“Shh, Ghisla. I am here.”
She laid her hands on top of his, keeping his hand clutched to her heart. She stared up at the stars, her eyes skipping from one to the next, counting the brightest ones as she caught her breath. Fourteen stars were brighter than the others, and a tendril of a melody surfaced in her thoughts.
“There was a song my people used to sing . . . when they wed,” she murmured.
“Sing it for me.”
“I do not remember it. There was a line about stars.” But as soon as she said the words, the lyrics curled up from the place in her heart she rarely let herself visit.
“Two of us, two of us, two lives, two,” she said, hesitantly. She hummed the bit of the tune, fitting the phrase like a key to a lock.
Hod listened, his hand still caught beneath hers, and she tried again.
“Two of us, two of us, two lives, two. Now we’re one, just begun, new lives, new.”
Figures danced in her memory, and she let them come.
“Take my hand, tie the bands, one step, two,” she sang, piecing the words into a line. That is how they’d danced when the ceremony was done, all in a line.
“Make a wish, on the stars, say I do.” In her mind, the long row became just the bride and groom. She could see Morgana, the way she’d looked that day, her hair loose and her skirts swinging, but the image was blurred.
“Is that . . . your sister?” Hod asked.
Ghisla fought the grief that warred with the joy but pressed on. She wanted Hod to see. “Yes. That is Morgana . . . on her wedding day. Morgana and Peder.”
“Morgana and Peder,” Hod breathed.
“Now we’re one, just begun, me and you,” she sang. The Peder in her mind stooped to kiss Morgana, and someone cheered. Gilly. Gilly had cheered. But she could not see their faces.
“I cannot call their features forth,” Ghisla murmured.
“You are trying too hard.” Hod’s fingertips were gentle on her face. He urged her eyes closed, and she sang the song from the beginning. By the time she was done, the memory had become sharp and shining, playing out as if she were once again in Tonlis, dancing with her family.
“Peder could not stop kissing her. He did not want to eat or dance. He wanted to kiss . . . and Morgana did not mind. No one minded terribly, though my father grumbled and my mother fretted that they would disappoint the guests who wanted to drink and dance with the couple. Singing, drinking, and dancing are all Songrs want to do.”
“It is beautiful.”
“Spin and skip and take a sip, then sing whilst you walk back again,” she sang, one tune melding into another. “That was a song the men sang. Every gathering they sang it—that silly song. It gave them a chance to drink and dance at the same time. Usually the groom would sing with the men, but Peder sang it once and walked back—just like the song says—to Morgana. And the kissing continued.”
Ghisla laughed, the recollection crystal clear.
“He is devouring her,” Hod said, incredulous. “Like a hungry beast.”
Ghisla laughed harder. “I thought it disgusting . . . and . . . wonderful too. I was twelve. Not yet ready for romance . . . yet not immune to it either.”
Hod was as entranced as she, and for once she had no trouble letting the memory run its course. Peder had knocked over the table in his desire to reach his bride—wine had something to do with his dramatics as well, she was sure, but it had made their guests laugh and had brought the women to the rescue. The women had a song of their own.
Men who need kisses
Make babes who need kisses.
Babes who grow up
Become men who need kisses.
Men who need kisses
Chase women for kisses.
And . . .
Begetting begins again.
The music never ended that night, and Ghisla trilled and tripped lightly over every song, a smile on her lips, her eyes closed to take herself back, and her hand pressed to Hod’s.
“There are your parents,” Hod said, his voice awed.
“Yes, whenever we parted, we sang the same song. But that night as we sang it, they did not stand hand in hand like we usually do. They danced like they too were young and in love.”
Think of me when we part,
I’ll send you with my heart.
Keep it tucked next to yours,
’Til you return once more.
“He does love her. He holds her gently,” Hod said, as though the vision was now.
“Sometimes he held her gently. But he held her tightly too. She would complain that he kissed her too hard, but she was always smiling and swaying when he finished.”
They watched together a moment more, Ghisla humming the song that had played while her parents danced.
“I have kissed a woman,” Hod said softly.
“You have?” she gasped.
Her shock and dejection chased the happy memory away, and the connection was lost—the connection to her past and the connection to Hod.
It seemed to stun him, the return to darkness when his mind had been flooded with color and story.
“Come back, Ghisla,” he said. He turned her in his arms, his fingers searching and settling on her cheeks, his palms cupping her jaw.
She stilled, and his fingers flexed, as though he didn’t trust her not to jerk away.
When she did not, he inched toward her until his face was too near for her to make out his expression, until his forehead lay against hers. He did not try to turn her face or tilt his chin to align their lips. He simply hovered there, so close, their heads touching but their minds their own.
“Yes. I have kissed a woman. Several. In Berne. It was quite distasteful. Arwin thought it educational. They were not gentle . . . and they were not shy. I suspect the women were old and weary of men. Some did not have teeth. Some had far too many. Arwin made certain the whole experience was as unpleasant as possible.”
His breath tickled her mouth, and her stomach flipped. Imagining him with another woman—even one without teeth—was oddly, inexplicably, painful to hear. He was her Hody. He was hers. And she had expected him to be as inexperienced as she. She had thought they might learn together.
“Why are you telling me this?” she moaned.
“Because . . . I did not expect to want to do it again,” he confessed. “But I very much want to kiss you.”
“You do?” she asked.
His forehead lifted so their mouths could meet, and his lips brushed hers.
It was not unpleasant . . . not at all . . . and she forgot her pain.
For several moments, their lips fluttered and flitted as they learned how to best fit their mouths together, but fit they did, and the fluttering became a settling and a seeking. It was a new dance, one they choreographed as they moved their mouths together and apart, over and against. It was a dance Ghisla never thought she would tire of. She raised her hands to Hod’s face to hold him to her.
“I want to see you,” he whispered against her mouth.
“And I want to kiss you,” she murmured back. “I cannot sing and kiss you at the same time.”
“Then we will have to do it my way,” he said. He did not withdraw his lips, but his fingers glided over her face and down her throat. He continued across the bony ridge where her shoulders dropped onto her chest, and her body began to hum.
His kiss deepened.