Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(84)

“I have no trouble believing you took down a shark.”

She rolls over and finally meets my gaze. My pulse races. Her skin is pale and her umber eyes are weary, but she’s still breathtaking. She doesn’t know it, but every day when I’m gone, all I think about is her.

“I know you’re strong, Ailesse.”

“Not enough.” Her chest falls. She glances at the lanterns and candles around the room.

They’re fine candles, ones that don’t smoke or sputter. I never rationed them like I said I would. I keep bringing her more. “It’s not enough light,” she confesses.

I can’t stand seeing her in pain any longer. I have to get her out of here. “Are you well enough to walk?” I offer my hand. I know somewhere that might be safe. I haven’t risked taking her there yet, but now I’m desperate. “I want to show you something.”

After a tense, stretched, and nerve-racking moment, she reaches up and sets her hand in mine.

The warmth of her skin instantly settles me. I pull her to her feet, and her earthy, flowery smell fills my lungs, better than any perfume.

I help her down the scaffolding and onto the floor of the quarry, then lead her into a tunnel she’s never been through before. My lantern faintly lights the path ahead—a mining tunnel, free from any skulls and bones. I don’t want anything to upset her.

We step over rubble and duck under places where wooden beams hold up the fissuring limestone ceiling. We slide through narrow spaces and crawl over piles of bricks. Every time our hands come apart, my fingers ache to touch her again. As soon as possible, I take her hand once more, and she weaves her fingers tightly through mine.

“There used to be a great house in Dovré,” I say as we come near our destination. “The baron who lived there turned the courtyard into an aviary, and he covered it with a dome of leaded glass.

The house is abandoned now; half of it collapsed into a quarry. The dome fell, too, but the glass didn’t shatter. It was so strong that most of the panes stayed intact.”

We step out of the tunnel, and Ailesse gasps. I set down my lantern. We don’t need it anymore.

I let go of her hand to give her a moment alone. She walks under the wide beam of moonlight and tips her head back. Vines hang from broken sections of the dome above us, and ivy creeps all around it. Despite that, light finds its way through. A silver glow shines down in a dust-flecked shaft.

Ailesse’s eyes close. She inhales a deep breath. I smile, watching her smile. She looks like herself again. “The moon is full,” she whispers. “I wish you could feel it.”

“Describe it for me.”

She keeps her eyes closed and basks in the light. “Imagine it’s the hottest day and you’re parched for thirst. You finally find a spring of water and take a long drink. You know that feeling when the coolness trickles down through your chest? This is like that.”

I wander closer. She lures me without any flute or song.

If my father knew Ailesse, would he like her?

“Or imagine a night that’s bitter cold,” she continues, “and your bones have turned to ice. At last, you find shelter and tuck close to a crackling fire. This is the moment when you feel that first burn of heat.”

Can my father see Ailesse now? Is there a window looking down onto me from where he is?

Would he forgive me for wanting to see her happy?

“Ailesse?” I whisper.

She opens her eyes. Would my father forgive me for feeling peace and not hatred when I’m with her?

“Do you remember how you danced with me at Castelpont?”

She gives a small nod. Her hair gleams in the moonlight and falls past her shoulders to the middle of her back. Would my father forgive me for wanting to hold her?

“Will you dance with me like you did then?”

She takes in a breath, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe that dance is sacred to the Leurress, and I shouldn’t have asked her to— I swallow; she’s moving closer. The light ripples across her face. When she’s almost touching me, she rises on her toes, extends her leg, and pivots in a slow circle. Her arms float above her head, wind and water and earth and fire, as she glides around me. Her hand lifts to her face, and she runs the back of her fingers in a line down her cheek and throat and chest and waist and hip. I’m barely breathing. The look on her face is giving, not vain. She shows me her hair next, a shimmer of auburn that slips through her palm.

Her hands take mine, and she pulls them to rest on her waist. My thumbs graze her lower rib cage. Drawing close, she touches my face . . . the bone of my jaw, the slope of my nose. There’s a rhythm to her movements, like each motion is timed to music only she hears.

Her fingers tremble as they move over my lips and trace the length of my neck. They lower even farther, to my chest. Her breath shudders as her fingers spread over my heart. I feel it pound faster. This part of the dance I don’t remember.

Her eyes close. She leans her forehead against me and turns her cheek so it lies across my shoulder. I hold her tighter, wanting to keep her like this, but the dance isn’t finished.

She takes my hand and twirls away from me, slowly and gracefully, then spins back again until her back is pressed to my chest. She lifts her arms and folds them around the nape of my neck. I raise my hands and slide them around the circle of her waist. This is peace. This is right. I was meant to be here with her.