Seraphina(117)

Or take my life and make it yours:





I’d fight a hundred thousand wars





For just one kiss.





“Y-you’re not a bad singer. You could join the castle choir,” I said, casting about for something neutral to say so I wouldn’t cry. My mother was as reckless as his, but she’d believed in this; she’d given everything she had. What if our mothers were not the fools we had taken them for? What was love really worth? A hundred thousand wars?

He smiled at his hands upon the parapet, and continued: “You sang, and then it hit me like a lightning strike, like the clarion of Heaven: the voice of St. Clare, saying, The truth will out! You yourself embodied the truth that could not be concealed or contained—not by a hundred fathers, or a hundred nursemaids—that would burst forth unbidden and fill the world with beauty. I knew I was to investigate the truth of things; I had been called to do this. I fell to my knees, thanked St. Clare, and swore I would not forget my vow to her.”

I was staring at him, thunderstruck. “I was the truth, and beautiful? Heaven has a terrible sense of humor.”

“I mistook you for a metaphor. But you’re right about Heaven because otherwise how is it that I am in this position now? I made a promise and have kept it to the best of my ability—though I have lied to myself, may St. Clare forgive me. But I hoped to avoid this very trap where I am caught between my own feeling and the knowledge that uttering the truth aloud will hurt someone very important to me.”

I barely dared think which truth he meant; I both hoped and dreaded that he would tell me.

His voice grew dense with sorrow. “I have been so preoccupied with you, Phina. I keep second-guessing myself. Could I have kept Aunt Dionne from Comonot’s suite if I hadn’t been dancing with you? I was so intent upon giving you that book. We might never have noticed Comonot leaving the ball but for Dame Okra.”

“Or you might have stopped them both, and then gone up and toasted the New Year with Lady Corongi,” I said, trying to reassure him. “You might be dead in that other scenario.”

He threw up his hands, despairing. “I have struggled all my life to put thought before feeling, not to be as rash and irresponsible as my mother!”

“Ah, right, your mother, and her terrible crimes against her family!” I cried, angry with him now. “If I saw your mother in Heaven, you know what I would do? I would kiss her right on the mouth! And then I would drag her to the bottom of the Heavenly Stair and point at you down here, and say, ‘Look what you did, you archfiend!’ ”

He looked scandalized, or startled anyway. I could not stop myself. “What could St. Clare have been thinking, choosing me as her unworthy instrument? She would have known I couldn’t speak the truth to you.”

“Phina, no,” said Kiggs, and at first I thought he was scolding me for maligning St. Clare. He raised a hand, let it hover a moment, and then placed it over mine. It was warm, and it stole my breath away. “St. Clare did not choose wrongly,” he said softly. “I always saw the truth in you, however much you prevaricated, even as you lied right to my face. I glimpsed the very heart of you, clear as sunlight, and it was something extraordinary.”

He took up my hand between both of his. “Your lies didn’t stop me loving you; your truth hasn’t stopped me either.”


I looked down reflexively; he was holding my left hand. He noticed my discomfiture and with a deft and delicate touch folded back my sleeve—all four of my sleeves—exposing my forearm to the frigid air, the fading sunset, and the emerging stars. He ran his thumb along the silver line of scales, his brow puckering in concern at the scab, and then, with a sly glance at me, he bowed his head and kissed my scaly wrist.

I couldn’t breathe; I was overcome. I didn’t usually feel much through my scales, but I felt that to the soles of my feet.

He replaced my sleeves, respectfully, as if draping a Saint’s altar. He kept my hand between his, warming it. “I was thinking about you, before you came up. Thinking, praying, and reaching no conclusion. I was inclined to leave love unspoken. Let us get through this war; let Glisselda grow into her crown. The day will come, please Heaven, when I can tell her this without throwing us all into chaos. Maybe she would release me from my promise, but maybe not. I may have to marry her in any case, because she must marry, and I remain her best option. Can you live with that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But you’re right: she needs you.”

“She needs us both,” he said, “and she needs us not to be so distracted by each other that we are unable to do our parts in this war.”

I nodded. “Crisis first, love later. The day will come, Kiggs. I believe that.”

His brow creased fretfully. “I hate keeping this from her; it’s deceit. Small lies are no better than big ones, but if we could please keep everything to a minimum until—”

“Everything?” I said. “Porphyrian philosophy? Amusing tales of bastardy?”

He smiled. Ah, I could last a long time on those smiles. I would sow and reap them like wheat.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“You mean you’re not going to kiss my wrist again,” I said. “But that’s all right, because I am going to kiss you.”