Finally, I see what I am seeking: a trio of blazes on a set of three good-sized halsas that will be perfect for completing the Margrave’s order. Bran’s eyes grow wide.
“You’re going to take those down? All three?”
“And you’re going to help me haul them back to the wagon,” I say with a smile, brandishing the finely sharpened axe I carry on my belt.
“Can I help with the chopping?” he asks, stepping up to survey the leafy canopy above us.
“No, thank you. The halsa’s grain is light and delicate, almost like a thick trunk of honeycomb. That’s what makes it ideal for carving and toting such large pieces about; if we built the soldiers out of oak, a person would scarcely be able to lift one. I’d better do it, to preserve as much good wood as possible.”
He nods and stands behind me to watch.
Before I make the first swing, I lay the palm of my hand over the blaze on the creamy inner skin of the halsa closest me, where it shows through the long scrape of gray bark. My father was the last person to touch this tree. Pressing my palm to the wood, I bow my head and close my eyes, quietly thanking the tree for the life it’s about to give, and for the rescue I hope it will provide.
In return, I hear it’s humble acquiescence, “You are welcome, sister.” The reply tingles up my arm in a buzzing ache, the same strange pain that comes when you strike that tender part below your elbow my father claims is a funny bone. It never feels funny to me.
Bran’s eyes are on me, curious. When I’m ready, I position both hands on the axe and let it swing in a graceful arc toward the base of the tree. It takes me longer than my father, but after many sure strokes I have the tree chipped away in a neat angle to its core. Sheathing the axe, I push with both arms against the trunk. The tree falls, landing with a hollow thud onto the forest floor, right where I intended.
Breathing hard, I turn around to face Bran.
“Right. You’re up. Move that one out of the way while I begin the next.”
With a serious face, Bran nods and goes about his part of the task, helping without asking further questions.
I revel in the sounds of the great wood, the reassuring voices of the trees and the ring of my axe biting into the bark. It’s a relief to be away from the watching eyes in town and thoughts of my father suffering alone. Far below my feet I know the close-knit halsa roots grow, their vast tangle spreading out like veins threaded beneath the forest floor. Here in the shadows of the oldest giants, I sense a great breath being taken in and expelled, over and over again—an ancient rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat. Every moment I spend rooted here in the dirt, something in me loosens until I find that I can finally exhale, too.
Having taken the axe to two of the trees, I break for a moment, leaning up against a nearby linden, savoring its shade. I swipe my bangs away from where they’re sticking to my face.
Nearly done. Maybe it’s not so bad having Bran with me after all.
I eye the distracting place his neck is flushed pink from the work, where dark curls meet golden skin. He’s worked tirelessly, loading everything onto the wagon, following my every command.
“You know, I’ve heard,” he says, dusting his own hands and strolling closer, “that some say the linden is the tree of lovers.” He arches his black brows and leans back beside me, the wide trunk large enough to support us both. He crosses his arms nonchalantly, as if he leans up against trees every day, in this very manner.
“Have you? My father told me the linden symbolizes protection and good fortune.” I tear the leather work-gloves from my hands and wipe them on my skirt.
“I like that even better,” he says, turning toward me.
He pauses a second, eyes locked on mine. “I know things may seem bleak now, Piro, but for you, good fortune will surely follow. I know it. I knew it as soon as we moved in next door and I saw you through that cupboard. There’s no one like you.”
How right he is, I think, my smile bitter.
“I mean it. There’s no one like you, not for me,” he says intently, mistaking my scoffing for modesty.
Slowly, he lifts a hand to brush my cheek, settling a wayward strand of hair behind my ear with gentle fingers. Bran cups my chin with both hands, grazing my cheeks with his thumbs. He doesn’t speak, just watches me, as though he’s marveling at me, seeing something beneath my skin that I never have seen, something rare and precious. It’s a heady feeling, watching someone see you in a way that you cannot see yourself.
He leans in and presses his lips to mine in a dizzying kiss that sends any thoughts of gathering wood or waiting deadlines straight to the ether. I can’t even hear the voices of the trees, who are surely bustling about what’s happening at their feet; I’m diverted from my purpose by stolen kisses. Instead, my ears fill with the sounds of air and light, while warmth surges to the places his hands are touching me.
I kiss him back, my mouth meeting his firm one, reveling in the uncanny way just being held against him makes me feel safe. Protection and good fortune, indeed.
The linden tree’s bark meets my back as Bran leans even closer into me. His eyelashes flutter against my own and my fingers wind themselves into the rough linen of his shirt.
Kisses from Bran could never be stolen, anyways. I give them willingly.
When I regretfully tear myself from his lips, in part to breathe—something I’ve not done much
