here?” He looked at me for confirmation.
“No,” I said, delighted to have found common ground among the flowers. Wild tulips grew along the forest edges near Iskadar, and Grandmother’s rose bushes had been the envy of every widow in the village. “The city proper doesn’t have many bulb flowers, but the bushes flower. The bleeding heart is my favorite. It’s more of a summer bush though.”
“Bleeding heart,” he repeated. “I shall remember that. Do you have a bleeding heart in your garden . . . ?”
“Echo,” I say. “My name’s Echo.”
He took my hand and clasped it in his own. His fingers were long, warm, the spaces between them filled with mine. He led me away from the table, away from the delicious breakfast foods, away, away, away.
And I went. I went because I wanted to be near him. I wanted to know more about his name, and about his homeland of Nyth, and why he wore such a suffocating jacket on such a fine early summer morning.
Out on the balcony, behind the glass that protected me from the river, he stopped. Somehow, he held two cups of coffee in his free hand, and he offered me one.
I took it without looking away from his face. His cheeks seemed hollowed now that he was away from the crowds and gas-powered light in the ballroom. His jaw was square; his teeth straight and white; his hair the color of the rich brown rug in my bedroom.
“Echo is such an unusual name,” he said.
“Strange, I know.” I wrenched my gaze from his face to look over the water, suddenly thinking of Grandmother. Before I could stop it, a sigh escaped.
“Let me guess. You named yourself when you were five years old and . . . screaming for help at the bottom of a canyon.”
I didn’t answer as I sipped my coffee. I didn’t normally tell complete strangers how I named myself, a village custom in Iskadar most outsiders thought primitive. But Cris eyed me, his expression open, unassuming, despite his sarcasm.
“My grandmother let me play outside a lot,” I started, testing him. His attention remained on me. His eyes danced with life; he listened eagerly.
“We had a large garden, and I would follow her out there. As she worked, I filled bucket after bucket with dirt and dumped it out. When I laughed, the sound got caught in the metal.”
I broke eye contact as I lost myself in the memory. I heard Grandmother’s throaty laugh, smelled the earth on her fingers, the pollen in the air. I missed her beyond anything imaginable.
I swallowed a mouthful of scalding hot coffee so I could continue. “When she heard me, she told me it was an echo. That was when I chose my name.” I wondered what Grandmother’s garden looked like now, desolate and unattended as it had been these past many months.
“How old were you?” Cris asked.
“Two.” I cleared the emotion from my throat. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Is Cris a family name?”
“Something like that,” he said, his words fading and his mouth turning down. He reached out and brushed a curl of hair off my face. “Your hair is lovely.”
I stepped back, and his hand dropped to his side. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Cris,” he corrected.
“Cris,” I said, wanting to put more distance between us until I better understood his motives. The silence stretched, and everything I could think of to say seeped into dangerous territory. My stomach squeezed tight.
Finally, Cris said, “Tell me, Echo, what you know of magic.”
My heart struggled against my ribs. My thoughts spun with stories of Nythinian hunting parties, the rumors of orange-eyed sorcerers who hummed hedges into warriors, and the realities of Princes who brought hundreds of young women to his compound in order to choose a wife.
What kind of wife? A magician-wife? I didn’t know and found it impossible to replace the fear coiling through my system with frustration.
I tried desperately to play his question off as nothing by waving one hand nonchalantly at the river.
“No,” I said, delighted to have found common ground among the flowers. Wild tulips grew along the forest edges near Iskadar, and Grandmother’s rose bushes had been the envy of every widow in the village. “The city proper doesn’t have many bulb flowers, but the bushes flower. The bleeding heart is my favorite. It’s more of a summer bush though.”
“Bleeding heart,” he repeated. “I shall remember that. Do you have a bleeding heart in your garden . . . ?”
“Echo,” I say. “My name’s Echo.”
He took my hand and clasped it in his own. His fingers were long, warm, the spaces between them filled with mine. He led me away from the table, away from the delicious breakfast foods, away, away, away.
And I went. I went because I wanted to be near him. I wanted to know more about his name, and about his homeland of Nyth, and why he wore such a suffocating jacket on such a fine early summer morning.
Out on the balcony, behind the glass that protected me from the river, he stopped. Somehow, he held two cups of coffee in his free hand, and he offered me one.
I took it without looking away from his face. His cheeks seemed hollowed now that he was away from the crowds and gas-powered light in the ballroom. His jaw was square; his teeth straight and white; his hair the color of the rich brown rug in my bedroom.
“Echo is such an unusual name,” he said.
“Strange, I know.” I wrenched my gaze from his face to look over the water, suddenly thinking of Grandmother. Before I could stop it, a sigh escaped.
“Let me guess. You named yourself when you were five years old and . . . screaming for help at the bottom of a canyon.”
I didn’t answer as I sipped my coffee. I didn’t normally tell complete strangers how I named myself, a village custom in Iskadar most outsiders thought primitive. But Cris eyed me, his expression open, unassuming, despite his sarcasm.
“My grandmother let me play outside a lot,” I started, testing him. His attention remained on me. His eyes danced with life; he listened eagerly.
“We had a large garden, and I would follow her out there. As she worked, I filled bucket after bucket with dirt and dumped it out. When I laughed, the sound got caught in the metal.”
I broke eye contact as I lost myself in the memory. I heard Grandmother’s throaty laugh, smelled the earth on her fingers, the pollen in the air. I missed her beyond anything imaginable.
I swallowed a mouthful of scalding hot coffee so I could continue. “When she heard me, she told me it was an echo. That was when I chose my name.” I wondered what Grandmother’s garden looked like now, desolate and unattended as it had been these past many months.
“How old were you?” Cris asked.
“Two.” I cleared the emotion from my throat. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Is Cris a family name?”
“Something like that,” he said, his words fading and his mouth turning down. He reached out and brushed a curl of hair off my face. “Your hair is lovely.”
I stepped back, and his hand dropped to his side. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Cris,” he corrected.
“Cris,” I said, wanting to put more distance between us until I better understood his motives. The silence stretched, and everything I could think of to say seeped into dangerous territory. My stomach squeezed tight.
Finally, Cris said, “Tell me, Echo, what you know of magic.”
My heart struggled against my ribs. My thoughts spun with stories of Nythinian hunting parties, the rumors of orange-eyed sorcerers who hummed hedges into warriors, and the realities of Princes who brought hundreds of young women to his compound in order to choose a wife.
What kind of wife? A magician-wife? I didn’t know and found it impossible to replace the fear coiling through my system with frustration.
I tried desperately to play his question off as nothing by waving one hand nonchalantly at the river.
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