Page 5 of Soulgazer

“She speaks,” he says, “but can she manage more than two words at a time?”

My forehead bunches, but…there’s a new twist to his lips. Almost like a smile. “I prefer to listen.”

“A trait I heartily wish more people would adopt.” The man touches his horn to mine and steers us toward not the dark, empty night but a gently crackling fire. We sink onto a log, and another cord releases along my spine, shoulders dropping so that I can breathe again.

Until he tilts his head, studying me closer in the light. “Are you certain you’re well? Your eyes are…strange. I thought they were blue.”

“They are.” I jerk my head down so that my fringe falls into place, obscuring my eyes from view. “It’s the fire playing tricks. They’re blue.”

And green, gray, brown—changing hands from one day to the next, or tumbling all together in a mad swirl. The last time my curse broke free of its cage, I made myself sick watching the colors churn.

I drink, my heart lashing itself against my throat. “They’re just blue.”

“Is that why you’re not lined up with the others, hoping the Wolf will claim they’re the rare color of the sea?”

More knots gather between my ribs as I follow his derisive gaze to another fire, farther down the beach. Women gather like clouds ringing a mountaintop, and I see him again—the Wolf perched on a damp log at their center. He cups their faces and tilts them this way and that, making a show of inspecting each one.

I fight down the horrible urge to laugh. “What would be the point?”

“Curiosity. Romantic notions of an idiot who never grew out of playing with his toy boats.”

I think of the tail and barely restrain a smile. “He’s just a story.”

“And the isle?”

My throat burns with the acrid taste of that fantasy, turned to ash on my tongue.

I drink until I taste nothing but wine. “The Isle of Lost Souls fell with the gods.”

He grunts, eyes raking over me. “Practical.”

“Aye. I’m nothing special.”

“You’re not?”

His tone is dry. Flat.

Regret swallows me whole as I scramble to say something—anything—until he makes a sound like the dry clatter of rocks. Laughter. He’s laughing at me. Heat crawls over my limbs, an effect of the wine or perhaps the hopeless mess I’m making of my father’s task.

“I’m sorry, I have to—”

“You’re not experienced with courtship, are you?”

The words stop me mid-rise, or perhaps it’s just the tap of hisfinger along my wrist. I flinch as he traces the delicate skin, tipping my palm up into his own. Creases and calluses mark each joint.

“No. I’m not.”

“And you’re certainly not as fragile as you’re painted. I expected a waif lost to the wind.”

An uneasy laugh startles past my lips. Is that an insult? A compliment? Is he supposed to be touching me—and am I meant to let him?

Panic seizes my tongue as I glance to the side, where other couples twine together like serpents. Father said nothing of this—Mamsaid nothing of this. “I haven’t broken yet.”

“Yet.”

His touch slides higher up my arm. I jerk my face back to his own.

“You seem practical enough. Sturdy. Smart. But this gown…” Something quickens in my belly. Severs me from my body until all I can do is watch as he traces the whisper-soft edge of my sleeve. It took twenty-six hours of sewing to get the folds right. “It’s a fanciful thing, isn’t it.”

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