“We should get back,” I say shakily, knowing this reply sounds more like a question.
“True,” he says. “You know, Piro, when your father returns home, you needn’t nurse him on your own. My father thinks it’s time to call for your grandmother. Do you think she will come if I go fetch her for you?”
I blink, trying to comprehend his words. “Who?”
“Your grandmother.”
“My grandmother?”
“Gep’s mother? The one who raised you?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
I lick my lips, which have gone dry.
“My parents thought she might come and stay with you. So you needn’t be on your own? Surely she’ll want to be with him when he comes out of the Keep. If she can make the journey, that is.”
I swallow hard. Sometimes I think if I were not cursed by my splintering tell I would be a fantastic liar. It would be so easy, such a relief, just to lie. Instead, at each fork in a conversation, I am faced with dreadful options. Lie and be found out, or tell the truth and possibly be shattered by it.
“My parents, they’re worried about you,” Bran says. “Worried that you’re too young to be on your own, to handle the shop and the care he’ll need afterwards, too.”
I nod, keeping my mouth shut.
“So, have you written her?” he prods again. “Sent word?”
I shake my head.
How I long to say that she died, or that we lost touch years ago. Lies.
I grit my teeth and silently curse my father for making up that part of my story. Then, I am instantly barraged by a wave of guilt. I know my father only intended those lies to protect me. The trouble is, without him here to speak up, they protect me no longer.
“Then, shall I? I’d be happy to help, to go and get her and bring her here to stay with you—”
“No.”
“But if you don’t have time to reach her on your own, I’ll—”
“I’ll write to her,” I say, the words coming out in a panic. “I’ll see if she can come. I’ve just been so busy with everything, I hadn’t even thought of letting her know about Papa. If she’s well herself, I’m sure she’ll want to come,” I stammer, the lie unfurling from my tongue.
Bran looks relieved. I hold my breath, waiting for the familiar pain of a splinter.
It doesn’t come.
What magic is this?
When Bran returns his lips to running small kisses down my neck, I feel so free, so happy. I allow myself to relax into his kisses, get lost in them, and then it happens too fast and much too late to hide.
A sharp pain suddenly pierces my nose, leaving me gasping. Bran steps back, eyes wide in alarm. There’s no avoiding the huge, barbed fragment of wood rising from my nose. It rears like a sword tip in Bran’s awe-struck face.
I shriek in horror, clapping my hands over my nose.
“You know better,” scolds the linden tree.
“Piro?” Bran asks, my name suddenly seeming small and shameful, coming from the perfect mouth on his beautiful face. “What’s that?”
I promptly whirl and start to run. I’m fast, especially when terrified. Prying the splinter from my nose, I hide it deep in a pocket, hating myself all the while, shamed at having yet more proof of my weakness. Pressing my apron to my face to stop the bleeding, I pray for the ground to open and swallow me whole.
When Bran catches up with me back at the wagon, I am nauseous and dangerously close to losing my breakfast. Blood pours from the wound—just to spite me, I am sure. Masked in my soaking apron, I bury my face in Burl’s warm mane.
“Piro, please!” Bran pleads, staying a safe distance back. “Tell me what happened! Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right,” I growl.
I can’t do this. I can’t explain. Not yet. Not ever.
My brain burns with humiliated fury, trying desperately to think of a way to escape the moment. If I lie, I will have more splinters to explain. If I tell the truth, I’m not only endangering Bran, I risk losing him as well. Surely, once he knows …
“Tell me, Piro. What is it?” He takes a few steps closer.
Burl swishes his tail, nickering softly, prodding Bran to keep going.
Traitor.
“What’s hurting you? What was that?”
I bite my lip so hard now I’m bleeding in two places.
“Don’t come any closer!” I shriek, pressing my face further into my horse for cover.
“Fine,” says Bran, who I see from a quick glance stops at Burl’s flank, his hands up in surrender. “I won’t. Just tell me, Piro. Did I hurt you? Was it a splinter? Can I help?”
“No,” I snarl, knowing that, at least in answer to his last question, is the truth. There is nothing Bran can do to make this better. I must suffer the humiliation of this curse alone.
Retreating into silence, I ignore his pleas for explanation and begin loading the wagon to return home, turning my face away from him at every opportunity. Tears stream freely, seeping with the blood from my nose. I am quite certain I’m the most hideous creature to ever walk the forest floor.
I let Bran take the reins on the drive home, since I can tell he’s desperate to do something to help me. I urge Burl along with the crop, eager to put this whole incident behind us. Not intending to be rushed, Burl takes his time, slowly plodding the winding path back to the village. Some days I believe that horse truly loves me, and others that his sole ambition is to make my life more difficult.
My fingers twitch, drumming restlessly on my knees or swiping at my throbbing nose until Bran reaches over to capture one of my hands in his. A rush of heat spreads from his fingers to mine, and for a second, I allow it. Who knows how long I have
