Nanette Li, may I walk you to your studio?”
Nan clears her throat. “I certainly don’t require leading about like a horse with a bit.” She sniffs. “But yes, you may walk with me. I should get back, too,” she says, slinging her long braid over her shoulder the way some toss salt for good luck. “Look after that cut, Piro,” she says, with a squeeze of my hand on her way out. She pauses to turn around and glare at Bran.
“You’ll make sure she gets home in one piece, won’t you?”
He nods, his lips pressed tightly together.
“I’m done, too,” Tiffin says, slapping some penny francs down on the table for Gert. “Cheers,” he says dismally, following Nan’s lithe back and Fonso’s formidable one out the door.
That leaves me and Bran, now unable to avoid one another, no cupboard door to separate us.
“So,” he says, a strained look upon his face. “Shall we go?”
Outside, evening light bathes the tops of the tight and twisty lanes, the setting sun casting thick golden strokes across the thatched cottages. Bran is quiet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes down. Still, every housewife sweeping the day’s dust from the stoop and every flower girl packing up her cart calls to him as we pass. He barely seems to notice the constant flow of attention coming his way, wave after wave of it, walking through the heart of town. I’ve lived here longer than he has, and no one calls to me that way.
We walk without speaking, soon finding ourselves at the divide between Curio and The Golden Needle, in that narrow space of a few bricks between our homes. The corners of my mouth can’t help but turn up at the sight of several curious little Sorens peering at us through the window.
“I should really get back to work.”
“See you later then?” He bites his lip, his eyes hinting at the cupboard.
“Er—” I falter, thinking of all the work that awaits me. “I don’t know.”
He sits down on Curio’s front step. “What’s going on, Piro?”
“Nothing” is on my lips, but I can’t risk another splinter tonight.
“You mean, besides my father rotting in a cell?” I retort.
Bran exhales sharply and shakes his head. “I know. I mean, yes, besides that. Truly, Pirouette, I never meant to upset you yesterday. I’m worried for you and Gephardt. We all are. I can’t stand thinking of him in that terrible place, or of you joining him. And, it’s just, with you and me, I can’t bear to lose—”
“Bran, I’m sorry I didn’t open the cupboard. I’m just worn out. I need this wooden soldier business to be over, so Papa can come home. Then I’ll be able to breathe again.”
His eyes search mine. “That’s all?”
I drop down to sit beside him and squeeze his hand.
“I worry, because I love you,” he says simply. “I love you, Pirouette Leiter. Do you think that you love me, too?”
When he leans in, the streets around us shrink like coals in the fire until there is only the ember of me and Bran, here on the stoop, burning in the dim, purple light. And in the one moment when I should have answered truthfully, I find my words stick and my tongue is unable to answer back.
I fall into him instead, my hands tracing the beautiful craftsmanship of his jaw, my lips pressing against his. I am shocked by how soft they feel and how much better a kiss is than a common little word like “yes.” This kiss is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. A fire and a rushing river compete for space in my veins, sending rivulets of joy down to my toes.
When Bran reluctantly leans back, my lips miss his instantly. He stands, pulling me up with him.
“It’s getting dark. We should go in. You know what they say.”
“No, what do they say?”
Bran grins. “‘Never trust what might happen with a beautiful girl under the moonlight. Might get moonstruck!’”
I nod, brushing a finger across my swollen lips as my heart attempts to recover its regular rhythm. Somehow I must return to work after this. I’m not sure it’s possible.
“See you later?” he raises an eyebrow.
I’ll be tired, but I can’t wait to see him again, even if it’s just a glimpse through the cupboard.
“Yes. Same as always.”
“Always,” he says happily, planting a soft kiss on the back of my hand before slipping through his front door.
Like his mirror image, I follow, dodging into mine. I’m unable to suppress the hope that “always” will be repeated again, and soon.
CHAPTER 8
“THE WOODS MAKE ME UNEASY,” BRAN ADMITS AS HE AND I leave Burl behind on the main road with the wood-hauling sleigh. It won’t fit among the close-knit trees this deep in the forest.
“There’s something about these woods, in particular … before we came to Tavia, I’d always lived in a town, and we were surrounded by hills and valleys, not a shroud of trees like we are here.”
“Mmhmm,” I murmur in agreement. There is something about these woods. Something Bran can’t possibly understand. These woods are my roots. The very fiber of my being.
“Well, you did insist on coming,” I reply, trying to swallow the edge that found its way into my voice. It isn’t that I don’t want Bran’s help or his company, but when it comes to the woods, I prefer to be alone or with my father. It’s our special place.
Bran follows me, lagging behind as I pick my way through the underbrush with a light step, easily weaving in and out among the great oaks, chestnuts, lindens, and halsa that stand sentry around the land of Tavia. I’m looking for a particular stand of trees from my last trip here with Papa. And, though I don’t say so aloud, I’m looking for signs of his presence—a deftly peeled blaze of bark on a tree tagging it for
