“I will come right back . . . on the path, not the cliffs,” he added, his tone pointed. He scrambled up the steep trail and was back moments later, her gown and shoes in hand, hardly winded. Alba pulled the dress over her head and tightened the stays without meeting his eyes, suddenly awkward and woebegone, feeling like the child he still seemed to think she was.
When she sank down onto a dry rock, he sat down beside her, his eyes forward, his hands folded.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” she muttered. “I thought . . . I thought you would think me brave. I thought you would . . . laugh.”
“It was always my d-duty to protect you. It was my s-sole purpose in life. It is a hard habit to break.”
“I do not know my purpose,” she whispered.
He waited, the way he always had, knowing she would eventually fill the silence the way she always did. But she didn’t.
“You were b-blessed on the altar of the temple, and the keepers p-painted a star in blood on your brow. You are Alba of Saylok. You are a princess,” he said slowly, prompting her.
“And that is my whole purpose in life? My whole reason to exist?”
He sighed once more, as though he’d known he should just remain silent.
“What makes you happy?” he tried again. It was a game they’d played, once upon a time. When either of them was brokenhearted, they’d listed the things that made it better.
“Sleep, song, safety, the juice of an apple, the sound of the keepers chanting in morning prayer, Ghost. Dagmar. The daughters of the temple.” She stopped, suddenly so bereft she could not continue.
“Yet . . . you are unhappy,” he said. “Not just . . . now. But . . . every day.” It wasn’t a question. He was summarizing what he saw.
She nodded, swallowing back the tears in her throat, comforted by his simple understanding.
She said, “Though I struggle to find happiness in the small and simple things, I cannot escape the misery of the big things.”
“W-what are the big things?”
“There’s one very big thing sitting next to me.” She wanted to make him laugh.
He didn’t.
“I make you miserable?”
“Yes.” She raised her brown eyes to his, exhaling on the truth, and saw her own pain echoed there. “Being with you . . . is like holding water in my hands,” she murmured, and he furrowed his brow, still waiting.
“I want you to stay here . . . with me . . . and I know you can’t. I know you won’t. I’m dying for a drink, and it’s like holding water in my hands,” she repeated, enunciating each word. “I’ll never get enough to quench my thirst.”
He didn’t argue or try to convince her that she felt otherwise. He just stared, his gaze soft on her face, and gave her his hands, palms up, as if offering to hold the water for her.
She studied them, so big and calloused, and tried not to cry. If she could drink water from his hands, she might not be so thirsty after all. The thought sent a quiver from her heart to her lower belly and reinforced her resolve.
“There is something else I want for my birthday,” she blurted, hurtling from yet another cliff, hoping he would follow.
“Oh?”
“Yes. When Ivo predicted your return, I promised myself I would ask you for this . . . one . . . thing. But . . . I want time more than I want anything else. So if I have to choose between time and . . . the second gift . . . I still choose time.”
“Tell me,” he said, gentle.
“I want seventeen . . . kisses,” she confessed, keeping her voice as steady as she could. Then she added, “From . . . you.” Trust Bayr to find seventeen of the homeliest village boys to line up with their lips pursed, ready to deliver her birthday gift.
Bayr’s chin fell to his chest, his long, dark braid falling over his massive shoulder. She counted his breaths, deep and slow—three of them—before he raised his head again.
“I am not a boy, little Alba,” he murmured.
“And I am no longer little Alba, Bayr.”
“You will a-always be little Alba,” he protested, but Alba saw the lie in his eyes the way she always had. And she saw the truth too. He knew she wasn’t little Alba. She’d felt his eyes clinging to her face and her body when he believed she wasn’t aware. She’d heard the hitch in his breath when she brushed against him. It echoed the hitch in her own.
Bayr’s eyes fell to her mouth, and his chin hit his chest once more.
“I d-don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I w-would give you anything. Anything. But n-not that. It is not . . . you are not . . . mine.” His hands tightened around hers in apology.
“I have always been yours. And you have always been mine. Haven’t you?” she asked, trying to fight the humiliation creeping up her neck, ignoring the sting of rejection that made her long to run away. But if she ran, she would never get what she wanted. And she desperately wanted Bayr.
He sighed, the sound agonized. “Yes. Always.”
“If you don’t know what to do . . . I could teach you,” she said, hesitant, hope thrumming in her veins.
He laughed, a humorless chuff, and withdrew his hands to run them over his face.
“And wh-who taught you?” he asked.
“Ghost taught me.”
His head shot up in horror.
“I haven’t had any actual experience, but I know what to do,” she assured him. “Ghost was very specific . . . about many things. And I’ve thought about it a great deal. I’m sure I can guide you.”
He groaned, a sound so full of disbelief and pain, she grasped his hands once more.
“You love me,” she said. She didn’t know many things, but she knew that.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“And I love you. I have loved you all my life.”
“Loving and k-kissing are two different things.”
“Yes . . . but we are different now. We are grown,” she insisted.
“I am grown. You are . . . you are . . .”
Alba leaned forward suddenly and pressed her puckered lips to his protesting mouth, silencing him.
Her lips burned, her blood was ice, and her hands shook, but she didn’t close her eyes. She didn’t look away as she withdrew. She waited, trying not to pant or plead, trying to act as grown as she claimed to be.
“That was one. I want sixteen more,” she demanded softly.
“That is w-what Ghost t-taught you?” he whispered, and something in his tone made her think he was trying not to laugh, but his eyes were intent on hers, his mouth unsmiling.
“Not everything she taught me,” she replied, defensive.
“No?”
“No.”
“I see.” His gaze lowered to her mouth. “Well, then. Perhaps you . . . should . . . show me . . . after all.”
She curled her long legs beneath her and rose up onto her knees. Even sitting, he was much taller than she was, and she’d had to lurch to kiss him the first time. She didn’t want to lunge at him like a snake. She inched closer on her knees until their faces were aligned. She could feel his breath on her mouth and smell the musk of his skin. He smelled faintly of incense, as though the roots of his childhood had flowered in his pores. Once the Temple Boy, always the Temple Boy. It was a scent she dreamed about, a scent she’d always associated with him, and she breathed deeply and closed her eyes, savoring his nearness. Then, closing her eyes, she puckered her lips once more and carefully placed them on his. It was lovely, feeling the smooth, soft skin of his mouth pressed against hers, and she left them there for several seconds before retreating once more. Her mouth tingled and her pulse pounded, but she thought she’d done a little better that time. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, completely still.