Page 58 of Adam, Mine

“Do you know why he did this?”

Alain raised an eyebrow, then waved a hand sharply.

“I do not. You could ask him, when you meet.”

Elias gritted his teeth. He did not want to spend months in confusion and despair. “I had hoped to know sooner than that.”

Alain gazed at him curiously then.

“I can do something for you, but I must have payment.”

Right. Alchemist. It must be a job, then, not a title like a king, lord, or wizard.

Elias reached over and removed the blue book from his jacket.

“Do you take payment in knowledge or coin?” Elias asked.

Alain grinned.

“For some of your hair, I can tell you what he did to you. For some of your tears, I can draw you a picture of the circles on your back so you do not have to bare yourself to the unworthy. . . .” Alain paused, but Elias was sure he was not done.

“For some of your blood, I can give you a tool to better defend yourself. For a lot of your blood—”

Elias knew he could not die. He could not die if this man killed him for his insolence.

“For a kiss, what would you give me? For benediction?” Elias interrupted.

Alain paused, startled. Then he looked away, eyes glued to the floor.

“I have paid dearly in pain already, Mr. Cloutier,” Elias continued quietly. “I cannot pay more.”

“The merchant decides his prices,” Alain replied after a while, voice rough and heavy. “The patron acquiesces.” Rehearsed, like it was something he had repeated often before.

Elias crossed the room. Stood between the spread of Alain’s knees. He put a brave hand on Alain’s jaw, then felt the point of one of his own knives graze the soft stretch beneath his chin. He hadn’t even heard the French alchemist remove it.

Slowly, Elias dropped to the ground, a hairline cut on his throat opening and healing again and again against the jut of the knife as he went. Until he was looking up the length of his own blade, following Alain’s arm. Staring into his face beneath the shadow of his hair.

“This house that stinks of death also smells like flowers,” Elias whispered. “There is a ghost in your decoration.”

Alain’s eyes grew wet. Elias leaned closer, though his blood was beginning to drench his shirt.

“For being seen and known, what would you give me, widower? For sweetness freely given, as it once was?”

Alain swallowed. He drew the knife away from Elias’s neck and let his hand fall limp to his thigh.

“Seigneur, pardonne-moi car je suis faible,” he muttered.

Elias gently took his knife from Alain’s hand and placed it back in its sheath. Then he brushed his lips against the hills of Alain’s knuckles. The French alchemist sat unmoving as Elias turned his hand and pressed a thumb against the inside of his wrist, tender, solemn, giving, holy.

“In my father’s house, when he came in from the cold from the woods or in the fields, my youngest sister would warm his hands thus,” Elias began.

He held Alain’s palm against his cheek. “It is not so large a thing as pain, but perhaps the sentiment will carry. My oldest sister knits mittens for him. Traps rabbits and weaves their fur into the wool so they keep blood-hot for many hours. My middle sister rubs his joints with tallow, mixed with herbs I gather from the grasses.

“My father is nearly sixty and can work longer than most other men. His hands are softer than even mine because by the grace of God he was allowed to keep his loved ones by his side and we work to make sure we are all cared for in a thousand ways. I am not a father, but I know the wealth of daughters. I am not a husband, but I can imagine the joy of a wife.”

Elias politely ignored Alain’s tears.

“I do not have tallow or gloves. I don’t even have the luxury of time. I am just a man with knives. But I do see you, Alain, and I do understand that you are hurt and you are lonesome, and I grieve with you. I am sorry that something happened to your family.”