I nod with a forced smile on my face toward the waitress. It’s an arrangement Temra and I have. We’re both terrible cooks. Everything seems to be burned or soggy when we try. Still, I’d rather eat poor food and be safe at home than out and about where strangers can watch me eat. Temra, on the other hand, loves eating out, so we have a deal. We can eat out for half the week; the other half we take turns cooking at home. And Temra always orders for me so I don’t have to talk to anyone but her.
I place my hands atop the table in front of me and twist my fingers together, a habit I’ve had since childhood. A light buzzing sensation has taken root just under my skin. In an attempt to distract myself from my discomfort, I say, “The governor came by to collect his weapon this afternoon while you were at school.”
“He came in person?”
“Yes.”
“He must be really excited about the mace. How did he like it?”
I try to hide a cringe, but I must not manage it, because Temra says, “He didn’t like it?”
“No, no. He liked it just fine.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He … invited us over.”
A bright smile fills my sister’s beautiful face. She makes it so difficult to be appropriately upset at times.
“That’s wonderful. Ziva! Don’t you know what this means? We must make a good impression.”
“I tried to say no,” I explain. “The man wouldn’t let me.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun! A party is just what we need.”
“It’s not a party. I was assured it would be a quaint dinner affair.”
“That’s fine. The governor’s son will still be there.”
Her mischievous smile can mean only one thing. “Attractive, is he?” I ask.
She sighs in response.
I wish the food would get here more quickly so I’d have something to do with my hands. My fingers have turned red from all the fiddling; I hide them beneath the table.
I can tell Temra wants to discuss the governor’s son in greater detail, but I just can’t be bothered. I’ve never really felt attracted to anyone before. I’m not sure if it’s the anxiety keeping me from getting close to people or something else. Whatever the case, it just hasn’t happened for me yet.
It’s not that I don’t want to connect with people. I desperately do, but even more than that, I want to feel safe. No one but Temra has ever felt safe.
I do a quick sweep of the restaurant. Only four other tables are filled. Two couples are seated at separate tables: a pair of middle-aged women holding hands, and a bickering man and woman trying to keep their voices low. The woman storms out of the establishment. The man throws down some coins before following.
How awkward.
Then there’s a lone woman sitting in a chair by the window, sipping a glass of wine.
And the fourth—
Is staring right at me.
I lower my eyes instinctively, my face heating to be caught staring. Except, he was looking at me first, wasn’t he?
Temra is talking about something, but I barely hear it as I risk glancing out of the corner of my eye back at the man.
He’s still watching me.
“Temra,” I whisper. “Someone is staring at us.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? No one is staring at you.”
“No, I mean it this time. Look, the fellow behind you.”
She turns in an obvious way to meet the eyes of the man near the door. He doesn’t have any food yet, and he’s certainly not looking at the menu held open in front of him.
Temra gives a quick half wave at the man before turning back around. “He’s handsome, if you can forget what he’s wearing. Maybe I should go talk to him?”
“Don’t you dare leave me,” I mutter between my teeth.
“I’d just invite him to join us.”
“No!”
“I’m teasing! I’ll wait until after dinner before—”
At first, I think the waitress has arrived with our food, but then I realize the far table is empty and the man has sauntered over. I turn my attention to the wood grain again as Temra twists delightedly toward the stranger.
“Hi there,” she says in a voice she only uses with men.
“Hello,” he says. “Forgive my interruption, but is there any chance you’d let me join you?”
Temra looks to me, but I can’t say anything. I still can’t look up properly. So she answers, “Please,” and indicates the free chair.
The hairs on my arms stand up at the close proximity of the stranger. I feel as though my insides are being kneaded like dough. I want to be anywhere else.
“I’m Temra,” my sister says.
“I’m Petrik,” the stranger says.
“Petrik,” Temra repeats, trying out the name. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m not from here. I came from Skiro’s Territory.”
“What do you do in Skiro?”
How does she do that? She just effortlessly knows what to say and how to say it. I manage to talk to my customers in the shop sometimes. Weapons I know well, and I don’t have too much trouble discussing them. But anything else?
I’m helpless.
A pit of longing rests in my gut. A wish to be more like my sister. So at ease with the world, so comfortable in her own skin.
“I’m a scholar from the Great Library,” Petrik continues in his deep tone. “I specialize in ancient magics.”
My eyes flit upward of their own accord, my interest piqued.
“Magic?” I question.
The man grins, and I find the courage to look at him properly. He’s somewhere around my age. He wears his hair shorn close to the scalp, a thin strip of black fuzz. He has full lips, a wide nose, and his skin is a deep brown with matching eyes.
His clothing is unusual. Most opt for tunics and leggings and sturdy boots, but this man wears a deep sapphire robe that covers his hands and ankles. In fact, all I can see of him are the pointed tips of his boots and his head. It would appear the robe has a hood, but he wears it down, so I can see his face.
“Yes, from the seeresses in the northern continent to the animal speakers in the western isles—I’ve read into all of it. I’m compiling my own book. A quick guide of sorts to every known magical ability in the history of the world.”
Temra’s eyes narrow, and she looks pointedly at me. She raises her brow, as though trying to communicate something silently to me. After a moment, she gives up and looks heavenward. “And this study has brought you to Ziva,” she says.
“Precisely,” Petrik says. “I was hoping Ziva might allow me to ask her some questions and inspect some of her work.”
At first, I feel delighted. A man my age wants to talk to me about my work? Is this the opportunity I’ve been waiting for? A promise to stay in safe conversational waters while getting to know someone new?
But then I remember he said this was for a book.
Other people will read it. Petrik will quote me. Describe me and my processes. I’ll be scrutinized. What if I say something wrong? What if he thinks my magic is boring and he rejects me and leaves? What if everyone who reads the book thinks I’m a hoax and I lose all my customers?