Page 121 of Thief of Hearts

He let out a brief sigh and said, “I haven’t told you things like that because they’re painful. I was very young when my parents died, and the family I was given to did not want to take care of me, even though they were provided with some money to do so. I would often go without food, as they didn’t think it was necessary to feed me.”

That twisted something in my heart and made it ache. “I’m so sorry.”

“And that was why I became a thief. I would roam the streets, looking for scraps that other people had thrown out. Then one night I passed by a baker’s home and they had a loaf of bread cooling on a windowsill. I had gone six days without eating at that point and was the hungriest I had ever been. So I stole it. It was, to this day, the best bread I’ve ever eaten, and my stomach was finally full for the first time in years. I realized I had a knack for stealing and then, later on, for convincing people to do what I wanted. It took off from there.”

I was glad I had the chance to understand him a bit better, and part of me felt guilty I’d questioned him because it sounded like a horrible memory. That didn’t stop me from asking, “What happened to your parents?”

“A plague took them. I was nine years old.”

I wished there was something else I could say instead of repeating myself, but again I said, “I’m so sorry.”

We fell into silence and I rested my head on his shoulder. While I didn’t want him to rehash painful memories, him sharing himself with me made me hungry for more.

“What is your favorite color?” I asked.

“What?” he said, laughing. “My favorite color?”

“I’m assuming it’s dark red since you wear it all the time, but why is it your favorite?”

“Not everything has some hidden meaning.”

This one did. I could tell.

He said, “For example, what’s your favorite color?”

“Silver.”

“I thought you would say something different, and I would have asserted that you liked it just because you liked it with no meaning behind it, but you prefer silver because it’s the color of steel, don’t you?”

“Obviously.” I liked that he knew that about me.

He stayed quiet for a bit and then said, “I like dark red because it was my mother’s favorite color. I’ve lost so much of her—I don’t remember the shape of her face or the sound of her voice. I do remember her black hair and that dark red was her favorite. My father even found a merchant in the agora who would dye roses that exact shade for her. She loved them.”

“It sounds like they were very happy together.”

“They were. We were.” He paused and then said, “As soon as I could afford to start buying my own clothing, I always chose dark red in honor of her.”

“I’m sure she would have liked that,” I said.

“I hope so.” He kissed the top of my head and then said, “I’m also glad that I do have memories of them. I have met other orphans who didn’t.”

“Like me.” I had never even met my father.

“Is your father why you shut people out?”

I sat up. My initial gut reaction was to deny what he had said. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t shut anyone out. “Why would you say that?”

“That you shut people out? Because you do. You shut them out because you’re afraid of getting hurt again. Your father hurt you by leaving. Your mother hurt you by telling you what she did about your birth. Your grandmother hurt you by treating you like a soldier instead of a little girl. You’ve been protecting yourself for a long time, and the only person I can see that you have ever truly let in is your brother.”

I swallowed, hard. I had to acknowledge that there was some truth to what he was saying. “I didn’t so much let Thrax in as he shoved his way in, determined to love me.”

“You can’t protect yourself from pain, my illora. You can keep people at a distance and it might lessen some hurt, but it also keeps you from a lot of joy.”

I looked down at Dagger and continued to rub his stomach. “Whenever I’ve tried to let someone be close to me, they hurt me. They abandon me.”

When he didn’t say anything, I added, “Like you.”

“Like me? When did that happen?”