5th of Braxos

Nearly two months passed, the rest of Carros and all of Ghyros parading by in a long blur. The days grew longer, drier, the last squalls of the rainy season breaking and trailing away, allowing the southern hemisphere to begin planting their dry-season crops. There were more fresh fruits and vegetables available at the commissary, and the Fruit Festival was just around the corner.

Meanwhile, the price of passage on any ship out of the Coalition continued to rise, thanks to the waves of people trying to flee the growing tensions in the north. The Dailies blamed it on the danger of sea skirmishes with the Illyrians. I didn't believe that was the whole picture at all, but true or not, every time I passed the travel bureau office, the cost of a ticket was a little higher, and the chances of our getting to the continent had dwindled just a little more.

Life settled into a tedium of working extra shifts, scrimping and scraping every spare arrum we could get into a box Arramy kept hidden under one of the stones in the sitting room hearth, but no matter how hard we worked, it seemed we could never quite catch up.

Until my birthday.

I was born on the 5th of Braxos. In Edon, winter was always thick on the ground on my birthday, and many of my childhood memories were of sledding down Danbyrre Hill with Betha and a few other girls from school, followed by a bonfire, hot cider, and a starlit sleigh ride. One year, Father even hired a tumbling troupe to perform in our living room.

This year, I forgot I even had a birthday. It started off just like the day before, and the day before that. There was no snow, Mr. Fosspotter didn't wake me by marching down the hallway playing Pherzon's Fanfare to Life on his military service trumpet, and instead of the tantalizing aroma of Cook's famous cream cake with peppermint glaze, there was only the reek of sea mud and clams.

As I had on every other morning for the previous six weeks, I left Arramy in the delivery dock, signed in with Big Gam, took up my station next to Nalle and started shucking.

Tarris was our sorter that morning, and she gave me a tired grin when she brought over the next basket of cleaned, sorted clams. "You know what I want, Nalle?" she yelled, putting a hand on her spine as she turned around to go back to the sorting table.

"What's that, love?" Nalle yelled back.

"I wish I had a man who would look at me the way Kaen looks at Lara," Tarris shouted over her shoulder. "Someone who waits to walk me home at night... Someone who doesn't spend every free minute in the Taproom guzzling away every last bit of our money..."

Nalle cast a meaningful glance in my direction and mouthed, "Jarro."

I nodded, then put my head down, concentrating on wedging my short-bladed knife between the halves of a silverlid clam.

It was true Arramy didn't go anywhere near the Taproom, but that was because he was always working, trying to close the gap between our little stash of money and those ticket prices. In the last week he had taken so many extra shifts he hadn't even had the energy to finish his dinner the night before and had fallen asleep sitting at the table.

I frowned at the clam in my hands. That Arramy worked hard wasn't surprising at all, but what if he didn't have to? What if he wasn't stuck here, living a lie, traipsing around after me? Would he be the sort to run off to the Taproom?

Maybe he was. Maybe he enjoyed a drink and a girl on his knee, and bawdy music and a sidelight show.

It wasn't any of my business if he did. I had no claim on him. He wasn't mine. The idea of him holding a giggling showgirl on his knee should not have made me feel physically sick.

But it did.

I dropped the empty clam shell in the bucket between my feet and glumly admitted I was glad Arramy was so tired he couldn't relax in the local pub.

I was an awful person.

With an effort, I shoved away thoughts of laughing silver eyes and kept shucking clams until break, then I hung up my gloves and followed Nalle and Tarris through the delivery bay doors.

Tarris hunkered down to sit on the curb, and Nalle took out her tin of finecut, rolling one of the small cheroots popular among the shift workers, lighting it with a small flint striker and taking a quick puff.

I untied my hair wrap, shook out my hot, sweat-damp braid, and sat next to Tarris, easing my aching feet and letting the warmth of the late-morning sunlight soak into my skin.

There were footsteps and girlish giggles, and then Rivany's voice off to my right, bright and boastful, "Oi, Nalle, spare me a spark, thanks. You got any spots free for the fight this week? I need some pin money. Oran's taking me to the Festival."

Tarris cleared her throat and nudged me at the same moment a shadow blotted out my patch of sun. Squinting, I opened one eye. My stomach instantly knotted up into a queasy ball. I didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Snakeneck was standing there in front of me, studying me, a lazy half-leer tugging at his full lips. His split full lips. He had a bit of a shiner going green on his right cheekbone, too, and his knuckles were bruised.

"Hello. I don't think we've ever been introduced," he said softly, inclining his head. "I'm Orran Moavany... and you are?"

None of your business, that's who. I glanced past him. The other Shuckers were shuffling into line, getting ready to go back in before the klaxon. "I am About-to-be-Late," I announced, getting to my feet, an utterly fake smile pasted on my face. "Nice meeting you."

His gaze burned hot on my shoulders as I edged around him and headed for the door, but I didn't look back, marching straight on through the delivery bay ahead of Nalle and Tarris. I shuddered as I grabbed my gloves and began yanking them on. 

Nalle leaned close as she gave her clam knife a quick once-over with a whet stone. "You better watch that one!"

"Which one?" I shouted, pausing in tying my hair back up. "Orran?"

"Yeah!" Nalle said, leaning a little closer to be heard over the boiler without yelling. "Two years back, he took on with my friend, Meira... He wouldn't let her leave the house, accused her of stepping out on him... Things got so bad he beat a man nearly to death just for looking at her..." Nalle's merry eyes were drawn with remembered grief. "Meira hanged herself."

"I'm so sorry," I said, reaching out to touch her arm.

She shook her head and stepped back to her station. "Meira's free now... He can't hurt her anymore. Just you be careful!"

Frowning, I plucked a clam from the tray. "But I'm not... I'm married, why would he want —"

"If anything, that might make things worse. He likes forbidden fruit... and you look a lot like her."

My knife slipped and nearly gouged my wrist, jolting me back into the task at hand.

Nalle didn't say anything after that, content to let the rhythm of slicing and scraping take over, and I was left to my own thoughts.

Just be careful. Just be careful. Careful of a random stranger with an inclination toward mid-sized brunettes. How was that even a concern after everything I had been through? One man. I didn't think he was Coventry. He would have turned me in by now if he was. Still, the way he looked at me... I chewed my lower lip. Arramy had never once looked at me like that, like I was only a thing to be used, to be owned, to be played with. A prop for clothing, a display for jewelry, a pretty bird to be caught and kept in a cage.

I looked around at the other girls on the trough. They were bowed over their work, backs bent, hands raw, many of them showing age early. This life was hard. Living on the commissary tickets and the company fuel allowance required long hours and careful bookkeeping to make all the ends meet up every month. But compared to all the deadly glitter and glamor that came with names like Tarrakarenne and Reixham – even Braeton – I much preferred this place. It was brutal and unforgiving, but it was honest about it.

A hundred Lord Braetons could offer me all the luxury in the world, and I would hold out for a simple apartment with a hard-working grey-eyed man who played pranks, whistled sea shanties in the kitchen, and had a sarcastic streak a mile wide.

That was a dangerous thought. So foolish. This life wasn't real. It would end. It had to. We were fighting for something much bigger than either of us, and the goal wasn't to play house. I had to stay focused. And yet, even so, there was a tiny little whisper underneath all my objections, murmuring, but this... this could be what you want...

I was mulling that over when the shift whistle blew and the conveyor engine ground to a halt with a hiss and a rattle, and all the employees left their stations, trooping through the delivery bay door.

My heart ached as I peeled off my gloves and put away my clam knife. He would be out there, and I would have to smile and walk home with him like we were lovers. It wasn't difficult to do that when it was all pretend. But now the pretend was getting harder to hang onto. Now it was too easy to wonder what it would be like if we were really going home, and we were really — No. I ground my teeth and shoved that last thought back into the fluttery, glowing place it had come from. I could not go that far. I would not go that far.

And now I had dawdled so long that I was almost the last one to leave.

Moving on weary feet, I trudged out into the delivery bay.

Arramy was right where I knew he would be, leaning a shoulder on the delivery bay wall. He brought his head up, his eyes meeting mine and his mouth lifting ever so slightly as I came toward him.

He wasn't wearing his jacket and had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. His skin was warm beneath my hand as I twined my arm through his. I swallowed hard and fell into step next to him as he turned and began walking up the street.

He didn't say anything at all until I reached the sitting room.

I untied the patched-over apron I had bought at the second-hand clothes barrow, and peered into the kitchen. "What's for dinner? Or, more to the point, where is dinner?" I asked, taking in the barren table. Usually he had bought a pie on the way home or fried up something from the commissary.

Arramy cleared his throat. "I ah... I thought we could go out tonight. Get some fresh air."

I raised an eyebrow and glanced at him. "Can we afford it?"

He quirked a lopsided grin. "We can spare a few posies. Go on and get changed."

Eyebrow still raised, I moved slowly to the stairs, hesitating at the bottom, giving him a chance to change his mind. When he didn't, I heaved a sigh and climbed to the loft, shaking my head as I proceeded to strip off my damp smock dress –also bought at the second-hand barrow – flinging it over the loft railing to dry. Then I pulled my good grey skirt over one of my plain white sleeveless summer blouses and cinched it at the waist with my only belt.

My hair was frizzy and wild from the steam in the cannery, so I took a moment to unbraid it, brush it, and pull it into a knot at my nape. That was as presentable as I was going to get.

Arramy was waiting by the door, and that lopsided grin appeared again as I came back downstairs. Then he held the door open for me and gave an almost gallant bow. "After you."

~~~

Living while keeping my head down made it easy to forget that there was more to Phyrros than Southend Street and the cannery.

These southern labor-class Altyrans worked hard, which, in turn, meant they played hard. They were loud, tough, scrappy, often abrasive, hot-blooded, and prone to arguing, but they were loyal and demonstrated love just as easily. They also knew how to have a good time, and the market square was alive with music and lights, the stalls and barrows festooned with colorful banners, the sellers offering food and drink and arrum games of darts and pebble-throw.

The Fruit Festival was in full swing, and I hadn't even realized it had started.

I also hadn't realized that the Fruit Festival was what Arramy meant when he said we should 'go out.' "Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked, wariness setting my nerves on edge as Arramy rounded a corner and headed straight for all the merriment and laughter without showing any signs of stopping.

He looked down at me. "Nai... But if you're worried, just stick close."

That earned him a perplexed once-over. "Are you feeling well? Have you had a fit of some kind? A fever?"

Arramy rolled his eyes, a smile pulling at his dimples. "Oh aye. Sunstroke. The effects should wear off by tomorrow, so hush and enjoy the night while I am still delirious."

What had gotten into him? He was tired, but he was up to something, and blast him, he was making me want to go along with it. My heart did a funny little half-jig in my ribs when he took my hand, his long, strong fingers lacing through mine as he pulled me along into the market square.

At first we only looked, but I hadn't played Pin the Pig in forever, not since Garding, and I paused to watch a boy trying to win a cornhusk pig with a pink velvet ribbon. His little sister was looking on with wide, hopeful eyes, and I couldn't help but offer a little moral support when he threw his last pin, "You've got it! You've got it!" and then commiserate when the pin fell short, "That one jumped out of the way, I saw it."

Arramy came to a stop beside me, munching the last of his corn. And then, to my surprise, he stepped forward and paid the little old man behind the counter. I went still, watching him bend to collect the little bundle of dart pins the old man handed over. Then he turned and held the pins out to me, that smile playing about his mouth again.

For a moment I stared up at him, unable to look away. I was pretending. I had to pretend. This was pretend. But something was different, shifting in that moment, with the lights glowing gold above us and the music rippling around us, and Arramy standing there holding out three brightly painted darts. This had nothing to do with playing a part. This was just Arramy being rather sweet. My heartbeat throbbed in my throat. Slowly, I took the pins. Focus. I needed to focus. I should smile. A sweetheart would smile, but I couldn't manage more than a shaky nod. Then, in desperate need of somewhere else to look, I toed up to the line chalked on the cobblestones.

The old vendor drummed his hands on the counter, bawling, "Oh ho, gents, we've got a lady and she means business! Give her some room, give her some room!"

All I heard was Arramy's low, raspy, "Aim small."

He had come to stand behind me, and leaned down to murmur in my ear, his words feathering along the side of my neck. A strangely pleasant rush of awareness threaded down my spine. A hundred memories of him ran through my head, of training sessions on the Coralynne, and a misty morning on a far-away plantation lawn. I clamped my bottom lip between my teeth, but there wasn't any willing the memories away.

Throwing pins wasn't much different than throwing knives. The same principle applied, no matter the size of the blade. I had spent hours hitting moving targets. The Pin the Pig cutouts were just standing there in neat rows, waiting. It wasn't a shock at all when the first, then the second, then the third pin thunked into the smallest target at the back. The one with the little crown on it, that earned the most points.

The vendor had been busking hard, attracting attention to his game with my little feat of skill, and there was a smattering of applause from a few bystanders when he reached above his head and untied the cornhusk pig with the velvet bow, but my attention was scattered like so many leaves on a warm summer breeze. Arramy was still behind me, and when I sank that last dart, he laughed and rested his hand on my shoulder. It wasn't anything more than a brief brush of his palm, a gentle squeeze of his fingers, but the warmth of his touch lingered, fracturing my ability to think.

I stood there, holding the cornhusk pig, blinking down at it. It took entirely too much effort to gather myself. What are you doing? Snap out of it! He's just being nice! Taking a deep breath, I mustered a smile, turned, and handed the pig to the little boy. Then, on weirdly shaky legs, I walked away.

A few strides later, Arramy caught up with me. "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head and made for the rows of trestle tables set up by the fountain. "No. Nothing." Yes! Yes, there is something wrong! You! You are what's wrong. You're not supposed to be wonderful.

He trailed me to an empty table and then sat down across from me, keen eyes searching my face.

I gave him a tight grin. "I'm just tired." It wasn't really a lie. Fatigue clung to my limbs, dragging at me, but no more so than usual after a day on my feet. It was the pretending that was wearing me out. Or rather, the fact that it wasn't quite pretending anymore. Somewhere in the last six weeks, the line between this fake life and reality had started blending too much. Trying to keep them apart was exhausting.

He studied me, eyes narrowed. Opened his mouth as if to say something, only to close it again when Nalle broke away from a group of other girls nearby and came trundling over, a burly dark-haired man in tow behind her.

"There's Lara. Lara, I want you to meet Yro. Yro, this is Lara Anderfield, and you already know Kaen from work. But isn't this fun?" Nalle beamed around at the rest of us.

Yro gave Arramy a brief, good-natured nod, and then Nalle was off again, laughing and pulling her young man toward the square left open for dancing.

A group of musicians were cuing up on the band platform, and a matter of minutes later the first, spritely notes of a low country dance started up. There was a lot of whooping as the couples lined up and began stomping and clapping the rhythm. Stomp-stomp-stomp, clap-clap-lap, stomp, stomp, clap-clap-clap.

I rested my elbows on the table and supported my chin on my hands, my gaze drawn to Nalle and Yro.

They were happy together. Free. Having fun.

What would that be like? To love and be loved? To have normal things to worry about, like work and food and family? To not know about the Coventry, or what was happening in the darkest shadows of the world?

There was a scrape of wood on stone. Arramy had gotten to his feet.

I tilted my head to the side, eyeing him askance.

He quirked a brow and held out his hand, palm up. "Would you care to dance?"

My brain immediately skipped a cog. "With you?"

"Nai. With the postman," he said tersely, looking away. "Aye, with me."

I licked my lower lip. He was waiting. Someone might be watching. I had to pretend. This was pretend. I could pretend. I dragged in a breath, reached out, and placed my hand in his.

All those hours spent training with that man, all the days spent following his orders, all the harrowing things we had lived through, and none of it prepared me for letting him lead me onto a dance floor.

It wasn't anything like dancing with NaVarre. There had always been something calculated about dancing with NaVarre. There was nothing calculated about dancing with Arramy. It was all raw edges and wild heartbeat and being lost at sea.

I told myself it wouldn't be so bad, that of all the things I knew how to do, dancing was one of the easiest, but when we moved to join the line, the song ended, sliding from the quick, jaunty steps of the low country reel to a softer, more romantic leissane. I was about to object, to beg off, but I didn't get a chance. Without a word, Arramy drew me around to face him, and then it was too late. I was in over my head. The dance hadn't even started, and already I couldn't catch my breath, and no matter what I did, I couldn't seem to tear myself away from those quicksilver eyes.

The first stanza began, and he stepped forward, his right hand raising my left between us.

Simple.

I spun beneath our arms, coming back around to face him, meeting his eyes again.

Easy.

Left hand. Spin the other way. Return.

There were other people on the dance square with us, but we might as well have been alone. He wasn't looking anywhere else, his gaze locked on mine. All I could feel was the warmth of his hand at my waist, the effortless sway of his body with mine as he pulled me close, dancing us in a meandering circle beneath the golden lights and the evening summer sky.

He was solid, and strong, and he was there. He had always been there, even when I hadn't seen him. Little by little, I gave in and let my head meet his chest.

After a moment, Arramy brought my hand up to cover his heart and slid his arm further around my waist, cradling me against him.

There was no more pretending. I didn't want it to end. I wanted to stay right there, listening to the steady beat of his heart. I wanted to be free, to just be Brenorra dancing with Rathe. My throat ached with the wanting of it.

All too soon the sweet melody of the dance came to a close.

Arramy slowed. Then he stopped.

I pressed my teeth together and willed myself to lift my head. I couldn't look higher than the collar of his shirt. I didn't dare. He would see the teardrops in my eyelashes.

For several seconds, neither of us moved. Then Arramy took a breath and eased away a little. He lifted his hand as if he might touch my face, then lowered it, letting go instead, putting some space between us. "Do you want to go home?"

Home. What a beautiful waste of a word. Offering a grim smile, I nodded.

"Aye," he rasped, dipping his head. "Aye. Alright."

I nodded again.

Silent, he turned and led the way out of the market square. I walked quietly beside him, my eyes on the cobbles.

~~~

The next morning, Arramy left early for an extra shift.

I heard him moving about in the near-dark, but I waited until he was gone and the apartment was quiet. Then I got up and began going through the motions, pulling on my smock, tying up my hair.

I found the rose when I went downstairs.

It wasn't easy to miss. It was bright yellow, and it was in a bottle in the middle of the table, a scrap of paper propped next to it.

There were only two words on the paper, written in a familiar, efficient hand: Happy Birthday.

I stared at the rose while I made myself some toast. I stared at the rose while I ate my breakfast. Then I stared at the rose some more while I tied on my apron and pulled on my boots.

Happy Birthday.

Yesterday had been my birthday. I was twenty six years old.

Arramy knew my birthday. Not only that, he had remembered my birthday. That was what last night had been, a birthday present from a man who couldn't buy extravagant gifts.

So he knew my birthday. So he had gotten me something. So it was a sweet gesture. I shouldn't make more of it than that. I couldn't let it become more than that. The sunlight wasn't brighter, the birdsong wasn't clearer.

Still, the rose was a spot of color. I didn't have many spots of color. I took it up to my loft and put it on the shelf above my clothes pegs, where I would get to see it bloom.

After considering things a moment, I wrote a little note of my own. Then I got the scrub brush out of the washtub, put it on the table, and propped my note on it.

Fighting a smile, I left the house, and walked to work on my own for the first time in weeks.

..................................

AN:

Alright. Confession: this chapter was HARD! There's such a narrow edge I want to walk with this. Dip the toe in, but don't jump yet. Not yet. Not yet, wait... wait... Now the other toe... Ugh! It's exhausting. Why is the romance harder to write than anything else??? I just wanna dive all the way in.

Also, this is leading up to something, so it's serving two porpoises. Care to guess where it's going?  

Anyway. If you feel like weighing in, I just need to know what's working, or what's not quite there yet. I'm too close to the water. I can't see the ocean for the waves.