Our tickets were large, on heavy cardstock, and embossed with a sea creature beneath the name of the carousel. In a city where so many receipts and tickets were printed on disposable laser-print paper, or not printed at all, this ticket could have been framed and put on the wall. I caught Berron running his thumb over the embossed ridges, and for some reason, goosebumps rose on my arms.
The gate opened and we split up.
I climbed into a fish, and the ride began.
Berron, the Princess of Arrows, and I swirled past each other as the spinning floor made our fish swim in unpredictable paths.
When Berron’s golden fish spun toward mine, I had to stop myself from reaching out. A child’s impulse, maybe; to touch hands before you are taken away, even for just a moment, from someone. Why was it I could stand next to him all afternoon, and not even think of touching him, and then I get on a carnival ride and my fingers itch?
I gripped theHeavy Hearton my lap harder. I didn’t want to be the one to have to explain to the curator why theHeavy Heartwas now a broken one.
After a few minutes, the fish slowly spun to a stop. The Princess of Arrows was smiling as she alighted from her fish vehicle. “Most enjoyable,” she said.
“We should go to the urban farm, too,” Berron said as he joined us.
“Shouldn’t we get your sister home?”
The Princess turned her gaze on me. “Why?”
“I thought… you might be, uh, tired?” I’d chased this Gentry runaway from the Upper West Side to Lower Manhattan and yes, damn it, I was tired. I hadn’t been topped up by any of my magical stamina-filled friends in a while. When Berron took my wrist at the hot dog cart, it was barely a dash of magic.
“My dear friend,” she said, placing an elegant hand on my arm. “Doing nothing fatigues me. This”—she gestured around us—“is most invigorating.” She walked on with a little hop and a skip.
I wilted a little, feeling very human in comparison.
“Hey.” Berron leaned closer to me. “Are you tired?”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I sighed and gave up the pretense of being Superwoman. “Yes.”
He chuckled. “May I hold your hand as we walk?”
“Yeah.” I ran my hand through my hair. So casual. So unaffected. Good job, Zelda.
Then I took his hand.
It means nothing, really, to hold hands. It’s just skin pressed against skin. The sensation is warm and comfortable, true. But in the vast scheme of things what does it reallydo? Does it change the world? No. You can’t hold hands forever. It’s a unity that’s there one moment, gone the next.
And yet…
We are together, Berron and I, as our hands clasp; as his magic revives me; as the harbor breeze comes from behind and whips our hair in the wrong direction, blinding us both until we stumble into each other, laughing.
There is something I am beginning to feel that isn’t hunger, isn’t passion, isn’t any of the easy and straightforward needs of the body. It is strong but it weakens me, like the urge to cry. I don’twantto let go of his hand—and that’s whatmakesme let go.
Berron looked at me. “Did you get enough?”
“Much better, thank you.” I silently congratulated myself on not actually answering.
The Princess of Arrows had beaten us to the farm and was already flitting up and down the rows. I’d expected to see empty rows covered in straw or leaves—but there were a surprising number of green plants still standing tall. “They’re still growing things,” I said. “In November!”
“Winters are milder than they used to be,” Berron said.
I scoffed. “What I know about farming could be written on the back of a SeaGlass carousel ticket.”
“What’s to know? Soil, water, sunshine, air…”
