“You’ve made it abundantly clear.”
His groan was almost inaudible. “I don’t think I have.”
“I am a nuisance. A diseased one.”
“Not clear at all,” he grunted. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft she had to strain to hear, but she kept her back to him.
“Master Ivo warned me not to love you. But warning against love is like shining a light upon it. From that day forward, I have guarded myself against you.”
“Why would you need to be warned? Am I so dangerous?’” She swung on him, using outrage to cover her shame.
His shoulders slumped and his chin fell to his chest, weary. “Ghost. You are a woman. I am a man. Please, let us not pretend.”
“No. By all means. Let’s speak plainly. What do you mean?”
Dagmar’s sky-soaked eyes were fixed beyond her head, clinging to the darkness, and frustration flared in her chest and curled her fingers into fists. He’d been kind. For so long, he’d been so kind. He’d been steady and safe and straightforward. She did not want to make him bend. She did not want to make him bolt, but she could no longer bear his distance.
“Please look at me, Dagmar.”
His jaw tightened, and his eyes closed in denial.
“You make me want to be seen,” she said, and his gaze shot to hers, searing, searching.
“I have always seen you, Ghost.”
For a moment there was only silence between them, a weighty, question-filled silence that portended a deluge.
“Yes. You have. And I have . . . loved you . . . for it. No one warned me not to.”
“I am a Keeper of Saylok. I cannot—will not—love you back.”
“I am not asking you to . . . although . . . you are a fool if you think love can be forbidden.”
“But it can be guarded against,” he insisted sadly.
“The keepers leave home and family. They don’t have wives. They don’t have children. The temple exacts a very high price,” she said.
“Yes. And love exacts a very high price. Very seldom can both be paid. We cling to one and shun the other, or we neglect one to better serve the other. Our love makes us vulnerable to using the power of the runes for our own purposes. We must never do anything that gives the runes power over us instead of us having power over the runes.”
For the first time she understood why the Keepers of Saylok shut themselves away in the temple, away from the clans. To love was to be at the mercy of someone else. To love was to be controlled.
“I was certain when Bayr was born that they would make me leave the temple. I was compromised by my love for him. By my loyalty and devotion to him. I still am. I would abuse my power to save him. And yet . . . Ivo allowed us both to stay,” Dagmar marveled.
“And he allowed me to stay.”
“Yes.” Dagmar seemed struck, as though the similarity had only just occurred to him. “And now you are one of us.”
“A Keeper of Saylok,” she said. The title made her want to laugh. She’d been a servant, then a shepherd, now she was a keeper. A keeper of secrets and unfulfilled longing.
“Will you always be a keeper, Dagmar?”
“It is all I ever wanted to be.”
“Why? You are a man . . . you can go anywhere. Do anything.”
He scoffed. “We are all bound by something. I chose to be bound to the temple instead of being bound to a clan.”
“We are all bound by something,” Ghost repeated. “But I am not one of you, Dagmar. I do not believe in your gods, and I am not here because I am afraid to love. I am not bound to your temple, and I am not bound to a clan.”
“Then why are you here?” His voice was hesitant. He clearly feared her answer, feared she would tell him it was for him.
She was there because she was bound to a child. But she didn’t say the words. She told him another truth.
“When I was a little girl . . . not much older than Alba . . . I remember wanting so badly to blend with the clouds—I thought that was where I belonged. I imagined I could walk into the sky and become mist, weightless. Part of something bigger than myself. The clouds would gather around the cliffs near the cottage where I lived. One day I ran as fast as I could and threw myself from the edge, hoping all that thick whiteness would absorb me. After all, I am a ghost.” She smiled sadly. “I thought mayhaps I would become part of it. I would belong.”
Dagmar’s eyes clung to hers. “You threw yourself from the cliff?”
“Yes. And for a moment it was the most beautiful experience of my life. I was free. I didn’t fall . . . at least . . . it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like floating. There was only silence and softness. I was certain it had worked. And then I hit the water.”
For several moments they were both silent.
“It was so cold. So sharp and stinging . . . I kicked and clawed my way to the surface. It was too hard to drown, and sadly . . . I knew how to swim.”
“Why . . . sadly?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She was certain he understood.
“I did it again. Every time the clouds wrapped themselves around those cliffs, I would throw myself from them.”
“Why?” he pressed.
“Because the beauty of the fall was worth the pain of landing.”
His eyes fell to her lips, and her pulse galloped.
“And falling was never fatal,” she said.
“Mayhaps one day . . . it would have been,” he breathed.
“We do not live to endure. We endure so someday we can . . . live. I have endured a great deal, but there have only been a few moments when I have truly lived.”
With a deep inhale, she threw herself from the cliffs once more, knowing the impact would be painful, knowing the risk was worth it.
“I said once . . . long ago . . . that I did not want to lie with you. And you said you would never ask it of me,” she blurted.
“I won’t,” he whispered but she rushed ahead.
“But I do want to lie with you. I ache with wanting. But it is an ache I can endure . . . an ache I will endure . . . happily . . . if I can only be near you. You are my dearest friend.”
“Please,” he moaned. “Please don’t say these things. You will make things impossible between us.”
“They are said,” she murmured, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t see his dismay. “But they are just words. And you have only to ignore them.”
She heard movement and felt the warmth of proximity before his lips brushed her closed lids. Her fingertips rose to his rough cheeks, disbelief stealing her breath. She’d been brave when she believed him unaffected by her, brave when she believed he wouldn’t bend. But now she was afraid; it was not only she who was truly alive in the moment.
Dagmar’s breath was shallow, and his male scent filled her nose. She knew they would not speak of love again. He would not be this close, his breath on her brow, his pulse thrumming beneath her fingertips. Then his mouth brushed hers, a kiss no deeper than a raindrop, and she tightened her hands at his face, holding him to her. For a heartbeat they simply stood, mouths touching, and he began to say the words to the Prayer of the Supplicant.
“‘I cannot see, my tongue is a traitor,’” he whispered, the whispered words tickling her lips.