Page 21 of A Slipper in the Smoke
“You’re quiet the poet.”
“I… I like nature,” he confessed, like it was some great secret. “What about you? Tell me of some place in Navarra that sings for you.”
“The meadows around what was once our farm,” she admitted. “The grass is gold there, and whispers in the breeze. Come summer, it’s alive with poppies—deep reds and blues. I think I lost years inside those meadows.”
“Or gained them.”
“Yes. That too.”
Pip smiled at her, a smile that filled her in the way no offering of cake had ever done. “Come on,” he said, “this way.”
He steered her into a courtyard, far away from the bustle of the palace. Quiet streamed through the air like the delicate strings of a violin. She did not want to speak, afraid her voice would shatter the moment.
Pip pointed upwards. “I know they’re not real,” he told her. “But there are still stars in the skies. Try wishing upon one.”
It was silly. Foolish. The type of thing from fairytales. Wishing didn’t make a thing come true—hard work and perseverance did.
And yet, for once, for a moment, for a second, she wanted to believe. To indulge.
It cannot hurt to wish upon a star.
So she wished. She wished for fortune, for the chance to return to Navarra. She wished for success and companionship, and frivolous things like satin ballgowns and the chance to dance again. She dreamed big and long and hard.
But mostly, at the end of all her wishes, was one that screamed louder and harder than all the others, one she felt deep down in her bones and scarcely ever gave voice to.
And yet, at the end of the day, if she could only pick one…
I wish not to be alone any more.
“What did you wish for?” Pip asked.
“Everything,” she said. “You?”
“Too soon to say. Perhaps I shall tell you later.”
In the distance, a clocked chimed twelve.
“It is late,” said Pip. “Allow me to escort you to the lifts?"
They drifted back through the gardens, through glades filled with liquid moonlight, commenting on the statues and arrangements. Pip had a keen eye for sculpture, but he couldn’t name the plants. Elena prattled on about each of them, every fact tugging her closer to home.
The journey to the lifts was over far too quickly.
“Thank you for today,” she said softly, as she waited to board.
“The pleasure,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the top of it, “was all mine.”
That night, as Elena drifted off, her mind did not start counting how long it would take her to save up enough for the journey home, or start conceiving new inventions, or working out problems. That night, she dreamed of grass turned silver by moonlight, and icy warmth inside her that she had not felt in a long, long time.
Forthefirsttimein as long as he could remember, Pip woke smiling. He did not wake thinking of trade deals or meetings, or his father’s health, or unrest in the outskirts of Toulouse, or Sparta. He woke light, with a name he dared not whisper dancing round his mind.
Elena.
What an absolute stroke of luck to have run into her last night. Perhaps there were gods in the sky after all, and they’d decided to take pity on him. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed merely talking to someone, since a simple walk through the grounds had made him feel like he was swimming in liquid silver?
You’re quite the poet.
Maybe he was. Maybe he had a skill after all. It wasn’t quite bending metal like magic, like her skill, but it was something.
