The Short Life of Sparrows (26 page)

32

CALLI

N
eedlework
. I’ve never had the patience to become adept at it, but I need a distraction that requires complete focus—something that will busy my hands and clear my head. Lil wore a smile that I’m sure hurt her ears at seeing me with all of the spools and scissors laid out on the table. I think she assumed it means I’ve settled into my nightmares, and I can’t say, “No. Actually I’m having constant dreams about someone you’d never approve of, dear Aunt Lil. They are far from lady-like. And I have no idea how to make them stop. Chat about it over tea?”

Instead I paused to help her and Isaiah load the baskets with labeled tinctures, and I asked her if she’d check with the peddler today about some more purple thread. Lil does a much better job of mending my dresses, but I shouldn’t continue to let her when I’m capable enough of a basic stitch. The best part of waking up today should be how Isaiah convinced Mildred to ride with them for her paints. She hardly ever wants to leave the porch in the morning, but Isaiah persuaded her that she’d get better paint colors if she chose them herself.

It should be at the very front of my thoughts, but it isn’t. I can’t concentrate, not when I’m preparing myself for all of the possibilities of how I’m about to be confronted. He will confront me about it, that much I do know. Rowe may yell. Or maybe he’ll send a more veiled hint about how I need to stop these hallucinations of him by killing all of the roses on the porch. He does enjoy leveling trees too. Whatever his response, I’ve decided I have to make my face void of all expression.

Don’t cry or yell back at him, Calli
. There shall be no blushing either, should he address the specifics of my last imaginary encounter with him. If I roll my shoulders back and declare that I certainly did experience something very intimate and satisfying with him in my sleep, would it be bold of me—or crude and distasteful? I wish I could talk to Lil or Daphne about it. Isaiah and I can share our secrets easily, but not an admission like this one.

The pounding of a galloping horse’s hooves comes from outside, and I almost hope Isaiah has forgotten something and returned early.
Ouch
. I drop the needle and skirt onto the table, because my hands are too shaky to guarantee I won’t prick myself with it again. My vanity wins, and I manage to get a hurried peek in the mirror on the wall. I’ve inspected the curls falling over one shoulder five times already, and they don’t look any different now. The tromping up the stairs has my heart thumping, my blood rushing faster and faster. I know it’s Rowe by the way he walks, as if he can’t be held back from what is currently on his mind.

Breathe.
Get through the next few minutes, and when he leaves you can go have a long pitiful cry about it.
A careful knock sounds twice.

“Please come in,” I call, scrambling to grab my wrinkled sewing.

He enters slowly, and I feel my stomach roll over and over as I work to make sense of his demeanor.
Nothing
. He’s staring at me. The blank gaze suggests one thing. At least I think it says, “Explain.”

“Rowe,” I startle, “I’m sorry. Last night—I don’t want you to draw conclusions from that. I don’t know why I—”

He bolts the door, and I back up, knocking into the table. I manage to set the fabric and needle aside without stabbing myself, but I hate that there’s nothing to keep me steady now. “Yes, you do,” he says. “You do know why. You keep dreaming of being alone with me, because you need something. We both know exactly what that something is. Admit it. And I haven’t done a thing to make you.”

He shoves the curtains closed, and my breathing quickens. Wrapping my fingers around the table’s edge, I’m unsure of what to do. “Anyone could knock on the door. And then we’ll both look silly. If Murdoch didn’t give you permission to come here—”

“Let the whole world knock on that door. I’m not opening it.” His steps are unhurried, but he walks to me with purpose. I bristle. He bends, so our faces are even with each other as his hands rest on the table. Jutting his chin as his forehead leans down into mine, he lets a shadow of a smile play on his face. “I’ve waited and waited for this.”

“Did you know Isaiah was in my Awakening Dream?” I say, trying to cut through the warmth building between us. “We were holding hands. We ran away together. Did you see that? You can’t ignore that an Awakening means
something
.”

“I don’t give two shits about Isaiah,” he says, his eyes still set to me. He runs his lips up the curve of my neck, following my jawline to my ear. “You and I say it like it is,” he continues, tucking my hair back. “Did you ever think that maybe you’re so irritated all of the time because you’re all pent up?” he asks, sliding my right sleeve off my shoulder. “You might’ve seen Isaiah holding your hand, but he’ll never be the answer. He isn’t right for you, and we both know it.”

“There you go again.” I put my hand over his to hold him back from relaxing my clothes any more. “You think way too highly of yourself. Not attractive. You Nightbloods should learn some manners in between all of your chants and castings.”

“Can we stop making everything about Awakenings and castings for a few minutes? The truth is you’d never feel anything real with someone like him. He’s too nice to give you what you really need.” His mouth feels like velvet as it descends down my collarbone.

“What’s that?”

“You need to let go,” he says, shrugging, “with someone as volatile and wild as you are.”

“You’re vulgar,” I reply, breathing out as I turn my head to look anywhere else.

“And you almost fool me as you say that,” he smiles, lifting me by my hips onto the table. His eyes become solid, but he doesn’t take it any further. He digs his fingers into the sides of my dress, watching me. “Don’t you feel it when I look at you?” His fingers draw relaxed, swirling lines into one of my palms. His other arm slides around to the bottom of my back, pulling me in so we’re flush against each other. He smells sweet and smoky, and his chest drops quickly. The jagged rise and fall of his upper body near mine has me trembling, and I attempt to keep my own chest from expanding.

“I don’t want to regret it,” I say, searching his eyes. “And I can’t see how I wouldn’t. It’s not as if any Nightblood spends their entire life with one woman. I don’t want to be a passing memory.”

He takes half a step away from me. His hair has fallen over one of his eyes, and I think to myself that he looks even more untamed when his hair isn’t all combed back.

“I have to stare at the floor sometimes,” he whispers, “so I don’t look like my eyes are stuck to you.” He draws his fingers over mine, deliberately—persistently. “Don’t you feel how when I touch your hand—how mine starts to sweat, because you make me nervous? Every time you curse at me, I want to part those feisty lips of yours with my tongue. I’m stupidly in love with you, Calli. Being anywhere near you makes me crazy and irrational. In the middle of the night, I can’t stop thinking about the next time I’ll have an excuse to see you.”

My hand takes to his belt buckle, pulling him to me. Touching his mouth briefly with my own, and I draw in a breath as I pause. “I do crave this,” I say, leaving a sliver of space between his lips and mine. “But if there’s any possibility that you could ever want for somebody else—”

“There’s never going to be someone else,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve wrecked me. I wouldn’t be any good to anybody now—except for you. All I want is the chance to keep proving it to you—that I’m yours.”

The underside of his hand slides up under my skirt. I’m done thinking, and I kiss him with all of the aggressiveness that’s helped to hold me at a safe distance from him. Neither of us care that we’re hitting into the trinkets on the wall as he backs me down the hall toward the bedroom door. Something crashes, clattering as it bounces across the floorboards—but as he lifts me around him, our kissing is too relentless to care about what we might have broken.

Rowe holds me as he kicks the bedroom door shut with his foot. He slips his hand into my underclothes, and I hurry to unbutton his shirt right before he tosses me on the bed. My mouth comes undone, and I seize up as his fingers circle me beneath my dress. He doesn’t budge from looking straight at me, and I’m losing control of all my senses—wanting him faster than either of us can make it happen. As he moves his thumb in between my legs, I stop undressing him. I have to brace myself, my head falling back on my neck. I moan a little, gripping at the iron headboard as he explores me further. Just as I’m about to lose it, to cry out, he stops.

Kneeling, he rolls my stockings down my legs. He finishes pulling his shirt off, tossing it away from the bed. I notice the coiling black ink that swirls over his back. It’s written in the old language—symbols hardly used outside of our rituals. I stop him from kissing me when he leans in. “What does it mean?”

“What?” he breathes.

“These,” I say, lightly tracing over the curves of his shoulders. “What does it say?”

“Night’s only cold, because there’s no sun to warm it.” As he says it, I see the same peculiar softness in his face as when he took my fever away. My fingers turn and twist in the thick of his hair, wanting him all the more—accepting that he’s entirely different than the surface version of himself he’d prefer people to believe. There might actually be something fragile about Rowe, and I’m bewildered by it.

I sink into the cool blue of his eyes as I unclasp his pants. My top is knotted, and when he can’t seem to untie it, he lifts me from the pillow. I put my arms upward, curiously watching his focused expression while he lifts my dress over my head. As he lays me back, he cups at my breasts, pressing his teeth and tongue to them. The persistence of his mouth sends a strong shudder through me as he greedily tastes every inch of my skin. He kisses along my stomach, making me gasp before grazing my neck. His tongue coasts back and forth along the sides of mine.

“Have you ever—?” he mumbles. “Do I need to go slow?”

I look up at him, surprised at the weighted concern on his face. “Not with someone I care to remember.” I shake my head. “Not—not like this.”

A smile cuts into his cheekbones. “Me either.” Kissing my forehead, he looks over my face and down my naked body. I can tell he’s doing his best to memorize every one of my curves. There’s more honesty in how he inhales me with his eyes than any words he could ever say to me.

His mouth crashes into mine, and my spine arches as he enters me. My fingernails bury themselves into his forearms as he pushes further. I pull my knees tighter around his hips. I’m clinging to him with a determination that forces me to admit the truth.
I’m just as wrecked by him
. I not only want Rowe—I love him. And I’m ready for him to take me. He starts to crest within me, and I unravel instantly from it.

As he collapses beside me in the sheets, I’m already thinking that I could do this again. From under his arm, he glances at me. I raise my eyebrow, challenging him. “You’re something else,” he laughs, tugging the blanket up over our heads. “And you’re going to get us caught.” I quiet him with my fingertips, because if nothing else, I’m certainly not done kissing him.

33

ISAIAH

M
ildred struggles to pull her comb through a knot. Her face holds a paper thin smile, as if it’s a humorous thing that she looks as she does. “Always so clumsy. I do make a mess. But I think this painting will be my best one yet. He’s running in it. I decided he should be barefoot, you know, because it seems little boys are too busy for things like shoes. No more aches or lying in bed while the other children play.” The left corner of her mouth twitches with nervous excitement, and I know we’ll just have to wait out another one of her restless ticks. Her insistent pulling of the comb has such a force behind it that I worry she’ll give herself a bald patch.

I pour a full glass of Daphne’s lemonade and another glass with water. After setting the water glass beside Mildred, I hand her the icy lemonade. She fumbles to keep from dropping the comb as she sips it. “Oh, you’re a good boy, Isaiah. Thank you.”

My hand rests on hers to stop it from shaking. “May I?”

She nods, surrendering the comb to me. Tapping it in a full glass of water first, I work to loosen the clumps of dried green paint. I stand over her, realizing that it feels completely ordinary to do this. As if I’ve done it my entire life, just like the rest of them.  Calli and Daphne do not glance up from the table as they peel the potatoes for dinner, but Lil’s eyes dart to what I’m doing. “Get a bit of oil from the blue jar next to the pickles,” Lil says. “It works better than water.”

I do as I’m told, and it makes it much easier to separate the paint from Mildred’s hair. Calli waves a potato at me. “Guess what we’re having? Fried ones. They’re your favorite right? That’s why Daphne and I have to slave away over here—twice the amount of peeling and cramped hands because the rest of us might want seconds too. You’re such a pig when it comes to Lil’s potatoes.” They all laugh.

“Hey,” Lil points her wooden spoon, “even the Coven Mistresses can’t duplicate my potatoes. I know they’ve channeled the ingredients from my recipe before, but they just don’t know that I wrote it down incorrectly on purpose. And don’t call people pigs, Calli. Talk like a lady, please.”

I bob my head as I give them a sour grin. “Speaking of pigs, have you guys seen Odella’s replacement pet?”

“No!” Daphne slaps the table. “What is it this time? Please tell me she’s taken to dressing a squirrel in a bonnet. Or a rat in bloomers.”

Dropping the comb in the water glass, I stir it—waiting for them to guess. It’s too good to just be matter of fact about it. Mildred clutches her lemonade, repositioning herself in the chair. “A snake?”

“I bet it’s a turkey,” Calli yells.

Biting my lip, I still can’t help my smile and the shaking of my head. “A deer.”

Calli throws a potato at me. “Shut up.”