Page 40 of Born for Lace

I followed her after that night—I would have followed her, my closest friend, to The Crust that day I left the Half-tower.

If not for Spero.

Tears moisten my eyes, sliding beneath my lids, but I don’t open them as I sing. It’s dark in here; perhaps no one will see my friend’s memory punishing me with grief.

Grief is like an old wound, one moment you’re moving forward and living in the present, then something happens, and you bump it, or nothing happens, but it flares with pain. It opens, and you bleed again.

I want to cry hard. Weep. To sob each word through my lips, but the song ends abruptly because I forget the last verse…

I inhale and exhale.

Blinking the tears away, I open my eyes to the pressure of every gaze in the ruby-hued room.

My throat goes dry when the silhouette of a man rises from a corner and approaches me, his gait slow and assertive. Coming into view, I see a familiar man but can’t quite place him.

“Where did you learn that song?”

Wiping at my eyes, I take a moment to fully emerge from my pit of melancholy. “Um, a friend taught me. Did you like it?”

His eyes crease when he smiles, showing his age, and his height dwarfs me, denoting a Xin De gene along the line. “You’re far too innocent to be a House Girl,” he mentions, lips quirked. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

I peer up, meeting his gaze. “Are you a drifter?” Where do I know him from?

If he was from The Bite, he wouldn’t need to ask that, though, everyone from The Bite is a runaway, just as Tide said.

“Yes. Just passing through.”

“And you’re lonely,” I say with a shrug.

He laughs as if I wasn’t meant to point that out or draw attention to this faux interaction. “Yeah. Loneliness is the greatest misfortune. Are you lonely?”

Yes… I miss my Collective.

I only smile. We both know why he is here, why I’m here. To exchange. It is not different from any formal Trade work, not really. Trading is the blood that courses through The Cradle, whether aligned formally or organised in the desert; it is the lifeforce of our land—what heals it and bleeds it dry.

“I have your gentleman in the corner. Very taken by our new Lace Girl.” Sweets touches the man’s shoulder, dismissive but polite.

“A Lace Girl?” The drifter smooths his shirt down his chest, drawing my gaze to the tight physique underneath. He was the one at the cove, too far to see any facial features, but… I’m sure it’s him. He has a captivating aura. “Well, give a man a chance. What are you asking?”

I lift my chin. “Butter, sugar, flour, ginger.”

He eyes me. “To make cookies?”

“Yes!” I beam. “How did you know? Well, cookie dough, really. I don’t have an oven to cook the cookies, nor do I know how to.”

“Why ginger?”

“Because it is a strong flavour, and Tide might actually be able to taste it. My friend, Tide. He has no sense of smell and can’t taste much. I wanted to do something nice for him.”

He hums. “What about cinnamon?”

“Cinnamon?”

Rubbing his jaw, a cool grin slides above his hand. “Cinnamon cookie dough would be very flavoursome.”

“Excuse me.” Sweets grabs my arm and gently pulls me to my feet, guiding me to the side. Her lips touch my ear. “I don’t know this man. Are you sure? I have the other option waiting. He will get you butter.”

I listen, but feel a pull to this stranger, one that draws my gaze to him again. Eyeing his strong physique, I imagine myself alone with him. Beneath him. Feeling him. Uncertainty nips at my stomach—alone with a strange man. How would a drifter get a spice like cinnamon, anyway? What does he do? Perhaps he’ll tell me. I imagine sharing conversation, gazing at each other, our intimacy having smashed the boundaries strangers have. I could sing for him or talk his ear off, and he could care for me…

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