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“Perhaps you’d like some company?” he whispered, and heard the man’s breath hitch.
“Please,” Azriel replied, sitting up and sliding over to allow Galen room. “I could use the distraction.”
When they settled shoulder to shoulder, Azriel’s oil lamp provided just enough illuminance to see the blank page Galen flipped to in his drawing pad. Though he would’ve welcomed more shadows to disguise his trembling hands.
As Azriel’s breaths tickled his arm, he wondered if Azriel was finding this equally difficult, if the draw Galen felt toward him was reciprocated. Though he didn’t know why it mattered so much. Not only was his time there temporary, but his unsteady stomach around the man felt almost like an illness, and he’d undoubtedly fare better with a balanced constitution.
“What were you reading about in your books?” Galen asked, sketching the beginnings of a grassy field, if only to keep his attention away from how Azriel’s warm shoulder unintentionally brushed against his own. It felt different than when Wren and Sparrow sat beside him, but he could not pinpoint exactly why—Azriel’s allure, his charm, or the smell of him, perhaps?
In fact, the subtle scent of flowers permeated Azriel’s bed, and Galen now pondered if his work with herbs and plants was the reason for it. He wished he could take a deeper sniff without giving himself away.
“There was a woman in the shop today…” Azriel replied, his gaze following the motion of Galen’s hand. He’d been told by a woman he’d met under the covered bridge that watching him draw was mesmerizing. It was exactly the effect he’d hoped for when he’d left his bed to help Azriel in his own way. “She wanted something to help with her nerves.”
Galen’s pencil slowed. “Her nerves?”
“She would not confess what made her anxious, but I got the impression it had to do with her husband.” He cringed. “He did not seem very agreeable.”
At the time, Galen had been unloading small hourglasses with sand in them, and he vaguely recalled the gentleman near the door, wearing what looked like a permanent frown.
“I thought perhaps I’d find something to help in one of my books. And Madam Langley agreed.”
“And did you?” Galen murmured in a low tone, not only to avoid waking the others, but because he was being lulled himself by the discreet conversation in the quaint space they’d created.
“Certain plants, such as lavender, might help.” A faraway look transformed his features, as if he were recounting something important from his studies. “Lavender belongs to the Lamiaceae family, which includes mint, and is known to help bring about a genial sense of well-being.”
As if Galen had just consumed the very plants Azriel spoke of, a feeling of calmness washed over him, settling the butterflies in his stomach. A rightness he would be hard-pressed to explain.
Galen smiled. “You enjoy helping people.”
“I do.” A faint flush suffused Azriel’s cheeks.
They fell into a comfortable silence as Galen sketched and Azriel watched avidly. He could feel Azriel’s frame begin to settle against the woolen mattress, and Galen hoped that meant his plan was working.
“Is that lavender?” Azriel asked, awe in his voice, and Galen’s skin warmed. He didn’t even realize he was sketching the flowering buds until Azriel pointed them out. He could picture the lavender cones, the purple color nearly matching the bold hue that sometimes showed through Azriel’s aura. It was lighter than the deep violet that was normally present, and Galen had yet to decipher its significance.
“There was a field of wildflowers near the village where I was raised,” Galen explained. “Sometimes I would lie in the flowers, look up at the clouds, and dream the afternoon away.”
“Is that why you left home? Because you had other aspirations?” Azriel inquired, then shook his head. “I should not have asked.”
Galen sighed, the truth on the tip of his tongue. He found he wanted to share with Azriel. It felt good to have a confidant, even if it was to be short-lived.
“My aunt and uncle were tasked with raising me after my mother died during childbirth—my father had left soon after, not wanting to raise a babe on his own.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, because saying it out loud always stung, even though he had no memory of his early years. It was the reason why he kept his mother’s brooch in his bag. Just knowing it was there felt good, like it was a part of her, of his history he had with him always.
“I’m sorry. My mother passed to another world as well, and I cherish my memories of her, though sometimes I’m afraid they’re fading.”
“Perhaps talking about it will help keep them from diminishing,” Galen replied. “I’m always willing to listen.”
Azriel smiled. “Thank you.” He looked away as if fondly recalling something, then asked hesitantly, “And your aunt and uncle? Did they raise you well enough?”
