It was strange walking through the town of Perry, as Callan called it, where the streets were occupied with people milling along and chatting as they passed. There was no hurry or urgency, and the pleasant air was filled with sweet smells and gentle voices. The last time I was in anything recognizable as a normal town was so long ago, I barely remembered what constituted normal. The outpost was well populated, busy, and felt like a town, but it wasn’t the same. There were people everywhere, on every street we walked down. I couldn’t help admiring all the faces and places and aromas I’d never had opportunities to experience, ushering in a silence that filled the space between us, and where the silence lived, wonderful sensations blossomed to life within me. I’d never felt so content, so happy, so free from the strife of survival.

We ventured farther down the main road where there were cafes, restaurants, and storefronts lining the street. Each was attractive and well-kept. Perry was a perfect town, a far cry from the shambles of the outpost with their rundown, mostly empty cafes and lantern-lighted butcheries and bakeries. No matter which bistro or patio I looked at, the seats were full of people. Laughing, talking, lounging, and basking in the sun’s warmth; there wasn’t a single care to be found. The delicious smells of busy kitchens wafted through the air and made me long for a taste of the honey-sweetened pastries more than I wanted clothes that fit.

Then without warning we stopped again. Another person had hurried across the street, waving excitedly. It wasn’t the first time since we’d turned off the residential roads. In fact, it had become almost a problem. People stopped us every few feet for the sake of striking up conversation with Callan. They were all smiles and delight bubbling over with gratitude for just seeing him. He handled every intrusion with elegant grace and diplomacy while I shrank back in his shadow. I wasn’t anyone, and no one cared about me—except for Callan. He didn’t miss the way I avoided the people who approached us. The moment they left, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me back around to his side, resuming our slow stroll down the sidewalk as if it were any other lazy day with nothing better to do.

After what felt like the hundredth person to stop us in ten feet, I sighed, “Wow. You’re popular around here.”

“You noticed.”

“It’s hard to miss.” I glanced up at him. No wonder everyone was itching to meet him. There was something about him that was brighter and more vibrant than everyone else. Not only did he have an air that drew attention, but he was breathtaking. If I hadn’t already thought so before, I certainly did under the bright sunlight. His skin was peachy pale, and the copper of his hair had a mixture of rich auburn and low russet hues. It looked soft as silk, and I’d do almost anything to find out if it was—I clenched my fists at my sides; almost anything. He looked over with a grin, and I snapped my attention away. I waited for him to say something, to tell me not to stare like that. I waited and waited, but he said nothing about it. Instead, after a bit, he nudged me with his elbow. I misstepped and looked up at him with wild confusion. His gaze kept to the ground and his face twisted as he tried his best not to laugh. “What was that for?” I asked.

“You keep looking at me like you’re trying to figure out who I am.” His eyes, alight with fire and glowing amber, met mine. “You could always just ask.”

I stopped. I didn’t consider that even once. But could I really just ask? Callan turned to me, placing his hands in his pockets and waiting with the patience of a god. I looked down at the sidewalk with a frown and knitted brows. I could ask, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. It wouldn’t matter to me if I didn’t know. It was little more than a lost, meaningless connection to someone I wasn’t anymore. I looked up and untwisted my lips. “You could have just told me, but you didn’t.”

“You’re right.”

“Why don’t you just tell me, then?”

“You don’t remember who you are, and the Asherah I know wouldn’t want to hear it.” He shrugged and stared across the street as he considered what he wanted to say next. “You’d say it wouldn’t change anything. It would just be a piece of history. If it mattered enough, though, you would have asked, but that’s the Asherah I remember.”

“I’m not that person.”

“You are more than you realize.”

“I wouldn’t know.” My face heated in frustration. I couldn’t remember him, but he was sure he knew me. He carried the memories of the person I was, and I stood there in front of him as someone else, someone who had never met him—a familiar stranger. Years of absence had a way of changing a person. I was sure I wasn’t the same person I was before the outpost, never mind before the fall. I didn’t know the woman he thought I was, but I wished I did. I bit my lip and gave a nod. As much as I dreaded hearing about a past I had no connection to, it didn’t make who he was unimportant. “Alright, who are you?”

“Callan Elyon,” he smirked, taking a small bow as if introducing himself to me for the very first time.

I stared, my lips parting and jaw lowering slowly to hang agape. Every other question I might have asked vanished. I snapped my mouth shut, and I looked away. If it were a coincidence, it was one hell of a big one. That name was the one I used as my own in the underground. It must have been a memory so distant I didn’t know it was a memory and thought I had conjured up in the moment. A single breathy laugh escaped. It was a memory hidden in plain sight. Callan must have been important enough to me that not even a hit to my head was strong enough to erase him. I turned back with a smile. “Well, Callan. I’m Ash.”

“Ash?” He folded his arms over his chest and rocked on his heels. “That sounds like it’s short for something.”

“It’s not.” I shook my head, my smile growing wider.

“Really?” His brows raised. “So, just Ash?”

“Just Ash,” I shrugged.

He nodded as he looked around the street. When his amber gaze returned, he smiled as bright as the day. “Alright, Ash.” We both cringed. It sounded like nails scraping down a chalkboard. A sour taste spread in my mouth, and I knew the contortion of my face said as much. His nose scrunched, not any more pleased than I was about it. “Asherah,” he corrected.

“Asherah,” I agreed, and added, “but only for you.”

The gentle smile that spread over his features as his gaze drifted from mine was one I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t one I’d ever seen, but I was sure I’d felt a handful of times. It wasn’t embarrassment. No, it was something else, something bigger, but I couldn’t place it. Callan pressed the soft smile into a tight line, banishing it away. With something like an amused huff, he cleared whatever he was thinking. Still, tension lingered in his stance as he scoured the shop fronts across the street. “Anyway,” he avoided looking at me, “as much as I enjoy watching you parade around in my clothes, we need to get you something that fits.”

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“Where do we start?” I prompted, ignoring the implications I was sure Charon wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to exploit. I could almost hear his voice teasing in the back of my head.

“Good question.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw as he scanned the street again. “There are a lot of options...”

With little effort, I spotted a small storefront with an assortment of clothes on display in the window. A large sign painted in red hung over the front door. 91st Street Fashion. It looked like the sort of place Roya would shop, and I figured that meant I could find at least a few decent outfits. I motioned toward it, and he held out his hand as if to say he would follow my lead. I crossed the street, and he stayed a half step behind. Pulling open the door, a bell chimed, and a young salesgirl fluttered over. She was cute, by all standards. Her light freckled nose and flower-woven braids matched her sunny yellow dress. Her doe eyes were brown like Roya’s, but not half as wide or round. She spoke in a singsong, her plump cheeks blossoming pink as she ignored me in favor of Callan. I should have expected as much. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other and entertained her questions with small talk, giving me a nod toward the rest of the store. I took the hint and wandered through the racks.

There were more options in one corner of the store than there were in the entire outpost. I ran my fingers over the different fabrics. Dresses lined one rack, both elegant and graceful, and ones I would never wear. On another, there were skirts so thin and flowing I imagined Makaria would want one for a warm spring day. Roya took a liking to anything soft, her outfits often mismatched, but anything I’d borrowed was comfortable. I twisted the bottom of my oversized shirt and cringed at the prices stamped on the tags. Even when I had money, I couldn’t afford things like these. I couldn’t expect or ask Callan to pay for such rich clothing. My shoulders sank, and I took a step away from the rack. As much as I wanted clothes that fit, I couldn’t justify the prices. I looked back at Callan. He didn’t notice my hesitation, too busy with the girl twisting the end of her braid as he explained our visit.

“She can have whatever she wants. I don’t think she’s looking for anything custom today,” Callan said. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to stop by; it’s been a busy couple of years. I think you can understand, the focus is on something... fresh, not necessarily tailored right now. It’s just us.”

She bobbed her head, batting her eyelashes. “Well, the seamstress is in the back, if you change your mind. We always have a seamstress on hand, sir.”

I curled my lip up and mock-gagged as I went back to looking at the racks. Whatever I wanted, he said that with a lot of confidence and a lack of concern for the outrageous prices. I didn’t like the idea of owing him every penny for his generosity and wasn’t about to allow myself to become a charity case. When we were done, I’d have to inquire about repayment. I wasn’t skilled in most things, but I’d held plenty of jobs and one of them had to be useful. Besides, Charon knew I could clean. But was that enough for a debt of this size? No, I’d have to work harder than that. One by one, I gathered an assortment of shirts and pants, leggings, and a few accessories I thought were nice, tumbling over all the possibilities of how to settle the biggest debt I’d ever made for myself. My arm sagged from the weight and as I buckled to keep a good balance of my collection, an older woman rounded from the back room and took the armful from me as if it were nothing. Her wrinkly face showed little emotion as she eyed me, scrutinizing my unfortunate outfit. There was something about how blank she looked that was more judgmental than any sneer or scowl, and it made me feel naked.

Her long, hard sigh came with dispassionate instructions, “Find a new outfit and change before you leave. And at least try to pick out something more flattering than a tent.”

I stared at her for a long moment before she turned sharply and marched to the front of the store. Miffed, I pushed through hanger after hanger, jangling the metal and clothing in a loud clatter. She was unnecessarily rude. I paused and turned to the mirror. My shoulders drooped at my unsightly appearance. She wasn’t that rude. I looked ridiculous. Wandering out of a fancy boutique dressed in men’s clothing looked back—for me, and for their image. I grabbed a pair of pants and a long, tunic-style shirt from the rack, and slipped into the changing room. I popped the tags off and set them in a neat pile, then hurriedly pulled on the new set of clothes. I haphazardly tossed the borrowed clothes on the chair in the corner and examined the fresh outfit in the mirror. The shirt was simple, the pants were plain but well-fitted to my petite form, and the accessory belt pulled everything together—it was modest, clean, and suitable. I didn’t need flattering or flashy, or anything overpriced from the front racks. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. As I turned around, checking over my reflection on more time, I thought Roya would have liked this look on me. The colors made my face seem a little less ghostly pale. Of course, she would also want to do something with my hair. Then we would sit on her bed, and she would brush out my long locks, twisting them into perfect, intricate braids. I sighed, deflating, and wondered if she was thinking about me or if she was staring at a wall, lost to visions again.

Snatching the wrinkled clothes from the chair, I left the changing room. Callan was still at the front of the store but had gained a bigger audience. The group of women gathered around him looked mesmerized like lovesick puppies, and he either didn’t notice or he didn’t care, but their swooning and fawning rubbed me the wrong way. I itched down into my bones. What did they want from him? I was the one who came in with him, and I intended to leave with him; not with a hoard of fangirls hanging from his every word and close on his heels. That settled it. I sucked in a breath and held my chin up. It was as if a fire roared to life inside me. There was no reason for my indignation toward them, but the idea of watching their unabashed adoration made my skin crawl with the need to put them in their place and reclaim his attention for myself. I shoved by the racks and stopped half a foot from Callan and dared not to spare a single glance at his admirers.

He looked at me, and then at my outfit. “Better?”

“Absolutely.” I held up the ball of used clothes. I forced a smile on my lips and shoved the clothes to his chest. He took them and raised a brow. I leaned forward against the wad of fabric between us. “I know you enjoy watching me parade around in your clothes, but I didn’t have anything else left. Especially since my very last shirt ripped all the way open the other night. I guess I didn’t notice with everything else that took place. I’m still a little sore, to be honest.”

His eyes widened for only a moment, and then he breathed a sigh somewhere between disappointed and entertained. His mouth slipped open as if he intended to say something but all that came was a breathy laugh. I drew my lips in as if holding back something more I wanted to say but couldn’t, given the company, my eyes darting to our audience. Callan hummed, nodding in thought and gaze falling to the floor. A flash of amusement flitted over his features and, in an instant, vanished. He looked at me from under his lashes and smirked. “I take it that bite still hurts.”

I ran my hand down my neck and paused over the ridge of my collar, fingers grazing the unseen scars. “On my shoulder?”

“Obviously,” he said in a low, lascivious drawl. My breath caught tight in my chest as he masterfully traced his fingertips down the side of my neck to the edge of my shirt. That light sweeping caress was more than I’d bargained for, and no one missed the hitch of my breath. He pulled up the shirt collar and tilted his head, leaning so close the warmth of his breath met my skin and I shivered. "It doesn’t look as bad as it did the other night.”

I swallowed hard. I had made a grave mistake. Sure, I’d wanted to steal Callan’s attention away and remind the girls ogling him that they were nothing but store clerks, but it seemed I’d forgotten what effect he had on me. My mind blanked and my toes curled under. Sweet cinnamon and smoke filled my senses like his words in my head. The girls dispersed, rustling around as they returned to work, and I had stopped breathing. How could I? Callan stepped back and turned his attention to the old woman at the counter as if nothing had transpired. He took the bag with a polite thanks and turned to me, raising his brows, and motioning toward the door. Turning my gaze to the floor, red-faced and flustered, I sheepishly followed him out.