Page 18 of Touch

They call a draw and resume targeting the markers. During the round, Andrew remarks while taking a shot beside her, “Do you have a thing for the stars?”

It’s not an unusual question. He’d seen her admiring the firmament beyond the skylights.

Love pulls back on her bowstring, uncertain how to express what The Stars mean to her kind without betraying too much. “No matter how much you make sense of the great celestials, they stay transcendent. We should be used to them because they’re eternal, like the sea and soil. However…” She aims and treads carefully. “They continually astound me, although they’ve been assigned all the rational, technical explanations.”

“I get that.” Andrew takes his turn and shoots. “They’re scientific and mysterious at the same time. That’s nature in general, especially space—solar systems, planets, constellations—since we can’t see all of it. It’s the unknown.”

“Yes, but I loathe comets. Either they go in useless circles for eternity, or they get knocked out of their orbits and destroy things. There’s no magic in that.”

“Who has time to dislike a comet? Who has room in their head for that?”

Love does. She has plenty of time to collect likes and dislikes. For example, she very much enjoys the twitch of his mouth and the muscled flex of his arms when he braces the longbow. She also abhors this treasonous fact.

“In my defense,” she argues, “disliking comets is more prudent than wasting time disliking someone for voicing their opinion. From what I’ve seen in your world, people engage in the latter far too often. And too eagerly. And prematurely. And theatrically.”

“That’s a leap, jumping from comets to social melodrama,” Andrew contests, drawing another arrow from a container on the ground. “But I see your point.”

“I gather this archery range is a retreat of yours.”

“Since I was a runt. It’s been neglected for just as long.”

“That explains why you know how to manipulate the door handle and gain entry.”

“I haven’t been here in a while, though. Practicing out in nature offers more options, despite the weather.” He tosses her a sidelong glance. “That’s why you caught me in the first place.”

Love aims. “What led you to archery? It’s an uncommon sport in this village.”

“I’d rather talk about you. Whatever you’re willing to tell.”

She levels her chin, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure that oozes through her limbs. “I might oblige if you go first.”

Andrew indulges her, confiding about being a youth and working at the matriarch’s bookshop. A passion for reading had evolved into a passion for fantasy, which had led to other desires, not only to write stories but wield a weapon like the characters who inspire him.

Archery had made sense once Andrew located the deserted range. Like a stroke of fate, it had suited his ambition. Bows and arrows fit the real world, as well as the fantastical ones.

When it’s Love’s turn to speak, she omits the part about being a goddess and the magic of her realm. She cherry picks safer memories from her mind and confides about growing up in nature—navigating caves and bonding with constellations.

Based on the subtle motions of his mouth, Andrew’s restraining himself from asking for more, the onslaught of questions crowding his tongue. It’s magnificent and terrible to behold.

Love doesn’t realize how much time has passed until a metallic noise rings out, tolling through the streets and into the building. The church bell. It’s nearly midnight. Although they’re only halfway through a fifth round, Love lowers her bow, bereft of cutting this night short.

“We must go,” she murmurs.

Andrew stalls, then rounds on her, the arrowhead tipping toward her chest. “I could take you prisoner, make you stay until I’m done with you. Or better yet, until we’re done with each other.”

6

He’s jesting. Yet this human may be right. Damnation, she doesn’t want to leave. No, she wants to stay and do more of this talking—this simple, meandering act that leads to nowhere yet turns this spot intoeverywhere.

Also, she wants to officially defeat him in this match. Instead, it’s another draw.

If only reality were so merciful.

Thirty minutes later, they stall at the edge of the woods, bookended by trees on one side, the village’s park on the other.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he concludes. “We survived without bloodshed, and you didn’t complain once about tying with me on that last round.”

“That’s because I was in a generous mood,” Love quips.

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