Page 58 of Lost Feather
Why was he telling me this? Maybe he knew that I was panicking before. Did he suspect how soothing his grumbly voice was to me? The cloth moved over my face again, and the cooling liquid on the fabric helped the acid burn subside there. I whimpered when he took it away.
“I’m sorry, sweet one,” he murmured. “The cloth is getting dry.” Something moved, a chair or a stool, and then he was back. “I’m no poet myself; other than my soul work, my creating runs more to things that can be touched. But I used to trade carvings to Robbie for poems, sculptures of High Angeli I’ve known, who I miss. It helps me remember my friends.” I heard a muttering of what sounded like names, then. Dozens of names, and a drawn-out sigh. The cloth came back then, newly damp and smelling of salt again.
“Robbie was always falling in and out of love with the ladies. Getting children on them too, and then letting what others thought of his children’s mothers change his affections. Poor lad. He wanted to love like the Angeli do. But he didn’t understand the nature of our love. He wrote a poem that came close, though. It always makes me cry when I hear it, though I’d thank you not to tell that to anyone else in Sanctuary. They all think I’m a fierce, angry hermit.”
I cleared my throat, or tried to. “Teddy… bear,” I managed to say. His laughter seemed to shift some of the weight away from my face.
“No one would believe you, my sweet one.” I felt him lean close. “And don’t make me laugh. I need tears for this job.” Then he started reciting a poem I knew and had always loved, about the length and breadth of true love. It started with roses, which reminded me of Dina, and ended with a long journey and a promise.
“…till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, while the sands o’ life shall run.”
This time, though, the words of that song changed something. Inside me, there was shifting, as if two pieces of me that had been held apart clicked into place. Tears poured from my eyes, scalding me.And I will come again, my Luve, tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
My eyes flew open, and I saw my giant angel, weeping. I wished I could raise my hand to his face.
“My sweet,” Mikhail murmured, his turquoise eyes filled with concern, and something far more appealing. Addictive. No one had ever looked at me the way he did now. “Your eyes are green, my lo— Feather.” His cheeks blushed a ruddier bronze as he turned his attention back to the cloth in his hand.
I took the moment to appreciate his physique. I was in too much pain to be turned on, but something about him made my heart beat faster. The small scars that peppered his face almost gave the illusion of scales, like he might be a dragon, disguised as a man… but the dark hair that fell over one eye made him seem boyish, and matched the shy blush that he was fighting. My blushing dragon. Maybe I was still dreaming.
“You’re cleaning my face with your tears?” I managed to say. “Doesn’t it hurt you to cry?”
The smile that crept over his craggy features was like watching the most beautiful sunrise. “No, it doesn’t.” He chuckled. “I had no idea… but no.” Those eyes transfixed me again. “These tears don’t hurt even a little.”
He dabbed the corner of the cloth to one eye, then used the wet fabric to clean my lips. I could feel the weight lessening there, and see the smut coming away onto the washcloth. He folded that corner in, beginning again. The intimacy of the moment stunned me.
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked, my heart pounding like a small bird’s at the tenderness in his gaze and touch. “How long have I been... out?”
“Three days, my Feather,” he replied calmly.
He had called me sweet, his Feather, and—almost—his love. Was I still dreaming?
Before I could process any of this new Mikhail, he lifted my head and held a cup of water to my lips. I took a small sip, my heart melting at the way he handled me, like I was fragile and precious. When he laid me back onto the cushion, I asked, “And how long have you been here?” How long had he been caring for me?
“Three days,” he answered, tweaking the end of my nose when my jaw dropped. “Now, go back to sleep and let me work.” I closed my eyes, but only because I didn’t know what to say. How to handle the emotions that were tumbling me like a stone in a river.
I slept again, but when I woke, my eyes were almost clear, though my arms and legs were still far too heavy to lift. Mikhail was there, a plate of food in front of him. Before I had even finished opening my eyes, he’d tucked one of his thighs behind my back, and lifted another cup of water to my parched lips. I was lying on a large cot not far from a fire.
“A fireplace?” I hadn’t noticed it before.
“Mmm,” he hummed, pulling a golden grape from the stem and offering it to me. “It’s been colder in Sanctuary than we’re used to. And you were chilled. I built it a thousand years ago or so. Mostly for the look of it. I always liked a roaring fire on Earth.”
“I like s’mores.” I gasped. “Sunny! Is she okay? I dreamed about her.”
“She’s been here every day, for hours. She is a very good friend.” His hand went to my hair. “She cried on your hair.” As he stroked my head, a dimple appeared in his cheek, and I felt at least one ovary burst into flames. “Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” I answered. He held a small hand mirror up and angled it above me. My hair was still very dirty, but a few streaks of it were… “White?”
“White is a normal hair color. No, yours is silver. Like pure moonlight reflected in a mirrored lake.” He cleared his throat. “There I go with the poetry again.”
I wanted to laugh, but it hurt. I settled for smiling, and trying not to look at the wreck my face was. All the work I’d done had been thrown away, and then some. “Well, I bet that was unexpected,” I managed to say as he laid me gently back down on the long cushion.
“Yes, Feather. Everything about you is unexpected.” For some reason, his stare made me want to fidget and twist my silver and muck-colored hair. Instead, I stared at the crackling fire.
Mikhail began carving something, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. I squinted at what he was making; it was a rook for a chess set. On the table to one side, I saw an almost-complete set, the figures carved out of what looked like ebony and pure gold. His hands on the pieces were thick with greasy clay, though. Like somehow he’d gotten tainted by my smut.
“Looks like you’ve been busy. What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
