Her eyes met his. “I don’t know you.”
At the intensity of her gaze, Deckard felt a cold shiver, and his brows pinched together. “I can assure you,” he said gently, “you know me better than anyone else in this world.”
Evylin shook her head vehemently. “I don’t know anything about you, Jonn. I don’t know your birthday or our anniversary. I don’t know your favorite book or if you have hobbies. I wasn’t aware of your desire to write anything. How long have you lived in this house? Would you prefer to live in the country?”
Deckard took in her distress with confusion. “Those things don’t matter,” he promised. “You’ll learn them over time, or they’ll prove their pointlessness. But that doesn’t mean you don’t know me.”
Evylin pressed her lips together. Worry radiated out of her, fuzzing the atmosphere with her doubt. Whatever had prompted these questions, Deckard realized this wasn’t a mere curiosity. She was deeply bothered by this lack of knowledge.
Another burst of laughter reverberated up the stairwell, and Deckard sighed.
He reached out a hand. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go upstairs where we can talk.”
Together, they walked out of the study, Deckard stopping only to retrieve his wine glass and shut the door behind them. The stairs were cold, the dim oil lamp sconce on the wall flickering with a gentle yellow flame. Once on the third floor, he led her to their bedroom. They took the time to light the lamps inside, casting the space in a warm glow. It was no warmer within, but Deckard drew the curtains and grabbed one of Evylin’s shawls from the wardrobe.
Securing the wrap around her shoulders, Deckard smiled gently down at her. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“When is your birthday?” she asked quietly.
Such a rudimentary question. He decided to offer her more than the simple facts. “It’s the seventh of Pyra,” he said. “I’ll be thirty-three, and I don’t like celebrating. I never have.”
The ready information relaxed Evylin. She took a seat on the bed and pulled him down beside her. “Why don’t you like celebrating?”
Deckard shrugged. “I don’t need people to celebrate me to make me feel special. It feels vain.”
She pierced him with a pointed look. “But you celebrate others,” she argued. “Why wouldn’t they want to do the same for you?”
“I see your point, but I don’t care to be the center of attention.”
Her smile twitched down in the corner.
“Now, our anniversary,” Deckard entwined their fingers on the bed between them, “is the thirteenth of Terraen, and I willalwayswant to celebrate it.”
“How do you remember it?”
“What do you mean?”
She raised her brow. “We didn’t choose the date, as normal couples would. It just happened to us.”
“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.”
She deflated, so he tightened his grip, shifting closer. “Evie, I don’t care that you didn’t know the date. You don’t need to remember it. I’ll do that for us.”
“Did you mark it down or something?”
“No.”
“Then how do you remember?”
He dismissed the question with a smile. “I’ve always had a memory for that sort of thing.”
Evylin huffed self-derisively. “I haven’t. I didn’t even remember my own birthday last month. I think I’ve forgotten yours already, and you’ve just told me.”
Deckard laughed. “Good. That means you won’t try to do anything when it comes around.”
“Iwantto do something, Jonn,” she insisted. “I want to give you a gift as thoughtful as the one you gave me. But I don’t have the first idea of what to get you.”
“Nothing,” he said comfortingly. “I don’t want anything.”
