A rustle in the trees.
I gasp and nearly drop the thread. I scan the darkness. The trees stand watchful to my left. I search for movement—a wolf in the tall grass, the fangs of my stitching come alive.
“Freckles? What are you doing out this late?”
Not a wolf, then. For a wild moment, I imagine Ravod’s slender figure emerging gracefully from between the trees. My breath hitches a little, remembering the light shimmering in his black hair, the perfect curve of his shoulders, and how his eyes locked onto mine.
But there’s only one person in the world who dares call me “Freckles.”
“Mads?”
Mads steps into a patch of moonlight. His hair, which looks almost silver in the light, falls messily over his face. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his shirt is open at the neck. Years of grinding lumber at his father’s mill have given him a wide, muscular physique with broad shoulders and big arms. He has nothing of Ravod’s grace—more like a hulking gait. According to Fiona, he’s not the handsomest boy in Aster, but he has a nice smile. I think I agree with her assessment.
It’s difficult for me to clearly define how I feel about Mads. I’m really not sure if I love him or just want to feel that way because I think I should. I don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing a partner like Fiona does. Mads is the only boy in town brave enough to come near me.
He does have a nice smile though.
I bite my lip, embarrassed. Ogling boys is more Fiona’s purview.
“I heard what happened at the marketplace,” he says.
“Grandfather Quinn,” I murmur.
“No. I heard what happened to you,” he says, leaning forward.
I wince, remembering the hands pushing me to the ground. Mads continues, “I went by your house to check on you. When you weren’t there, I had a feeling you might have come here.”
“I didn’t want to wake Ma,” I say, quickly stowing my needlework back in my pocket. Mads has never understood my fascination with embroidery, or the images I weave with needle and thread. “Too strange for me,” he’s always said.
Mads has been by my side for as long as I can remember. When we were younger, we used to play together with Kieran. After my brother’s death, he was one of the only children who would come near me, other than Fiona. The other boys in town ridiculed him for it—tracing the sign of the Blot in the dust everywhere I went, the same one that hangs above our door—but Mads never cared. He could never make others accept me; though in spite of me, he became well loved. Mads never speaks ill of anyone, much to my frustration at times.
“Wolves have been sighted in this area. What would you have done if one spotted you?”
“Make noise, throw rocks, and stand my ground,” I reply readily. “Like you taught me.”
He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad I can be of some use to you. This seat taken?”
I move to make room beside me. He climbs the boulder with ease and takes a seat, leaving a hand’s length of space between us. Close, but respectful. It can be exasperating how courteous he is. When I think of Fiona and her pack of suitors, it makes me wonder if Mads has feelings for me. But why would he keep his distance? Is it because I’m not pretty like her? Is he only being kind?
When I look back up at his face, his smile is tender and a little shy. My breath hitches. Mads and I haven’t been this close in ages. And never this late at night. When we’re so alone.
There’s a weighted silence between us as Mads’s large hand covers mine.
He clears his throat. “Your hair looks nice.”
My free hand touches the intricate braid Ma made. “Thank you.”
Mads glances away briefly, chewing his lip. After a long exhale, he turns back to me, his face altered in a way I can’t quite identify. “I was worried about you,” he says quietly, leaning closer. His nearness sends a warm shiver over my skin. “Freckles,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “Something’s going on. I can tell. What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” It’s not true, but I don’t know how to explain it. Not with the heat of his fingers resting on top of mine. Not with all the pressure and fear of the day building up inside my chest, making it hard to separate it all into the right words.
His brow furrows. He’s not convinced. “You know you can talk to me, right?” he says. “If there’s something bothering you?”
“I know, Mads.” I manage to smile at him.
“Listen.” He takes my hand properly in his. “The drought is over. We earned a Telling from the Bards. The future isn’t as bleak as it seems.”
He pauses, and I try to drink in his hope. The safe feeling of his hand clasping mine. There’s a lightness in his eyes that hasn’t been touched by desperation, or blight, or death. I long to see my reflection in them—but I can’t, no matter how hard I search.
“Have a little faith, Freckles.” Mads smiles, the tips of his callused fingers tilting my chin as he leans closer.
His breath is warm on my lips, and my heartbeat is racing as fast as my thoughts. The tip of his nose brushes mine. His lips find my cheek. It’s not unpleasant.
Maybe it’s just not enough. I turn toward him, and our mouths meet. For a moment I feel as though the boulder has begun to spin rapidly and my arms reach around his neck. I’m just not sure if I feel that way because it’s Mads I’m kissing, or because I’m being kissed at all. I’m pretty sure I’m doing this all wrong. I tentatively open my mouth.
Mads inhales sharply and the furrow in his brow returns as he shifts back. The night air suddenly feels a little colder, replacing the warmth of his lips, and my half-lidded eyes open wide in surprise.
“What?” I frown, but in the pit of my stomach is the constant fear that he’s suddenly realized I’m not worth paying attention to. That everyone is right and he should stay away from me.
I don’t want that. I like having him around. He’s important to me, even if I’m not entirely sure of my feelings about him.
My arms unwind from his neck, thoughts tumbling wildly. I cradle my knees to my chest, a barrier between us.
Mads shakes his head. “I want to do this right. Not fast. Not without trust. You’re too important to me.”
I take a deep breath and release it slowly. It’s not Mads I’m frustrated with. Not really.
“It’s okay,” I reply, sparing him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “You’re important to me too.”
“Then what’s really going on?”
I already lied to Fiona today. My mother too. Perhaps it really is time to confide in someone. And who better than Mads?
“I…” I swallow hard. “I may have…” His eyes darken with concern. “I asked a favor from the Bards today. To cure me.” I force the words out quickly.
“You’re serious?”
When I say nothing, his frown deepens. I only confessed my fears to Mads once—on the night he kissed me for the first time. He assured me that I was imagining things; the Blot would never touch my family or me again. That he would never let it touch me. “What were you thinking? You can’t just—”
“I know,” I interrupt. Disappointment at Mads, and at myself, fills me, leaving an acrid taste in my mouth. I take a deep breath, but even that suddenly feels exhausting. “I know,” I repeat, quieter this time. “It was foolish.”