Followed by Fros(53)

My heart threatened to break my ribs. “But won’t Imad—”

“Even my sheikh cannot keep me every hour. There are men to fill in for me. Misa, do you want me to stay?”

I nodded.

He moved to the north wall, ready to pull down a drapery, but I scurried to my feet and pulled the blankets from my bed. “Use these,” I said, holding them up. “They make no difference to me.”

“For my camel?”

“I don’t mind.”

Lo accepted them, then studied the one I had woven of the Finger Mountains, my storm, and the birds. “Your talent is growing.”

I smiled.

He stepped outside, brought his camel into the lip of the cave, and covered it, then set the last blanket beside the fire, rolling it at one end to form a pillow. When he had finished, he glanced at me as though we hadn’t just had a conversation about Death and him staying the night and asked, “What coffee?”

Smiling, I tossed him the bag and set the pitcher by the fire to warm.





CHAPTER 22





I did not sleep well that night. It was in part due to the cold, in part my determination not to let my teeth chatter in the silence between wintry gusts that swooped over the cavern, and in part because I was very aware of Lo’s presence on my floor. He lay far from my reach, and I could not see him unless I sat up, but my thoughts ran rampant, and I could not—or, perhaps, did not want to—rein them in.

I do not think he slept well, either. The moment I dimmed the lamp he went into guard mode—utterly silent, his body tense and ready to spring at any moment, much like a panther. His eyes had a way of seeing everything at once, while never looking at anything directly, and I knew even the faintest shiver would not escape his watch. I listened to his breathing as I massaged the cramps in my calves and sides. It did not sound like the breathing of a sleeping man. I felt guilty for stealing away his sleep. But I hadn’t felt so safe since before I left Euwan, when I had a sturdy home to sleep in and a strong-armed father just down the hall.

Sadriel did not come.

Not long before dawn I selected River of Tears from my bookshelf and began reading through it—it was a short novel about an old man who loses everything in a fire and, using the roof of his ruined house as a boat, travels upstream until he can find a new home. What he finds is an ancient burial ground, where he lies down and dies among the bodies of his unknown ancestors. It was my least favorite of my books and the least read among my small collection. I preferred happy endings, though I appreciated that the story was rich with symbolism.

At the first pink light of dawn Lo rose wordlessly from his bed and took his time folding his blanket and stacking it at the foot of the bed. I set down my book and poured oil on the coals to light the fire. I found myself constantly tucking strands of hair behind my ears—I had cut it too short to tie.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

“I am fine.”

“Do you want some coffee?”

I stood up and grabbed the pitcher before he could answer, then slipped outside to gather fresh snow. It fell in wide, soft flakes, silent and beautiful, catching the colors of the sunrise. I watched it for a moment before heading back into the cavern, shutting the door quickly behind me.

Lo was sitting on the edge of my bed, turning over River of Tears in his hands, running a calloused finger down its broken spine. He regarded me with a faint grin, and I smiled back at him. I set the tarnished pitcher on the coals to warm.

“You never told me what you thought of this one.”

I took my patterned head scarf—I had given away the mustard one—wrapped it around my forehead, and knotted it at the nape of my neck to hold back my hair. “It’s well written and thoughtful, but it’s a sad story with a sad ending.” A tale of a man truly alone.

“Hmm.” He turned the book over. “I always read it when I became too aware of myself. When I ‘could not see the big picture,’ as you might say in the Northlands. I find it . . . realistic.”

“Realism is what philosophy is for,” I said, wetting a rag to wipe out the previous night’s cups. The water froze on the fingers of my gloves. Lo put down the book and took the rag from me, cleaning the cups himself. “Fiction is for dreamers.”

He smirked. “Is it?”

I turned up the flame in the oil lamp. “Why else would one read unbelievable stories but in hopes of believing? I always saw novels as an outlet for which the mind can escape this world, not be tethered to it.”

“I think I know an author you may like, in that case,” Lo said, placing the cups on either end of the table. “I will have to bring you his works.”

He looked at me with those rich, dark eyes. I forced myself to look away, if only to hide a girlish grin.

To my surprise and great joy, Aamina arrived later that morning, her arms wrapped around a basket nearly too large for her to carry. Lo took it from her, and her eyes popped at the sight of him, then goggled at me in astonishment. Thankfully, she said nothing while he was present.

“I was so worried,” I said as Aamina stepped in from the snow, her shoulders and head scarf nearly soaked. “Your sister, is she well?”

“Yes, yes, she’s healthy as a wild pig. But child, that babe wanted to come into this world feetfirst, and you must know what a poor idea that is, and bad luck at that. Oh goodness, if that midwife had arrived ten heartbeats later—”