Ainsel’s world was filled with the rustling of leaves. Yesterday’s storms had since crossed London, cleansing the air of the humid haze that had so heavily gripped it before; they had given way to a clear, crisp night, a picture of autumn for storybooks. Just as in her vision from her cave of concrete and steel, the moon shone through wisp clouds, at its midnight zenith in the sky. It wasn’t full, but waxing, and that was close enough for her.
She took a hungry breath and let the feeling of being back among nature wash over her. In London’s southwest sector, Richmond Park was a haven, an echo not only of home, but of anywhere not choked with city lights and hard edges and artificial reeks growing stale under a prim exterior. How many hours she’d taken to reach the park, she was not certain, and could only say that the journey had occupied the entire day.
Being a day’s walk away from the young man and his brick house at the edge of its own miniature green space -- that was enough, too.
On her back beneath an oak tree, between roots that twisted from the ground in whorled wooden arches and cradled her like hands, Ainsel lay and tried to make sense of her new imperatives. Tomorrow, she’d have to steal more food. Her satchel, pink canvas, tattered from exposure to the elements, and picked from a garage sale behind turned backs, was tucked into the crook of her arm. Inside, at the bottom of a cellophane bakery bag, she had one last dinner roll. It would have to be breakfast; there was no sense in starting without fuel. And she of course needed a map. They were easy to find, free at tourist kiosks scattered around the district’s main streets.
With a huff, she rolled onto her side.
Had she really been reduced to this? A thief, a street urchin?
Ainsel scowled at the root in front of her face. She hadn’t been anything more than that before she entered the portal, and she’d only entered it to break laws anyway. What a fool she’d been to expect a change.
That gave her an unexpected lance of pain; she tightened her grip on the satchel and focused hard on keeping each breath as steady as the last. She hadn’t cried since she was a stupid child.
It was power she needed, more than food, more than a map, she decided, and up to sitting she pushed herself. Ainsel straightened her back, lifted her head, and let her wrists rest loose upon her knees. She reached into the brush of the breeze, the crunching leaves, the magic that she hoped, against all hope, was there.
Soiléireacht emerged, weaving from her palms and stretching, as though its threads had been curled, confined, for much too long. They wound around her before wreathing out again, poking to search for magic in the ground. She watched them work; a chill raced across her skin when they found the soil.
They burrowed deeper and deeper; Ainsel felt the tug of worry, and a dullness growing.
Further still they went.
Nothing.
A core of bitterness dropped into her stomach, a rock, unforgiving and leaden. London was already gone. Perhaps all of England was. It rent a fresh gouge through the detachment she’d crafted, and Soiléireacht lashed in frustration to mirror hers, and an angry, grieving scream threatened to tear from her mouth.
Look what they did to their own land.
Tears welling, Ainsel let her mental dam crack. She let herself remember her mistake.
Thirteen years ago, something had happened in a London suburb.
Something that someone had done when she herself was thirteen.
Something that she swore she’d lock in the past and never, ever regret.
Her fingertips recalled the sparks that had jumped between them and his. Every inch of her thrummed again as she relived that first meeting: the electric atmosphere, the speechlessness, the touch of her very soul being seen and known and feared. The momentous bravery of what he’d done struck her in full. To save something that he believed could kill him without hesitation, to pour his own energy and sweat and time into the act, knowing he could fail at any second -- it was noble.
Her breath hitched, and her jaw clenched, but she cared not an ounce.
What she’d done had been unspeakable, and how had the universe rewarded her? It had given her to a stranger who had, in turn, given her life. There was a dangerous imbalance in all of this, for try as she might to tell herself that not killing him had also been enough, it seemed so insignificant. Her note to him, if he’d even found it, was meaningless. You are unharmed -- I am absolved of my debt. How could that possibly compare?
A debt like this took so much more.
She did not let logic stop her, as the logic of the fae was far too close to pride. I cannot show you kindness, because you will think me weak, it said. What crap.
Ainsel slung her satchel over her shoulder. She zipped her jacket -- his jacket -- against the wind. And, through a blur across her vision, she ran.
❦❦❦
Shivering, she rang his doorbell, once, twice, again and again. Stone silence greeted her, and she could barely see, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes and smearing her cheeks with damp paths that stung like ice in the wind. Clarity would not come, and even if it had, there would be nothing she could do -- she wouldn’t reach it into his room, into his bed, to grab him and shake him awake. It would frighten him, and spill everything further out of balance, and so she waited, her breath coming in gasps now.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Inside, a light flicked on. She winced, squinted.
The front door inched open, and he stood before her, silhouetted against the warmth of the stained-glass lamp on the kitchen ceiling. Bleary, blinking, he lowered the meter stick that he clasped. Another pang shook her, some emotion that she could not quite pinpoint. Pity? Maybe. What could a meter stick do against an intruder? Or was it admiration, for what courage must it take to approach the unknown with so makeshift a weapon?
They were still, Ainsel fighting back a breakdown on the threshold, the young man surely struggling to process what he saw.
At long last, he stepped aside, moving his hand in a slow gesture for her to enter. She did, her gasping making her cough, and each cough ripped at her throat until it was raw. The door closed behind her. He did not yet speak, stepping around the granite-topped island, toward the counter and cabinets.
She settled into the nearest chair, where she slumped forward on the island, head in her arms -- a desperate attempt to quiet herself. A cabinet creaked, and she heard the sounds of him shuffling small boxes and tins. Something clinked; there was the rushing of water, a thunk, a low mechanical clicking. Two more clinks followed, metal to china; on instinct, her mind flashing warnings of iron, she peeked out at him. He set aside a pair of mugs, spoons sticking from them.
She resumed her slumping, strength spent. When the water in the kettle bubbled, then boiled, she did not move, nor did she count minutes.
The chair beside her faintly scraped against the floor. Steam unfurled, wafting past her arm, and though her head throbbed, she adjusted little by little until she was sitting up. She smelled clove and chamomile from the mug on a saucer he put before her, and they smoothed the shakiness in her body. Ainsel slid her fingers through the handle, and gentle as he had been when he’d offered her the box of gauze, he interrupted.
“Not yet.” His voice was liquid gold, even through the hoarseness of semi-sleep. “It’s still steeping.”
She could bring herself to do no more than nod and sit.
Time oozed by, molasses-slow; he raised his own mug and took a sip, and she followed. The flavors of spices, carried along on a current of earthy sweetness, brought her thoughts to a standstill where they had been a thunderstorm.
For the first time that night, Ainsel trusted herself to speak. “What should I call you?”
She didn’t dare ask his name, as doing so would demand more power than was right for him to give, and perhaps more than was even possible. A wordless glance flickered between the two, and she fought another wave that nearly knocked her from her precarious place of calm: that was understanding written in the shadows of his eyes. He knew faerie customs.
“Liam,” he said, and he waited, hands pressed to cooling china.
Her reply came in a whisper. “Ainsel. Why did you let me in?”
Liam looked to the window; half-bare branches shivered as thicker clouds encroached on the moon.
“It’s freezing out there, and you’re...” He trailed off, sounding lost.
She could hold back no longer. “I’m -- I’m sorry.”
“For?”
And in that instant, there was nothing she wouldn’t have given to tell him the truth, to tell him what lay buried under thirteen years of lying, even if he’d had no part in it. But the wish lasted a tiny fraction of time and splintered into dust. It was her problem, and hers alone.
Instead, she gestured to the jacket; loops of fabric hung loose where they’d caught on the metal staircase.
Like the ability to ignore, the tendency toward excessive politeness ran strong in this land. But when Liam’s gaze met the frayed strings and then returned to hers, she knew that his was genuine.
“It’s alright,” he assured. “Shouldn’t you rest?”
She almost wanted to say yes, her focus tugged from him to the soft white room with its single window and flag on the wall. Almost. Her cheeks grew hot, shame swallowing all else.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Not here. It’s... it’s not...” Her turn came for her words to die away, and mentally, she fumbled for an answer. “Right. It’s not right.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t -- I don’t know. Everything.” And, without thinking, she said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, wistful and kind and tired, as though she’d brought him equal parts sorrow and relief.
“I figured.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means...” He paused, letting the wind fill the lull. “If you were going to hurt me, you’d have done it already.”
“You trust me?” Unease gnawed at her, a dark, acrid thing, and she could not keep it out of her tone, questioning what could have caused the bitter half of his bittersweet response. If he trusted her, this was worse than she thought.
“I suppose so.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Don’t you think I hear that every time I help the fae?” His expression remained even, but his intonation -- it sent a frost chill prickling down her spine. An intensity had crept in, a fervency that left her hot and cold at once.
“Just take me to rest if you’re that determined.”
His spell ceased, and drinking down the last dredges of tea, he stood. Again, she followed, too trapped in swirling worry to attempt dignity. After Liam, she took the same path that she had when she’d left the guest room, where she’d slept with the window open wide. He faced forward, like he was certain of her being behind him, though she walked without sound.
The room was just as it had been then -- spotless, not an object out of order. Liam pulled back fresh clean blankets and revealed fresh clean sheets, that same lavender perfume puffing from the linens. The sight of a bed, a place safe as the forest to sleep, called to the deep ache in her muscles; she started toward it.
“Wait.”
Out of confusion more than a desire to listen, she did so. Liam left for the hall, and the air itself deflated -- the static charge, linked to his presence, vanishing. It leaped when he reappeared, folded clothing in his arms. The look he gave her was one of searching, and reaching, and she was reminded of Soiléireacht. How earnestly it worked, how honestly. But whatever Liam wanted to say, he kept it to himself, setting the clothing upon the blankets and retreating for the final time.
There came the muffled thump of another door closing. She sank to the floor, against the bedpost, and sat still. A curious hush descended on her consciousness -- she could not describe how she felt, not with complete accuracy, and concluded that she felt silent.
If the physical body could succumb to exhaustion, then so could the spirit.
Ainsel unfolded the two items. He had lent her a black sweater, and striped shorts, and it mattered not that they were a size too large. She changed, her movements numb, then tossed her tunic and cargo pants into the corner.
Soiléireacht flipped the lights off, and she huddled into bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Ainsel never did sleep that night, racked with what was unmistakably guilt.