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I’m the one who closes the gap. Who rises to my toes to brush my lips against his. The contact sends a thrill through my bones that makes my ears ring.
And yet as soon as we touch, he jerks away. Steps back and runs a hand down his face.
My very spirit sucks toward the floor.
“Azmar—” I blurt.
At the same time he says, “We shouldn’t do this.”
Despair trickles down me like freshly pumped water. My lungs shrink, as if I’m wielding my fear. “Azmar, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“I shouldn’t be here.” He steps toward the door, hesitates, and glances at me. His stony face reveals nothing, but the light in his eyes bounces between regret and frustration. When his irises shift toward the shadows, my very bones start to crumble. “You’ll be safe tonight, Lark. I’ll make sure of it. But I can’t stay here.”
And just like that, he leaves, unbolting the door and slipping into the dimly lit hallway, forgetting his blanket. Perhaps he’s discarding that, too.
I am frozen, swaying on my decrepit skeleton, staring at that door and wishing, praying, pleading with the stars to reverse time. But forward the seconds tick. Several minutes drag by before I remember how to move, and I sit numbly on my cot, hollow, confused, and humiliated. Biting my lip, which tingles from the touch of his, I drop my face into my hands and curse myself, squeezing my eyes against oncoming tears.Stupid, stupid, stupid.There was such a delicate boundary between us, tight as a stuck thread. Yet instead of easing the knot, I’ve broken the filament. Practically thrown myself at him. AndI’m a human, as everyone here reminds me daily. Ashereminded me. I let hope blaze too bright and destroyed everything.
Shaking, I bite down hard enough to draw blood. Numbly cross the room to bolt my door before dropping back to the cot.
The fledging hope offamilywilts before it could truly bloom, and I wilt with it, growing small and dry and insubstantial.
At least Azmar is trustworthy, I remind myself. He is a good man, a goodtrollis. He won’t share my disgrace. It isn’t in his character. Andwhy would he, anyway? How embarrassing it would be for him, to admit to letting ahumanget that close.
Stupid,I chide myself, slapping a tear off my face. The flame of my candle flickers, as though laughing at me. I pinch the wick to extinguish it, not even flinching when it burns.
Chapter 18
“You’re quiet today, Lark,” Perg says.
I push a pair of large pliers—made for trollis hands—down on a stud in a leather vest refitted to my frame, curling the prongs. I’ve ripped through so much clothing that the tailor finally complained and got me approved for armor of my own, but much of the labor was left to me. I’ve gotten only two rows of the brassy studs intact. I flex my hands after setting down the pliers, then pick up the awl again.
“I suppose I have a lot to think about,” I offer. We’re in Perg’s quarters. His cot is a mess, and he sits up on it, dishes littering the floor beside him. I should offer to take care of them.
I jab the awl into the leather.
“You’ll hit your leg, holding it like that,” Perg says.
“I haven’t yet.” But I think of the scar on my thigh from Tayler’s comrade, which makes me think of Azmar’s hands as he bandaged it, which makes me feel small and idiotic all over again.
Perg watches as I press the next stud into place and pinch it with the too-large pliers. At this rate my hands will be useless tomorrow.
“Are you angry with me?”
I set the pliers down and lift my head. “Why would I be angry with you?”
He shrugs. Doesn’t wince. That’s a good sign.
I pick up the awl.
“I’m back to work tomorrow.” Perg runs a finger along the edge of a scab.
That gives me pause. I take in his splints, his bandages. “Already? Perg, you need to rest longer.”
“I’d love to, even though I never want to sleep again.” He sighs. “But I can’t earn my rations without working.”
I set the awl and vest on my lap. “You can’t work with your injuries!” Not in construction, with all that heavy lifting. “Does the council not allot recovery time to injured trollis?”
“They do. I’ve just used it up.”
