Sailor rushes to catch up with me. "Why did yae say yae didn' know how tae play Zemet when yae did?" he asks, huffing and puffing after every word.
"Because sometimes men like Rogue need to be taken down a peg," I say. "He thought he could see right through me. I wanted to show him that he can't."
We make our way toward Tanymede's, the sun already baking against my back. It's going to be a rough three weeks working in this heat.
"Can we play Zemet again sometime? Yae were amazin'," Sailor says. The way he looks at me makes me want to ruffle his hair like I've seen other people do with their brothers.
"Sure, of course we can."
As we near Tanymede's tent, I catch sight of her standing in the center of the training space. She's dressed in a billowing pair of burnt orange pants and a blue linen top with white stitching. She's parrying a phantom partner with a double-sided broadsword. I can feel my arm straining against its sling, wishing to hold that sword and twirl it as deftly as Tanymede.
"Good morning," I say, crossing into the training space.
Tanymede spins the sword. She launches forward and whips the blade down on my arm, cutting a loose thread from my sling.
I gape at her. "When can I learn that?" I ask.
Tanymede tries to look as if all she's done is use a butter knife, but I can read the glittering pride in her eyes.
"You're nowhere near that," she says, replacing the broadsword in the woven basket on the outskirts of the training space.
"Sailor, dear, I think we're done here," Tanymede says over her shoulder.
Sailor startles. He gives me a small wave, then turns and walks away along the outskirts of Haven toward the horses and cows.
"I love him to bits, but that boy was a puppy in a past life," Tanymede says. She pulls her usual pole from the basket.
I meet her and reach for my foil.
"How are your muscles?" Tanymede asks.
"They're not too bad," I reply.
She nods. "That's a challenge then."
And with a wink, we begin.
********
The sun's high in the sky by the time we finish training. I've positively sweated through every article of clothing as I place the foil back in the basket.
Tanymede, meanwhile, looks as if she's been standing still in the cool shade for most of the day. Only one drop of perspiration can be seen on her forehead.
"So," she says, "today I was hoping you could handle the transactions."
My hand stills on the broom I've already grabbed. "Really?"
"Yes. You seem to be good with sales, you're observant as you say, and so you notice what sorts of things customers want to buy, and you convince them to do it. So, if you're going to have your own shop one day, you should learn how to work the transactions." Tanymede sits down on her stool in the corner.
"You want me to work with the money?" I ask.
Tanymede's eyes narrow. "Should I not?" she asks.
"No, no," I say quickly, "you can trust me."
Tanymede smiles. "I think so too."
Posy and Ceryl walk into the shop. Posy catches sight of me, her eyes lighting up.
"There she is! The Zemet champion," she says.
I smile sheepishly.
"What is this now?" Tanymede asks, stepping off her stool.
"Our little Thief here stole the win right from under Rogue's nose," Posy says. She talks about me as the Thief, but somehow when she says it, it sounds like a point of pride.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment.
"I didn't know you could play Zemet," Tanymede says. "Was Vates there?"
I nod.
"And you beat Vates?"
I nod again.
Tanymede looks to Posy. "And was Char there?"
Posy nods.
"And our little Thief beat Char?"
Posy nods again, grinning.
"Well congratulations," Tanymede says. She gives me a big hug. "Beating Char at Zemet definitely deserves a celebration. Ladies, what shall we drink?"
While the three women bustle about looking for something suitable to pop open, I lean against the broom.
Tanymede gave me a hug. And it was free of any sort of fear or desperation, it was just a simple, warm hug.
And it was the best thing I've ever felt.
"Do you like wine?" Posy calls. The gold bangles around her arm slip down to her wrist, exposing her forearm. The word Poisoner is burned in thick, black letters against her skin.
"She's too young to drink," Ceryl chides.
"Ah Shadows, life's too short to be denied the good stuff. Let her have a sip if she'd like," Tanymede says, grabbing the bottle from Posy's hand.
Tanymede comes over to me and grabs four mugs from the table. She pulls at the cork with her teeth until it pops free from the bottle, and pours its dark, red contents into the mugs.
"To the end of Char's reign over Zemet!" Posy says, grabbing a mug and holding it high. Ceryl follows suit and clinks her mug against Posy's. Tanymede hangs me a mug and rams hers into mine. I watch the wine swirl around inside the mug.
I've tasted wine before, but only a small amount, and only with my mother. My father, like Ceryl, thought I was too young to drink. But at the last Moon Day with my mother, she handed me a glass with three sips inside.
"Here's to you," she'd said, touching her glass with mine. I'd spit out the stuff the moment it had touched my tongue. It'd tasted awful.
I think my mother had known then that that would be her last Moon Day. I think she'd wanted to make it memorable.
I haven't forgotten it.
"Here's to you," Tanymede says quietly.
Startled, I raise the mug to my lips, and take a sip. It's savory and sweet and fruity all at once.
"I think I like this," I say.
Posy and Tanymede laugh, but Ceryl swats Posy on the arm.
"Now look at what you've done. She was a sweet innocent girl and now you've gone and introduced her to wine," Ceryl says. She sets her mug back down on the table.
"Oh come on," Posy says. "I did the same thing to you when you were her age and you turned out okay."
Ceryl looks down at herself as if looking for something to argue with, but she comes up short. She simply shrugs, and sips more wine.
"I'm in need of a skirt for my daughter." We all turn as one toward Braxos. He's standing just beyond the edge of Tanymede's shop, his hand on the hilt of his short sword.
Tanymede looks to me. I snap to attention.
"We can help you. What sorts of colors or patterns does she like?" I ask. I set down my mug and walk over to the clothing rack.
"Purple," Braxos says. His heavy footfalls land against the wooden platform as he comes closer.
I hear Posy whisper something that sounds like "legs," and the three women cackle together. I try to silence them with my eyes, but that only makes them laugh harder.
"We have a purple skirt here," I say, holding one out to Braxos. Tanymede had walked me through all of her inventory just yesterday, so it's still fresh in my mind.
Braxos takes the skirt from me and holds it out. There's something charming about a grown man taking such care and consideration when picking something out for his daughter.
"Will she...will she like it?" Braxos asks. A bit of the brusqueness is gone from his voice.
I met Axos (named somewhat after her father) only briefly two nights ago, and the little I know of her, I think she would like the skirt. It has maroon thread woven in fun patterns, and animal faces made of cloth are stitched along the seams. It seems like the kind of vibrant thing Axos might wear.
"I think she will, yes," I say.
Braxos nods. "How much?"
I chew my lip. I don't want him to think I'm overselling to skim off the top. Then again, I don't want to undersell and upset Tanymede.
"Five bronze coins," I say, my heart hammering. I watch Braxos's every movement. I see him reach into the leather purse attached to his belt. I see him pull out a handful of coins, dropping one back inside after drawing out too many. I see him place the coins in my palm.
Not once do I see him look to my left arm and wonder if I've given him a fair price.
"Thank you," Braxos says. He pulls the skirt free from its hanger and folds it up, tucking it beneath his arm as he turns and walks away.
"Y-you're welcome," I stammer.
I can feel Tanymede watching me as I walk around the tables and make my way toward her. Posy and Ceryl have made themselves scarce. They're quietly discussing a handheld pewter mirror far off to the side.
"Five bronze coins," I say, holding them out to Tanymede.
Tanymede takes them. She gives me a disgusted look.
This is it, I think. There's going to be one missing, or she's going to accuse you of stealing from Braxos. Or from her. I hang my head and wait for my sentence.
"Why are they so sweaty?" Tanymede asks. She drops the coins into a wooden box at the end of the table and rubs her hands vigorously against her pant legs.
We see someone else walking up the path toward the shop.
"Now get back to work," Tanymede says, shooing me toward them, "those training lessons aren't free."
Tanymede sits back down on her stool. I pause for a just a moment before going to greet the new clients and savor this feeling. She treated me just like anyone else. And so did Braxos. And so do Posy and Ceryl. To them, I'm just me. I'm Mira. And I don't ever have to be anyone else.
********
The sun is low in the sky by the time I help Tanymede drag the sheets over her wares, protecting them from sands that might whip up in the night. We say goodbye, and I make my way toward the tent I share with Sailor and Rogue.
Rogue stops me before I can even get inside. He thrusts a bundle of clothes at me.
"No, no," he says, "don't come inside. You reek to the Goddess."
"Well thank you for sparing my feelings," I say, trying to keep the clothes from tumbling out of my one-armed grip. With an unfortunate whiff, I realize they're mine. And I realize he's right.
"Are you ready to learn the elegant art of laundry?" he asks. He picks up a basket, two cuts of soap siting atop his pile of unwashed clothes, and a washing board tucked into the side.
No smells come from his basket save for rose and lavender. It's unfair.
"I suppose I am," I say.
Rogue leads the way not toward the well, but away from his tent and out into the open sand. A solitary basin of water sits not quite a quarter-span from his tent, a freestanding clothing rack beside it.
"I, uh, thought you might appreciate the privacy," Rogue says. "I didn't know what I was doing the first time Esmeralda showed me how to launder clothes, and so I thought you might appreciate not having all of Haven staring at you while you splash about."
Rogue drops the basket by the basin. I let the clothes fall from my arm.
"That was kind of you," I say slowly. I'm waiting for the sarcastic follow-up comment, but it doesn't come. Rogue simply plucks the washing board from the basket and sets it in the basin.
"First things first," Rogue says, "you wet an article of clothing." He picks up a blue velvety tunic with silver thread and drops it in the basin. I watch the blue fabric darken with water. "Then you pick up some soap." He grabs a bar of soap. "And you scrub the clothes against the washboard." With one hand Rogue holds his shirt against the washboard, and with the other he scrubs the front with soap. Bubbles form on the surface of the water. Those same familiar smells of rose and lavender waft through the air.
"And then you rinse," Rogue says. He sets the soap down in a dish attached to the side of the basin, and swirls the tunic around inside the water. He picks it up and squeezes it with both hands, wringing out the excess water. He stands, and hangs the tunic over the drying rack.
"And that's it," Rogue says.
"Oh. It's simpler than I imagined." My mood sinks a bit. "But it looks like a two-handed activity."
Rogue swallows, the ball in his throat bobbing. "I can help you," he says.
I shake my head. "No, I don't need your help. I can figure out how to do this on my own."
"Then you'll leave here with half-washed clothes and you'll still stink. Let me help you," Rogue says.
I sigh, but acquiesce.
We work out a rhythm where Rogue holds the clothes against the washboard, and I scrub the front of them with the soap.
I'm aware of him kneeling so close to me, but I don't know what to say. Everything I can think of sounds idiotic.
"So, you can play Zemet," Rogue says, breaking the silence.
I nod.
"Would you play at home?" Rogue asks.
"My father taught me," I say, answering but also not answering the question.
Rogue nods.
I hang a shirt to dry while Rogue gets a pair of pants ready to be scrubbed. I look at his green ensemble out of the corner of my eye.
"Where do you get your fine clothes?" I ask.
"I brought most of these with me, but sometimes when I'm Scouting I'll pick up something at the market," Rogue says.
"With what money?"
I want to take the question back the moment I've asked it.
"Ah," Rogue says, a smile in the pocket of his lips, "you've discovered my big secret. Haven is indeed simply a scheme for me to take everyone's money and use it to buy clothes."
"That's not what I meant," I say.
Rogue gently takes hold of my wrist. I hadn't realized I'd been scrubbing the past so hard. The soap is nearly gone.
"It was a joke, Mira," Rogue says.
Both of us go very still.
"Am I Mira now?" I ask quietly, looking at Rogue's long fingers against my wrist.
He lets go, and my skin feels cold.
"We should keep working. We don't want to miss dinner," Rogue says, a little too loudly. He looks up at the setting sun.
I say nothing. I rinse the pants and hang them up on the drying rack, and when I kneel back down by the basin, I leave a little extra space between Rogue and me.
We lapse into silence. Each of us working efficiently together to clean both my clothes and his.
After a while, Rogue takes a deep breath. "I keep my clothes clean to prevent the spread of disease," he says. "I don't want to be dirty when I'm healing someone in case I give them something unexpected and cause more pain."
I think back to Gregor. Though he always washed his hands and his medical supplies, his healer's gown was stained, as was the wooden exam table.
"That's thoughtful," I say. I scrub at a shirt, the thin bar of soap wanting to slip free from my hand.
"Have you always wanted to be a healer?" I ask.
Rogue nods. He smiles, but it's tainted with something sad.
"Yes. I was fascinated with people and how they worked, and I wanted to better understand them and help them. I had a gift," he murmurs.
"Did you study it in school?"
Rogue's face darkens. "I wasn't allowed," he says. "The teachers didn't think I could be trusted. They thought I cheated. How could someone so young be such a skilled healer? Besides, I would 'go rouge', as they say, and try different healing methods, different medicine combinations. Most of the time they would work better than what the teacher suggested. They never liked that." Rogue gives a soft, humorless laugh.
"How would you learn, then?" I ask. I rinse the shirt. Rogue leans back on his heels as I stand to lay the shirt across the drying rack. We're running out of space.
"Esmeralda would bring me books. She would steal them from the library. I always snuck them back in the shelves after I'd read them. I'm not a thief." Rogue raises his eyebrow at me.
I roll my eyes.
"And how would you practice?" I ask, coming back to the basin and picking up the last pair of pants to wash.
"Ah." Rogue begins to unbutton his waistcoat. His ears slowly turn pink as he does.
I shrink away, suddenly very aware that we're the only two people in this area. If I scream, maybe someone will come running, but the stars are beginning to speckle the sky and I'm worried everyone's made their way to dinner already.
Rogue drops the waistcoat in the sand. He pulls his loose shirt free from where he'd tucked it into his pants.
"Rogue, what are you—" but the words die as Rogue raises the shirt over his head.
In the last waning light of the setting sun, I can see the thin scars crisscrossing his pale body. There's no pattern to them, they seem to trace up and down his skin in every direction. Some scars are longer than others, and some look jagged with raised tissue, while others are neat and faintly pink.
I reach out a finger and trace one from his hip to his chest. Rogue shivers beneath me, and I pull my hand away, embarrassed.
The scars are everywhere. They're along his arms as well, twisting and curling in line with his inky black Fate.
"What are these?" I ask, breathless.
Rogue's chest moves in time with his heart. There's no swagger to his features. He's raw and vulnerable, his eyes wide and pleading. See me, they seem to say, see me for who I am.
"They wouldn't allow me to practice. But I could do it. I could heal better than any of them. So I...I practiced on myself." Rogue's voice is thick with emotion.
I tear my eyes away from his chest and meet his gaze head on. We 're so close. I can feel the heat of his knees against my own. There's a pulse in that tiny space, a throbbing wish to touch.
"Rogue," I begin, but I'm not sure what to say. I'm sorry this has happened to you? You're so brave? All the things I would've wished to hear sound empty, meaningless. Nothing I say can take those scars away.
I reach out my hand. I watch him look at it, his breathing rapid. I gently lay my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pump beneath it. Scars spider out beneath my touch, and I wonder just how deep they go.
Rogue lays his hand atop mine, pressing it deeper into his chest. His skin is warm and soft. I want to touch all of it. I want to run my hands over each and every one of his scars and kiss them. I want him to know how beautiful they are, how much stronger they make him.
"Rogue," I begin again, but my words are stopped by his lips.
The world drops away beneath my knees. I lean into him, my eyes closed, my lips moving in time with his. My skin fizzes and pops. Every part of me smolders. I dig my fingers into his chest. Rogue's hand cinches around mine. I lean in deeper, feeling Rogue's tongue against my own. I want him. I need him. I—
James howls.
Rogue jumps away, his eyes dilated. The sun's set below the horizon. A half moon hangs in the sky; the Goddess turning toward us.
I'm breathing heavily, staring at him.
"I have to go," Rogue says. He picks up his shirt, pulling it over his head, hiding his scars. "They'll wonder where I am." He threads his arms through the sleeves of his waistcoat and buttons it rapidly.
He runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up like fire between his fingers.
"We can, uh, we can leave the clothes here to dry overnight. Don't worry about the wash basin, I'll move it in the morning." Rogue doesn't look at me.
"I'll see you at dinner," he mumbles, and then he leaves.
I watch him walk quickly toward his tent, his feet kicking up sand.
My hand is still hanging in the air, as if it's still feeling for his chest. I bring it up to my face and gingerly feel my lips.
They're still warm, but I feel so cold.