Havenfall (Havenfall #1)(19)
“You and I have very different ideas of what’s dangerous.”
I think again of the Silver Prince’s words as I go to the ladder that leads to the barn loft and climb up, reaching a second floor filled with hay. The walls are covered with rakes and old harrows and tools I don’t know the purpose of. A hole in the roof reveals the night sky. I swear there are somehow more stars above Havenfall than there are elsewhere, and the moon always seems to hang low. As if the heavenly bodies can sense the doorways at Havenfall and are huddling in close, hoping to catch a breeze from another world.
As I plop down on a hay bale and wait for Brekken, it occurs to me why Marcus and I disagree. We, too, have different ideas of what constitutes danger. Marcus thinks it’s Havenfall, the soldiers and swords, cliffs and deep pools, the doorways in the cellar, the current of politics that simmers beneath everything, even as all the delegates drink and laugh together. And maybe that is dangerous. But not nearly as dangerous as staying in Sterling would be. I hate how everyone looks at me like I’m about to break or explode, making it feel like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nothing is as dangerous as the loneliness that wraps around me sometimes, as cold and real as an iron manacle.
When Brekken climbs up too, the sudden silence rings loud. He stops and stands framed against the hole in the roof, a soldier’s silhouette, and for a second the expression on his face is strange, still and uncertain. We can hear the music and noise from the summit, distantly, but the two of us might as well be in another world. Memories swirl through my mind like petals on the wind: him as a boy, the two of us chasing beetles or climbing trees after birds’ nests. The bond between us is still there, but it’s changed into something taut and charged, something that steals my breath.
But then he smiles, and unfastens his cloak, and it’s like no time has passed between us at all. He spreads it over the hay bale and comes to sit beside me, legs crossed. We’ve done this every summer for ten years, since he first appeared in Havenfall when he was seven. He was accompanying his delegate mother. It was the first summer after that horrible night. I was still shell-shocked after my mom’s arrest, after what happened to my brother.
We were the youngest residents of Havenfall then, too young to be part of the festivities, so Marcus packed us away to my room. Our babysitter was a maid who slipped away after half an hour—but it didn’t matter. Brekken and I were already in our own little bubble, entranced with each other. I was more surprised that he seemed fascinated with me too. Not for the reasons I was already coming to expect from people. Not because he’d seen the picture of me in the news, my round face red and wet with tears as a bailiff pulled me from a courtroom, usually accompanied by Mom’s mug shot and the moniker “Goodwin Lane Killer.”
This beautiful boy—even as a kid he was beautiful—was fascinated with me. My freckles and short fingers, my toys and love of horses that I’m pretty sure made him think for a while I was some sort of hero, facing up to those terrifying beasts. That first summer with him was the first time I felt like a person again, running around Havenfall and getting underfoot, teaching him knock-knock jokes (he never quite mastered the format), and exploring the woods around the inn, even though we weren’t allowed outside, because everyone thought a Solarian might still be on the loose.
That entrancement’s never faded for me, but I’ve no idea if the same is true for Brekken as he sits across from me, deftly uncorking the wine bottle. I don’t know if he thinks about me when he’s not in Havenfall, when he’s going about his day, riding wolves or sharpening his sword or lying in bed in the barracks. I don’t know how he feels about a lot of things. But then he distracts me by reaching into a satchel on his belt and bringing something out. A gilt-paged book only as long and wide as his hand, bound in dark red silk that gleams in the moonlight. The language on the spine isn’t familiar to me, but a chill sweeps through me as Brekken translates.
“Iavalar. Poems,” he says, looking up at me with a smile. He presses the volume into my hands, still warm from being close to his body. “By Stimarya, one of Myr’s most famous poets. Some people think her verse sentimental, but I’ve always loved it.”
I blush, running my finger along the smooth edge of the book. “Thank you so much,” I whisper. Brekken has always brought me gifts from Fiordenkill, but they’re usually little trinkets, jeweled earrings or good-luck charms of tiny carved-stone animals or, when we were littler, pretty rocks or leaves he found in the woods. Nothing as personal as this before. “You’ll have to teach me what they mean.”
“No need.” Brekken reaches over, opens the book and holds it open in my hand with two fingers. “I translated them already.”
I look down, my skin heating at his closeness. Sure enough, the printed text of a poem in the strange language of Myr runs down the right page, but on the left, Brekken’s careful, compact handwriting fills the page with blue ink. I make out a few phrases—snow like fleece falls over us; the tender stars hang low—before Brekken laughs, low in his throat, and shuts the book.
“Don’t read them now or I’ll be self-conscious.” He takes the book and slips it into my jacket pocket, an easy, familiar gesture. “How about you save them for the fall?”
I shift my weight, pleased and embarrassed, and the loft floor creaks slightly under us. Maybe it’s Marcus’s words earlier—You know how people talk—or maybe it’s just how Brekken looks in his soldier’s uniform, the embroidery on his tunic accentuating the flare of his shoulders and the blue of his eyes.