Page 42 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I glance around the room, trying to pinpoint this sensation. It’s as if my powers are a radar, guiding me right to the Queen of Ilyria. She stares into the ballroom, through the dancing bodies, but I can’t see who she looks for.
Shaking her away, I try to take a sip of air without breathing in something else. Fear like smoke, love like poison.
Then a hand reaches in front of me and a knee settles by my foot.
Looking down, I see it’s Azaire who kneels before me. I avoid his gaze as I ask, “Don’t you have a partner?”
“No one that could compare to you.”
I shake my head, but I’m secretly smiling at the words. “I’m not supposed to dance with anyone,” I tell him. “In case I touch them.”
“Wendy,” he breathes from the depths of that bow, “I told you once, I was never afraid of your touch.”
The boy watches me. Dangerously, he longs, the same way I long to take Azaire’s hand.
I do exactly that, my intentions blurred. Do I wish to pull away from the boy’s yearning, or pull closer to Azaire?
It must be for Azaire. When he rises, his fingers curl tenderly around mine, making my pulse quicken.
Together, we walk to the dance floor, his hand settling on my waist. Then I’m looking up, into his eyes, and I know this is real—the way he feels and my desire to reciprocate it without fear.
This dance is nothing like the one in my mind with the boy. The faces around us hold steady, unchanging. Moonlight spills over the gowns, soft and silver, and the marble beneath my feet is cool and solid—real.
But most importantly, Azaire’s hand is real. Really holding mine.
“You know I could make you,” I say, and Azaire gives me a quizzical look. “Fear my touch. Or love me, or hate me. I could make you feel anything. That’s why you’re not supposed to touch me.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” His anxiety always spikes when he speaks to me. But it’s not like others. It’s heady, going to my brain like a drug, the same way alcohol heats blood. “It’d be a privilege if you felt enough for me to even consider doing such a thing.”
“Even if it was out of hate?” I ask.Hate for myself, I don’t say.
“Yes,” he says softly, and suddenly I become hyper aware of his hands on my body. So close to skin. “I’ve spent most of my life watching you notice other people. I want to be one of them, in any way.”
I know he does; I’ve always known. I’ve always felt him,noticedhim, as he puts it.
I try not to stutter as I say, “Most of the time I’m noticing out of annoyance.”
Or jealousy. Jealousy that people can find friendship, can care for one another, can touch each other. Any number of things.
It’s with that in mind—my true desire—that I decide to add, “But I always noticed you. In a different way. I liked that you were quiet.”
Azaire smiles, then looks down, shaking his head. His heart thumps like a rabbit chased by a snake.
My hands shake in turn.
“That’s a first,” he whispers.
“I mean it,” I say, glancing at his face, willing him to look at me. When he does, our eyes collide. I swallow the lump in my throat and add, “Ilikeit.”
His gaze shifts, searching mine—equal parts longing and something softer, almost desperate.
I hold his hand a little tighter, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my palm. His grip tightens in return, answering my silent question without words.
He won’t let me go.
“You know… at first, I liked that you saw people,” Azaire whispers. “I thought you’d see the things I couldn’t show. Until one day, I saw you dancing in the woods. It was like discovering a new star. When I saw you alone, I finally sawyou. I’d had a crush on you for years and then there you were, this new person. No longer focusing on everything, just dancing in the silence. Exactly what I wanted—for the things I couldn’t show to be seen, I saw in you, and I just… I could’ve watched you dance forever. ‘Till the end of days.”
His words—and the raw earnestness behind them—catch me off-guard. A flicker of something electric traces up my spine.
