Page 65 of Never the Roses

Her face set into lines of strain, shadows darkening the eyes she quickly shifted away from him as she stared stonily into some middle distance only she could see. “You say that as if you’ve discovered something surprising. I should think it would be obvious to you. Avoidance is all any of this is.” She waved a hand in a grand gesture that managed to be bitterly ironic. “I’ve made a palace of avoiding, of hiding. Even of running, as you accused me.”

“It wasn’t an accusation,” he replied, knowing he finally touched on the heart of the pain that plagued her like a disease that continued to claw at her, a parasite so deeply embedded that it flourished within her, feeding and growing ever fatter, while she wasted away from nourishing it.

She stabbed him with her silver gaze. “Careful, sorcerer. You dance the edge of a lie.” Pushing herself up, she scooted off the other side of the bier, scattering flowers in her wake, a few stuck to her bottom where it flared like the sweet curve of the belly of a lute.

“Between friends,” he said, “pointing out each other’s self-destructive behavior is a loving insight, not an accusation.”

Snagging her gown from the floor, she pulled it on, releasing that cutting laugh of hers that held so much sorrow and anger. “Are we friends, then?”

“Aren’t we?” He gathered the remains of his shirt, mentally declared it a total loss, though sacrificed to a good cause.

“I’ll give you a new shirt,” she said, looking chagrined.

“Only if it’s made by your hands,” he returned with a smile. “Not from the Dream.”

“That would take forever. I have nothing to make it with.”

“You have the wool you spun.”

She looked confused.

“On the mantel over the fireplace in the other room, there’s a skein of wool. It looks soft.”

Her brow cleared. “That?” She laughed a little, ruefully and with bemusement. “It’s Bunny’s fur, and a bit of Moriah’s. When he first came to me, he was a ragged mess and I had to clean up his coat. Then Moriah wanted the same attention, and I had a big pile of fur that… Well, it was simply a diversion, a way to deal with the excess.”

“It’s powerfully magic.” He’d sensed that easily. Whatever she’d spun into the fur, the care and attention, the love, she’d transformed the yarn into something potent and unique. “A shirt woven of that by your hands would be special indeed. That way I could carry something of the peace and silence of your white walls with me.”

She was watching him with a curious expression, taken aback in some way he hadn’t intended.

“Not to presume,” he added, “but if you were so inclined, that would be my wish.”

“You’re a strange man, Em,” she finally said, as if she’d discovered the answer to a complicated equation.

He grinned. “You’ve just now figured that out?”

Firming her lips, she shook her head. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“Not even to save the world?”

“Not even for that. I’m too selfish.”

“That is not how I’d describe you.”

“You don’t know the height, breadth, and depth of my selfishness.”

This was at the dark heart of her, the thing she’d done that ultimately sent her fleeing from the world. “Will you tell me about it?” he asked.

She stilled, sorrow freezing her face. “You’ll be horrified. You’ll never see me the same way again.”

“I’ve done terrible things, too.”

“Not like this.”

“I want to hear it anyway.”

“To pass judgment, to decide on my sentence and whether I should attempt to atone by helping to stop your war?”

“No, Oneira.” He took her hand, cold and slick as ice in his. “Because I’m your friend and I’m willing to listen.”

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