Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(6)
“A girl like me?”
“Wild. Big mouth. Says whatever she pleases.”
“Hmph.” She’s not sure if it’s a compliment or an insult, but she lets the point drop, instead crouching down to cram dresses and sheets into her trunk. She must keep her hands and mouth busy, otherwise who knows what she might be tempted to do—muss up Gil’s hair, or kiss him, or . . .
“Poor Roul,” she says instead, attempting to distract herself from the fact that she is preparing to leave her home, and Aurora, forever. “I’m sure there’s many a country girl waiting in line to be his next wife, though.” Everyone used to say he was tall, dark-haired, and handsome, even when they were all kids. “Perhaps,” she adds, nudging Gil with her shoulder, “he’ll have extras lined up for you as well. Some delightful farmer’s daughter for a wife. A nice girl who always says exactly the right thing.”
The idea brings her a mix of happiness for Gil and something else too: jealousy, maybe, though it shouldn’t. She knows that.
Still, she wonders whether in moments like this he ever thinks back to that day, about three years ago . . . the day she was wading in the tiny stream just past the cattle pastures.
Isbe had “borrowed” Freckles again, the frisky young mare few others had the patience to ride, for one of her expeditions to spy on the royal military. These rides very often ended with Freckles bucking Isbe into the thick mud at pasture’s end. The council did not condone this behavior, of course—said she’d likely die someday for taking such risks—but for Isbe it became a game, trying to figure out where she’d landed and how to get back.
Since she has grown up without sight, Isbe has rarely known the pleasure of running freely through field or forest. It’s too dangerous—the world rushes up at her, random and disordered. But on the back of a horse, she can experience the thrill of speed, of the air racing through her hair, of her lungs heaving as the animal becomes her legs and her eyes. And she has never cared about the odd bruises and scrapes from falling or fumbling her way home—these are simply the world’s way of proving its own existence, the souvenirs of a life actually lived.
On this particular occasion, Gil had found her doing her best to wrench the mud from her garments in the stream’s eddies. In late spring, when the sun is hot, the stream flows over a low ledge, creating a nice current below. She and Aurora fondly call this spot the Waterfall, even though the drop is only a few feet. Sometimes they also call it Nose Rock, due to the boulder at the base of the ledge that resembles a man’s face with, well, a very large nose.
Gil had scolded her for riding alone, and to defend herself, Isbe began an enactment of the military exercises she’d learned from spying—or at least, what she presumed them to be, based on the shouted commands she’d overheard, the hollers of the soldiers, the clang of swords, and the shuffle of hooves.
The more Gil laughed at her attempts, the more determined Isbe became to prove she’d truly learned how to fight. Her demonstration easefully transformed into a water war, and she remembers the exact moment she fell against Gil in the stream, and his hand became entangled in her long, loose hair, and the mossy, mineral scent of the water mingled with the damp touch of his body against hers, his laughter slipping away on the wind as their lips met.
The kiss had been both surprising and seamless, both endless and somehow fleeting. His lips were warm and soft, so unlike the other, more calloused parts of him she was used to. His tongue was there, communicating with her own in a foreign language—and there was so much, so much to say with just their bodies, with just their lips.
But then he’d pulled back—their first-ever awkward moment. “We shouldn’t,” he’d said. Something like that. She couldn’t understand what he meant, why he said it, why he didn’t want to keep on doing what they had been doing: for hours, for days, maybe forever.
And then, with a sudden and terrible weight, she knew. Of course she knew: Isbe was not beautiful. Not like other girls. Certainly not like Aurora. Even without being able to see her the way others did, Isbe knew how gorgeous Aurora was, from the way she moved, the way she smelled, the way people inhaled abruptly when they saw her, the way men spoke about her in whispers and murmurs they thought no one else could hear.
No. Isbe was different. Awkward and tall for a girl, with messy dark hair that never lay flat, a pointy nose and hard cheekbones and too-big eyes.
Gil didn’t see her that way. He didn’t want those things from her, the things boys want from beautiful girls.
After that day, Isbe had become as firm and hard as Nose Rock, wild and spiked and merciless as a morning star club, brave and bold and quick—too quick to let feelings of doubt or embarrassment about her appearance ever catch up to her again. She doesn’t need to be beautiful. And she doesn’t need love. She can live without it.
But now her comment lingers uncomfortably in the air between them.
Gil clears his throat. “I should prepare us two horses. We’ll ride just before dawn.”
“Gil?” she asks as he stands to leave.
“Iz?”
She turns her face away from his, feeling exposed. “Thank you.”
And then he is shoving her window open, and with a gust of cold air, he is gone.
Isbe is still packing when a rustling in the secret passageway announces Aurora’s approach. A second later the tapestry swishes open and Aurora’s slippers pat across the room. She kneels next to Isbe, and their elbows bump. Even though Isbe’s swimming in a sea of confused and contradictory feelings, she is just as aware as ever of her sister’s fragility. It’s Isbe’s job—as it has always been—to be strong for Aurora. Even if, in this moment, Aurora can’t be strong for her.