Page 25 of Torn

“Rookie.” As an invitation, she slaps the goat’s rump. “Come on, this zodiac sign is all about learning tough lessons.”

“And treading carefully.”

“If you lose your balance, I’ll catch you. Don’t you want to sit next to me? Don’t you covet this seat even a teeny bit?”

“Is there a single question or thought that you’d actually keep to yourself?”

“I’d rather we tell each other everything.” She leans over and whispers conspiratorially, “What happens in the carnival, stays in the carnival.”

Anger stares at her, then a laugh rips out of him. The noise is as aggressive as it is destructive, to the point where the ground quakes. It’s a timeworn, vigorous racket, unpracticed as if he’s never been mirthful a day in his life.

Yet it’s natural, made of thunder and hail. It’s what a zephyr would sound like if it heard a joke.

The intense sound of him cuts off her air supply. She feels like she’s just won a medal for instigating this blizzard of chuckles, which rinses away Anger’s reservations. With humor still tweaking his face, his shoulders lose the stiffness as he swings a leg over the goat.

Once they’re seated, the carousel does the work on its own, responding to the divine stars’ command and beginning to twirl. The handles crank, lobbing them up and down while fairy colors strobe around them.

The breeze flaps Merry’s skirt, pushing it up her thighs. Anger notices, his eyes straying to her skin and then clicking away. He straightens on the seat, one hand clutching the bar, the other flattening across his hip, the pose reminiscent of an emperor.

Merry giggles. “You look awfully regal.”

Anger doesn’t glance at her, but his mouth quirks. “Too much?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Then, with a not-so-tough, not-so-real sigh, he does glance at her. “So what happened to your silly quiz? Isn’t that the basis for this magical night?”

Merry doesn’t buy his act. “You don’t think it’s silly.”

“I think you’ve forgotten your plan.”

“I think that makes two of us.”

Anger sobers, his mood folding as he contemplates the world spinning outside the carousel, beyond the pocket of music and lights.

Merry backpedals before she loses him again. “I love neon art, and music, and skating, and clothes. I love playing hostess in the Ethereal Arcade. I’m afraid of the dark but not the night sky. And I love wandering this carnival alone, but I’d rather wander it with you.”

Curiosity directs him back to her, his gaze swinging sideways. “Neon art. As in, the words tacked to your bedroom walls.”

“Star-granted masterpieces, curated when I was a foundling of thirty. I’ve kept them since childhood. You never forget your firsts, which makes them eternally poignant. Don’t you agree?”

“I do,” he says, the gritty texture of a memory surfacing in his voice. “Why neon?”

“To have something bright of my own, something that shines in the dark and tells the truth. Something that isn’t a star.” She flaps a hand. “Not that I don’t love the stars, but I can’t pluck them like dragonflies and pin them to my wall—not that I’d ever, ever, ever do that to dragonflies. Anyhow, neon is moody and soulful, yet it’s incandescent and lively. It’s vivid and a little rebellious.”

He nods. “I like the sound of your light.”

So does she. “Tell me a word—a meaningful word, and I’ll request it for you in neon, via the stars.”

“Can I get back to you on that?”

“Will you be here long enough to do so?”

“I might be. Fates willing.”

“I wasn’t asking the Fates. I was asking you.”

“Then, yes.” He draws in a breath and blurts out, “I’m afraid of snowstorms.”

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