Reign of Shadows (Reign of Shadows, #1)(37)

My chest tightened, sensing his awe. But he was using words I could never understand. He spoke of colors so naturally and easily. “I wish I could see them,” I said. It was the first time I ever wished for sight. The first time I uttered those words.

Frustration welled inside me. I wanted to see what he was seeing. I wanted insight into whatever it was that was making him loosen his tongue and talk to me.

“Wait a moment.” He released my hand and moved away. I curled my fingers inside my palm, trying to ignore how bereft I suddenly felt without him touching me.

There was a slight rustling as he fumbled through his pack. He was back moments later, picking my hand up again. He unfurled my fingers and placed something in it. “Here. It’s like this.”

I cocked my head, feeling the object he placed in my hand. I brought my other hand over it, stroking it. It was smooth in parts but with several tiny prickles that jutted out from the glassy smoothness.

“What is this?”

“It’s granul rock.” He adjusted my grip, forcing my fingertips to stroke the cold smoothness between all the sharp points. “Feel that? The cold evenness?” At my nod, he continued. “That’s the night. The darkness. And this here . . .” He lifted my hand, his touch as sure and deft as his words fanning warmly on my cheek. He brought the soft pads of my fingers down against the tiny protrusions, running the sharp bumps over my skin. “These are the firebugs.”

My lips parted on a choked laugh as I stroked the sleekness of night before running my fingertips over the bumpy dots that represented the firebugs. I smiled. “I understand.” In a way that I had never understood before. He brought sight to me through touch and sensation.

I lifted my face, my smile widening as a firebug brushed my cheek before flitting away.

I glanced down to where our hands still clung together. I flexed my fingers and turned my palm over, bringing it flush with his. I squeezed lightly, savoring the contact. “Thank you.”

“For what?” His fingers tensed around my hand for a moment but he didn’t pull away.

“Caring enough. For wanting me to see this.”

“I . . .” His voice faded. “You shouldn’t have to miss it. There’s not much beauty left in the world.” He touched my face. Lightly at first, then more boldly. His thumb trailed down my cheek. It was just a graze of sensation, but it reminded me of that almost-kiss. Heat crawled over my face. “It’s like they’re drawn to you. They’re all around you.”

“Really?” I breathed, turning my face, letting the little firebugs brush my skin without fear now.

“Almost as though they don’t want you to hide in darkness.”

A breath shuddered out of me. I had never had this before. He made me feel extraordinary and beautiful.

Even if I couldn’t see, I understood beauty as a concept. That some people were especially pleasing to the eye. Perla told me my mother had been beautiful. Countless nobles had courted her before my father won her hand. Perla had shared, in her very direct manner, that there was only a slight resemblance between us. I simply assumed I favored my father more, but now I wondered. Perhaps I looked like my mother a little, after all.

I heard his sigh and felt his withdrawal the moment before he slipped his hand out from mine.

I reached for him. Instinct drove me. I took his face in both hands, exploring his features, feeling the aquiline nose, the broad cheekbones, and the slash of his eyebrows over deeply set eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do this since almost the beginning.”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Touch your face. Since I first heard your voice . . . I wanted to trace your features. Etch them into myself.” My fingers moved as I spoke. A single fingertip slid over the slope of his nose, across his forehead, and then back down to the corner of his mouth.

“What color are your eyes?”

“They’re green.”

“Green,” I whispered.

“Like the grass,” he supplied. “Green is how it smells right after a rain, when everything is lush and thriving.”

I smiled. Again, he was able to help me understand color.

“And this . . .” I stroked his mouth, running my fingers over the bottom lip and then the upper, feeling his breath quicken against me as I touched the center of his lip where it dipped down like an arrow’s head. Something fluttered inside my stomach, tightened and clenched. “Does it have a color?”

A beat of silence fell. He moved in, closing that small space between us. There was a slight rustling as his body inched in, the breadth of his chest like an encroaching wall. His warm breath fanned my lips.

I jerked as a dweller cried out, its eerie shriek threading through the trees.

He pulled back, tugging my hands down from his face. “That’s not important.”

He moved away, leaving me with my heart beating like a wild drum in my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself, needing something to do with them, feeling crushed at his sudden departure. A firebug landed on my cheek.

This time I didn’t lift a finger to brush it away.





EIGHTEEN


Fowler


WHEN WE LEFT the Black Woods, it was like stepping out from a dream. There were trees, but fewer and more spread out. There was also the occasional fallow field and forgotten cottage. With less foliage obscuring the sky, it actually seemed brighter. Moonlight dappled the land. I could see farther, but of course that meant we could be seen, too.