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“I am confident we will talk more later,” Suparima says. “Both of you.”
I hate the cold chill that races down my spine when he says that. I swallow the fear that tries to rise and wait to see what happens next. Silent Suparima walks to the door then stops and looks over his shoulder.
“Is there something more Suparima?” Bhoja asks.
He looks thoughtful, shifting his gaze from Bhoja to me then back.
“Perhaps,” he says so soft it’s almost a whisper. Involuntarily I’m leaning in to make sure I hear his words. “Hope is not gone.”
He opens the door and is gone. I barely keep myself from stumbling forward into the emptiness he leaves in his wake. I take the first free breath I’ve had since he showed up then Bhoja wraps his arm around my shoulders.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I am not sure,” Bhoja says, squeezing me tighter.
We stand together staring at the door. All thoughts of what we were doing have been blasted away by this intrusion and the confusion that comes along with it. But, even so, I’m ever so cognizant of his arm. The warmth of it. The strength. The way it fits just so around my shoulders.
“I need a drink,” I say.
“Yes, a drink.”
He walks us to the kitchen only letting go when he has to get the bottle and glasses. He pours each of them half full then gives me one as he puts the bottle away. I sip on mine, wincing and scrunching my face up as it burns.
“Ah, that’s so strong,” I say.
“I love your face when you do that,” he says over the rim of his glass.
“No,” I say, cheeks flushing hot. “I look terrible.”
“No.”
I wait for him to continue the argument but that’s it. He tosses his drink back, sets his glass down, then crosses his arms over his chest all the while staring into my eyes. It’s so simple that there is no room for me to disagree or argue. I could, of course, but it’s more than clear it won’t matter. He’s closed that argument.
And once again he warms my heart. It’s a stupid, tiny little thing that speaks volumes about him. Who he really is and every time I find something new out about him it makes me like him more. Almost forces me to love him.
“What do you think he meant?” I ask, changing the subject.
Bhoja frowns then rubs the back of his head.
“I am afraid to speculate,” he says. “But, here between you and I, I think he may be against the Shaman.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You think? Isn’t he like a ranking Maulavi or something?”
“He is.”
“But if he’s against the Shaman then… I mean, how? What does it mean? Could it really be?”
“He was a teacher before the Shaman’s rise. Before we lost so much to the lizards that schools became almost an afterthought. All of us pressed into service to protect the Queen and our way of life.”
“I’m so sorry that happened,” I say.
He shrugs and then sighs.
“A lot, not all, but a lot of that we brought on ourselves. Our own bad actions coming back to haunt us. It is neither here nor there.”
“I understand,” I say. “The Suparima?”
“I think,” he pauses, rubs his head harder then shrugs. “Yes, I think it could be.”
