73. Poetry

That night when he came to our room, earlier now, I was ready for him.

I had bathed in Gareth’s bath before bed, desiring to be clean after a day bending over ledgers and watching Cian show me how to perform a wedding, a christening and other duties a priestess would have.

Once the stress of the day was washed off, I went to our room, anticipating his early arrival.

I had borrowed, without asking, one of his long-sleeved black undershirts and had donned it over my nightgown, along with socks.

I had combed out my hair and it lay shiny over one shoulder.

I was sitting up in bed with Gareth Pope’s journal, reading by candlelight when he knocked.

I asked him to enter.

In he came, with freshly washed tin cups.

He held them up to me. “Wine?”

“A little, thank you.

And I have a favor to ask.”

He turned to me, the jug in one hand, a cup in the other.

“Please ask, Edith.”

I smiled at him.

“I have decided to give up my melancholies.

I would like to read some poetry.”

I nodded towards the small selection of our books between the wooden starfish book ends.

“I think you have a volume of it?”

He hesitated and then set down the jug and cup and pulled the thin book out. “Yes.”

“If you do not wish to share it, I understand.”

Alric turned back towards me.

“No.

If I own something, it is yours also.”

“Oh, that is in my interest then, because I would like to keep this shirt.”

Again, that not-a-smile smile.

He handed the book to me and returned to pouring.

With his back turned, I said, “Could you read it out loud to me? My eyes are tired.”

He took his time replying but said, “Yes, but I do not have the delivery for poetry.

And that poem does not rhyme.”

“I am of the belief that poetry should be read simply anyway.”

He would not meet my eyes when he traded me the book for my tin cup.

He returned to the desk and sat in profile to me.

He opened it, but did not read.

He closed it.

I almost sighed aloud looking at that angular nose and brow, the candlelight emphasizing the hollows of his cheeks.

“You don’t have to,”

I said softly.

“Tell me of your day instead.”

He remained in profile, but said, “Why were you so happy at breakfast?”

“River and Quinn are going to have a wedding.

Even if no law acknowledges it.”

My husband nodded.

“Anwyn and Vincent had such a thing.

In the forge with just our families.

My mother insisted on it before her death.

She had a friend who worked as a scribe in the sea temple and they were able to get a sea priest to at least hold a ceremony.”

“So they have been wed a long time then?”

“Yes.

She passed away soon after.

I did not tell you about Anwyn at first.

Some people judge when they have no right to judge.

I did not think you one of them.

But I am protective.”

“He is lucky to have such a brother.”

He hung his head a little bit.

Low-pitched, he said, “You always say the right thing, do you know that?”

I swallowed my wine.

“I heartily disagree and I can give you many examples.”

He shook his head.

“To me.

You always say the right thing to me.”

I could tell he was feeling vulnerable and while he may have protested, I had found teasing beneficial before.

“Poetry, please,”

I said sweetly.

Opening ‘The Vanishing Thunder’ to its first page, he read, “She hunts thunder and vanishes in it, stepping as anyone does through a door, she steps into worlds unknown.

She hunts thunder and vanishes in it, Brother Air covering her like a shield.

She becomes a mistral, ever twirling into oblivion.

She hunts thunder and vanishes in it.”