“But the sun! We Albens have a terrible fear of letting it touch more of our bodies than absolutely necessary.”
“Which would explain the dour and listless spirit that pervades this country. Perhaps if you gave the sun a bit more attention, it would be flattered and come out more often.”
“Perhaps.” He smiles, cane tucked behind his back as he leads with his angular shoulders and long strides. Everything about him is graceful, from the cut of his suit to the curve of his brow. “Jessamin, I should very much like to call on you.”
I stop in my tracks. He turns immediately with his sly grin, as though he’d anticipated my reaction.
“I—I’m sorry, I—”
“But,” he says with a drawn-out sigh, “I’m afraid I cannot, simply because I do like you, ever so much. I should not have stolen this moment as it is. And so I’ll wish you safe wanderings, an utter absence of distasteful suitors, and many more days of sunshine for your hatless head.” He takes my hand in his and bends at the waist. A spark flames through me as his lips brush against my skin. I barely stifle a gasp.
“If things were simpler,” he says. And this time in his smile I am shocked to see the same ache I feel for Melei.
With that, he turns and leaves. I watch, bewildered as he walks away, his shadow stretching longer than any others around him, like it wants to stay.
I press my fingers to my chest. What nonsense is my heart pattering out? I barely know him, and I’m almost certain I don’t care for him in the slightest.
What an odd, beautiful man. I will never understand the customs of this insane country. Frowning, I find the nearest bench to rest on and another bird, as big and black as Sir Bird, lands next to me and caws.
“I don’t have any food for you.” I feel strangely melancholic in spite of the sunshine. The last two conversations with Finn are the most personal I’ve had with anyone since I left home. “That’s that, I suppose. Just you and me, Sir Bird.”
The bird answers with another loud caw, then a clacking attack of wings as it flies in my face. I scream and throw my arms up, trying to protect myself as it scrabbles for a hold on my shoulders. Standing, I twist and turn, stumbling down the path, but the possessed bird continues its attack until I feel a sharp burning sensation in my bun. It flies away, a clump of my hair and the blue ribbon that held it back dangling from its claws.
There’s a strange note of regret in its fading caws. Feeling the back of my head with probing fingers, I find a tender spot where the hair was ripped out.
I do not accept that blighted bird’s apology. I collapse onto another bench, warm tears tracing down my face, less from the pain than from the shock of it all. I hate this wretched country.
Three
“WHAT’S GNAWING YOUR SOUL?” JACABO ASKS IN the soft, musical language of our home. Here everyone calls him Jacky Boy, but he’s rather less a boy than a man—a large man at that, with his head shaved bald and a pronounced limp. When I looked him up to deliver his parcel, he knew without asking just what the city was doing to me, and immediately offered work and lodging.
He’s the type of man I am proud to know.
I wave a hand in the air. He chuckles at the familiarity of the gesture. I wish I could bare my soul to him in Melenese with the same ease, but the sad fact is, thanks to my mother’s determination, I am more fluent in Alben. I don’t even think in Melenese, and most of my dreams are narrated in the harsher tones of this country’s language.
It makes a soul lonely when even your tongue has no home.
Last night’s dreams required no language, though. I dreamt of beady yellow eyes watching me from the darkness. The memory of claws and feathers and beaks has me on edge. Today I begged a hat from Ma’ati, a maid here sweet on Jacky Boy, and wore it to my classes. Partly to protect my hair, but mostly so I could resist the temptation to watch the sky.
“Thinner on the carrots.” Jacky Boy nods at my work, and wordlessly I follow his instructions. I helped with the cooking some as a child, but we had a woman from the village who bore the brunt of the meal-making. This, however, is nothing like what we supped on. All creams, heavy sauces, and meat, with vegetables nothing but an afterthought.
I work mainly with chopping. Jacky Boy likes consistency in his kitchen, and I am very good at creating even, calculated amounts. Then he adds the artful touches that turn a tenpenny cut of meat into a queen’s head dollar. The ways of the rich. They will pay ten times as much for a meal because it is served on a beautiful plate, just as they will pay ten times as much for a bed and a roof if well-decorated.
Though I do envy them the goose-feather down.
I’ll bet Finn sleeps on goose-feather down. I’ll bet his sheets are the finest and softest materials, and that—
“Jessa.” Jacky Boy nudges me with his elbow. “That’s enough carrots to garnish a full cow.”
I jump guiltily, as though Jacky Boy knows I was thinking of a boy’s bed. “Oh, sorry!”
“Delivery,” says an oddly familiar voice, and I look up to see a tall, young man, his sharp, almond eyes instantly recognizable though it takes me a few moments to connect them with the younger version I remember.
“Kelen?” I gasp.
His face breaks into a smile as he looks me up and down. His brown skin isn’t as tan as it was on the island, and his hair is cut closer to his head in the Avebury style, but there’s no mistaking him.
I drop my knife and run, throwing my arms around him. “Kelen! I thought I’d never see you again. I asked Mama if you were in Avebury, but she said your mother didn’t know.”
Kelen laughs, squeezing me so that my feet leave the floor. Kelen, Kelen! “That’s very odd,” he says, his Alben accent nearly as good as mine. “Since my mother writes me once a week.”
I huff and shake my head as he sets me down. No doubt Mama didn’t want me running off to Albion and giving my heart to a Melenese boy. But this boy already had my heart for a few summer months when we were fifteen. Seeing him makes me think of cool, hidden pools, fruit-sweetened stolen kisses, and the glorious freedom it felt like we’d have forever.
We didn’t, of course. Kelen feels utterly out of place in this kitchen, in a way that is both joyous and painful.
“This is my cousin, Jacabo.”
“Hello,” Kelen says, nodding. He picks up a large, brown parcel from where he dropped it on the floor and hands it to Jacky Boy.
I want to drink him up, reveling in the familiar comfort of a shared childhood. That dizzy summer aside, we grew up running wild together, Kelen, me, Nuna, all of the village children. It feels like more than a lifetime ago, and I want to live in those memories, if only for a few stolen minutes. “Are you staying nearby? What are you doing? How have you been?”
A shadow passes over his face and I remember too late exactly why he came here. Not all the half-Alben children were as fortunate as me. His mother had turned to prostitution after Kelen’s father left. Some soldiers hurt her, and Kelen beat them near to death. We never saw him again after that. It was the end of my childhood in many ways, and the end of our easy romance.
I take his hands in mine. “I’m so very, very glad to see you are well.”