After Hours

After Hours — The Open Folio · Present day

Based on an original story by Anne. 21+ · Adult supernatural romance. Includes sensuality and non-graphic intimacy, controlling relationships, feeding violence, illness, death and grief.

Bjorn had left the chair beside him clear. The table was covered with two controllers, a notebook, charging cables, and a plate with a sandwich crust on it. I moved the plate to make room for my elbow.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have come to improve your evening.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Good. Hold this.

He put a controller in my hand without looking away from the screen. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, and a lock of brown hair had fallen over one blue eye. I tucked it behind his ear. It fell straight back.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That was a remarkably poor greeting. Try again.

He caught my wrist, kissed the inside of it, and pulled the second chair closer with his foot. I sat. The warmth of his mouth remained on my skin while he explained which button made the little figure jump.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You are the one on the left. Get onto that square and stay there. I need to check the gate.

On the screen, two figures stood in a room with doors at opposite ends. Mine wore a red coat. His wore blue. I walked forward, landed on a floor switch, and watched a gate rise in front of him.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Why does your person get the door?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Because your person is being helpful. It is a new experience for her.

I took my thumb off the control and leaned against his shoulder. He smelled of soap and the coffee he had been drinking. As his figure jumped towards the opening, I moved mine after him. The gate dropped before he got through.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Your game is broken.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You got off the switch too soon. Give me a moment to reach the other one.

He showed me the second switch beyond the first gate. Standing there would open my way through. Later, he said, we would have a block to leave on a switch. For now, one of us had to wait.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Can I climb over? Break it? Politely threaten whoever built this place?

Bjorn Lindstrom: You can wait for your boyfriend. He is doing his best.

I watched him miss a jump and fall back to the start of the room. His little figure stood up unharmed. He rubbed his face while I laughed against his sleeve. From the far end of the workroom, someone closed a laptop and wished us good night.

When we were alone, I pushed my chair back and sat across his knees. He set the controller down before putting a hand at my waist. The chair gave a short, disagreeable creak beneath us.

Bjorn Lindstrom: This chair was not included in the playtest.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Then we are doing valuable additional work.

I kissed him. He tilted his head to avoid one of my bone hairpins, then kissed me again with his fingers pressed through the fabric at my waist. I had intended a brief distraction. His mouth made that plan difficult to keep.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Hello, by the way.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Acceptable. A little late.

He brushed a mark of dark lipstick from his lower lip. I considered leaving another. Then my phone vibrated against my thigh, and I remembered why I had come before he finished work.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Vladimir wants us at the Linden Rooms tomorrow. Supper. He has sent the time twice, in case numbers have become difficult for me.

Arkhane, Supper at the Linden Rooms. Eight o’clock. Bring Bjorn. Eirhart is welcome if he can be persuaded to put down his gardening tools. Vladimir

Bjorn reached around me for his mug. He found it empty and put it back. My father had met him in doorways and once outside my studio, always when there was somewhere else Bjorn needed to be.

Bjorn Lindstrom: What time? I have the Folio group trying this tomorrow afternoon.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Eight. Although he has the sitting room from six. We could arrive early. You could move your little gathering.

His hand stopped moving over my back. He looked at me properly, and I wished I had described the playtest with more care. Four people had changed their working hours to come. He had told me their names over breakfast.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I'm keeping the playtest. We'll finish in plenty of time for eight. If your father needs us earlier, he can pick another night.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I said could. I have not sent anyone a cancellation.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I know. I'm saying no before you make it sound convenient.

I slid from his lap, more stiffly than I needed to. He let me go. On the desk, the two figures waited where we had left them. I picked a strand of violet-black hair from the rough seam of his chair.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He does make an effort when he entertains. You might enjoy it.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I might. I'd also like my friends to play the game I keep telling them about. Both things fit tomorrow.

He turned his chair towards mine. I could have continued arguing over those two hours. I had no useful reason to ask him to miss the playtest. I put my heel on the chair rung and watched him wait for me to answer.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Eight, then. I will tell him eight.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Thank you. What does he want?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Just supper. Is it so extraordinary that my father wants to know you?

Vladimir had told me to enjoy Bjorn’s attention without arranging my affairs around it. I had defended Bjorn’s work and left, still angry. I wanted him to see us together and take the relationship seriously.

I did not tell Bjorn what Vladimir had said. He would be angry, and I would have to persuade him to come. I opened the invitation instead and showed him the address, as though that answered his question.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Will Eirhart be there?

His question came without a joke. Eirhart had been included in the invitation, though my father had left me to ask him. I thought of silver hair tied back over a gardener’s collar, and the careful way he lifted a cutting from its pot.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have not asked him yet. He has been working on that trellis. I hardly see him.

Bjorn looked down at his hands. Last week I had left halfway through an evening with him because Eirhart needed supplies carried to the gardens. When I returned, Bjorn had asked whether I would always go. I had answered badly.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Okay. Tell me when you know.

I wanted him to put his hand back on my waist. Asking felt awkward after the way I had moved away. I reached for the cuff he had rolled too high and straightened it, taking longer over the fold than necessary.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I finished the ward commission today. The client stopped complaining when I made him stand outside and try the wrong key.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Did he get in?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Of course he did not get in. I would have told you a different story.

Bjorn laughed and caught my hand before I could retreat. He asked whether I had solved the crack in the crystal housing. I had spent two evenings swearing over it beside him. He remembered exactly where it had split.

I took a small offcut from my pocket to show him the new join. He held it beneath the desk lamp and turned it slowly. Red light fell across his fingers. There was graphite along one knuckle from his notebook.

[Picture: Bjorn Lindstrom, thoughtful expression]

Bjorn Lindstrom: That is much cleaner. You said you could not get the edge this thin.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I said it was difficult. You were very rude about the difference.

He handed it back with a grin. I put the crystal away and kept his fingers between mine. Beyond the window, the shop lights along the street were going out. His laptop fan ran steadily beside us.

Bjorn Lindstrom: One more room? Then I'll pack up.

I took the red figure again. This time I stayed on the switch until he reached his. When my gate rose, I ran straight through and left him behind. He made an offended noise that pleased me far too much.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You asked me to get through the door. I followed instructions beautifully.

Bjorn Lindstrom: We're changing the title to One Door and an Abandoned Boyfriend.

I laughed, and he looked so satisfied with himself that I kissed the side of his face. He shut down the build after saving it, then began the familiar struggle to fit every cable into a bag that was too small.

I held the bag open. His shoulder pressed against mine as we worked. Tomorrow I would wear the black dress he liked, and my father would have a whole evening to discover that Bjorn was neither foolish nor temporary.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You are sure you want to go? We could ask him to supper another time. Somewhere less formal.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Tomorrow. Eight. Come with me.

He nodded and handed me his coat while he reached under the table for a fallen controller. I kept it over my arm until he stood, then helped him into it and went out beside him.

The First Night

The First Night — The Open Folio · One year earlier

The first time I stayed to play his game, Bjorn had been twenty-eight for six days. A birthday card still stood beside his screen. I had come to collect tools left after a ward repair, and he had asked me to spare ten minutes.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You have had three weeks to devise a better invitation.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You have spent three weeks looking over my shoulder and saying you could do better. Here is your chance.

I had watched him work whenever I passed through the Folio. Usually he did not notice. That afternoon, he cleared a chair before I could invent a reason to leave, and I decided to make him regret his confidence.

The little figure on his screen was a square with legs. Its companion had one yellow arm and one blue arm because he had not finished drawing it. I looked from the screen to him, waiting for an explanation.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Temporary art. The room is what matters.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Then it had better be an excellent room. I am going to need a reason to keep looking at these creatures.

He laughed so suddenly that I smiled before I meant to. His laugh was louder than his speaking voice, and he ducked his head afterwards, glancing towards the other tables. I picked up the controller to give him something else to look at.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Left stick to move. This button to jump. You can walk about before we start.

I pressed the wrong button and brought up a menu. He leaned over to close it, then drew back and let me try again. His forearm had brushed mine. I noticed the contact much more clearly than his instructions.

My figure jumped into a wall. I corrected its direction too far and fell from a ledge. It reappeared beside his. The game made a small wooden clunk each time I failed, an irritatingly cheerful sound.

Arkhane Ruinblood: It seems rather pleased with my suffering.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That sound is me dropping a spoon. I could record something more sympathetic.

I looked at his face to see whether he was making fun of me. He opened a folder and played the recording. There was the clunk, followed by his own irritated breath. I laughed despite myself.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Keep the breath. I want to know you suffered too.

We started again. He moved his figure onto a switch and a gate opened for mine. I crossed, found the second switch, and stood on it while he came through. The next room appeared before I had time to feel pleased.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That is all?

Bjorn Lindstrom: That's the first room. It's meant to teach you what the switches do.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I was already quite brilliant at that. Show me a difficult one.

The difficult one required us to move a block. I understood where it should go and failed twice to put it there. Bjorn waited until I asked before helping. By the time we got both figures out, I had forgotten my tools.

I set the controller down only when his stomach made a noise. He looked mortified. I looked at the clock. We had been playing for nearly an hour, and I had called him infuriating at least four times.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Ten minutes, approximately. Do you need to be somewhere?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Apparently I need to be here, rescuing your hideous little people.

He pushed his chair back to fetch water. I watched him stretch, his shirt pulling across his shoulders. When he turned, I was still looking. I made no attempt to disguise it, which proved considerably less comfortable than I had expected.

He looked away first, towards a paper bag beside the sink. He opened it, checked inside, then brought it over to the table. He folded the top down so I could see what was in it.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I have bread and cheese. That's what I was going to eat. There might be an apple that hasn't spent too long in my bag.

Arkhane Ruinblood: And you were planning to keep this splendid feast to yourself?

Bjorn Lindstrom: I wasn't expecting company. Do you want some?

I said yes before he could offer to fetch something better. He cleared the cables from the table. One caught on his sleeve; the little wooden cup holding his pencils tipped, and three rolled under my chair.

I retrieved them while he found two plates. The bread had flattened at one end, and he tried to cut that part away without drawing attention to it. I took it from him and pulled off a piece. He stopped trimming.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could have asked me earlier.

Bjorn Lindstrom: To eat with me? I thought you'd say you had somewhere much better to be.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I might have. You would have needed a convincing argument.

Bjorn Lindstrom: The cheese wasn't going to help, then.

He put a slice on my plate anyway. I had spent the afternoon negotiating the price of work a client had already approved. The client had summoned a second opinion halfway through, as though I might confess to cheating if there were enough people in the room.

I had come here prepared to be irritated. Now my sleeves were pushed back, there were breadcrumbs on my skirt, and I was deciding whether to tell this man something funny that he might repeat to his friends.

Arkhane Ruinblood: A woman asked me today whether I could make her six identical flowers. When I said yes, she asked how they could each be unique.

Bjorn Lindstrom: What did you tell her?

Arkhane Ruinblood: That they would be in six different places.

He laughed with a mouthful of bread and covered it with his hand. I watched his shoulders shake. Then he swallowed, took a drink, and asked whether she had paid me. I admitted that she had paid a deposit, and that I still wanted the commission.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I can see why. Six places sounds like a lot of work.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You are enjoying this too much.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You brought it to my table. I thought I was invited.

A woman at the next desk lifted two fingers to him as she packed up. He asked whether her ankle was better, and she demonstrated by balancing on one foot. When she left, I watched him move her abandoned mug onto a tray by the sink.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Do you all know one another here?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Most of us. Some people use the desks twice and disappear. I like knowing who made the noise when something fell over.

Arkhane Ruinblood: A considerable advantage over your own home, apparently.

Bjorn Lindstrom: At home it's usually me. Or the upstairs neighbor moving his chair directly over my bed.

He asked where I worked when I wasn't repairing wards. I described the studio, the narrow bench, and the window I kept open when I polished crystal. I nearly added that the room was temporary. I said it often enough that I could avoid deciding what I wanted instead.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Do you like it there?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I like being able to find my things. I like closing the door. I could do without hearing someone practice the same three bars of music every afternoon.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Are they getting better?

Arkhane Ruinblood: They are getting louder. I assume they consider that progress.

He found the apple and offered it for inspection. It had one soft patch. I pointed at it with unnecessary severity, and he rotated the fruit to show me the undamaged side, as though I might forget what I had just seen.

We shared the good part. He cut it into uneven wedges with the bread knife and gave me the larger ones. I exchanged one of mine for a narrow piece on his plate. He noticed, but continued telling me about the terrible meal he had cooked for two friends the previous week.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I doubled the spice because I doubled everything else. Then I thought it smelled weak and put more in. One of them went home with my milk.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You allowed them to take the evidence?

Bjorn Lindstrom: She needed it more than I did. I could still feel my mouth the next morning.

I asked what he cooked successfully. He named eggs, soup, and a few things that involved putting everything in the same pan. His answers became more specific when I stopped teasing. He could tell me exactly how he liked his potatoes and exactly which part he usually burned.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Do you always eat here this late?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Only when something's going well. Sometimes I stay when it isn't, but that's less useful. Tonight I forgot what time it was.

His knee touched mine beneath the table. He moved it back, then looked at me as if waiting to find out whether that had been necessary. I stretched my leg slightly. This time, when we touched, he left his knee where it was.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Your ten minutes have become expensive.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I can afford another ten.

He collected our plates but missed a crumb at the corner of his mouth. I considered brushing it away, then told him where it was. He used his thumb, looking at me while he did it, and I suddenly needed somewhere else to put my hands.

I opened my tool case instead. Inside, wrapped in a piece of black cloth, was a crystal flower whose stem I had repaired that morning. A client wanted six like it. I had only made three that satisfied me.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Did you make that? Can I see it?

Arkhane Ruinblood: You may admire it from there. Your elbows seem dangerous.

He folded his arms and admired it from his chair with exaggerated obedience. I lasted perhaps five seconds before passing it to him. He took it by the cloth and lifted it towards the light, careful of the thin red petals.

Bjorn Lindstrom: How did you get the curve here? I thought you were cutting these from a larger piece.

He pointed without touching. I showed him the place where I had shaped the crystal as it formed. He asked whether I could choose how it branched. Most people asked what it cost or whether the red was real blood.

Arkhane Ruinblood: To a point. That petal has been remade three times. The material keeps splitting when I bring the edge in.

Bjorn Lindstrom: It looks difficult. Also, I would absolutely break it if it lived on my desk.

I took it back before his prediction could be tested. He was still studying it, with the same concentration he gave the game. I wanted to make another one while he watched. I also wanted to pull his chair closer.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Do you always ask this many questions?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Usually people tell me to stop. You keep answering.

I set the flower safely in its case and rested my hand on his wrist. The hair there was soft against my palm. He looked down at my fingers, then up at me. For once, neither of us filled the pause.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have been trying to decide whether to kiss you.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I would like you to. Unless you still need a list of reasons.

I laughed, leaned across the small space between our chairs, and kissed him. At first he held very still. Then his hand settled behind my neck, carefully below the pins, and he kissed me back.

[Picture: Arkhane Ruinblood, sensual expression]

[Picture: Bjorn Lindstrom, sensual expression]

I had expected to stay composed. Instead, I caught the front of his shirt and drew him towards me until the chairs knocked together. His breath came out in a laugh against my cheek. Mine was no steadier.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I should close up. The desk is shared, and I would rather not be discovered on it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: What a disappointingly practical man you are. My studio has a door that locks.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That sounds very practical too.

The First Night — Lantern Houses · Later that night

He carried my tool case on the walk back. Twice I reached for his hand and remembered the handle was in it. The second time, he changed hands without comment. I held on until we reached the studio.

Inside, he stopped beside the shelves of unfinished crystal work. I took the case from him and set it down. He turned to ask about a half-shaped flower, and I put both hands against his chest.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Tomorrow. You may ask about every single one tomorrow.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I was hoping there'd be a tomorrow.

I kissed him before I could say something foolish in reply. His hands moved to my waist, then stopped there while I unfastened the top button of his shirt. I took my time with the second. He watched my fingers.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Would you like me to stay?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. I would like you to stay.

He drew me close enough that I felt the warmth of him through my clothes. I rested my forehead against his for a moment. When I kissed him again, he caught my lower lip gently, and I forgot the next clever thing I had planned to say.

My hairpins became a practical problem. He found one against his wrist and swore softly. I pulled them free and put them on the table, letting my hair fall over his hands. He pushed it back from my face and smiled.

Bjorn Lindstrom: There you are. I was beginning to think the pins were structural.

Arkhane Ruinblood: They are expensive. Put them somewhere you will not sit on them.

He obeyed, then came back and kissed the side of my neck. I closed my eyes and gripped his shirt. When he drew away to look at me, I caught his hand and led him towards the bed.

The bedside lamp was still lit when he asked me to show him the fastenings at my back. I turned, lifted my hair, and felt his fingers work carefully down the row. I reached back for him as the fabric loosened.

The First Night — Lantern Houses · The following morning

I woke with my hair beneath Bjorn’s shoulder and his hand resting on my hip. Light through the curtain had reached the foot of the bed. He was asleep with his mouth slightly open, looking thoroughly pleased with his accommodation.

I tried to reclaim my hair. He rolled towards me and made the problem worse. When I pushed his shoulder, he opened one eye and looked confused for a moment. Then he smiled so broadly that I stopped pushing.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Good morning. Are you trying to escape?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Only from your impressive grip on my hair. You may retain the rest of me for another minute.

He lifted his shoulder and freed me, then kissed my bare shoulder before settling back. His stubble had begun to rasp. I ran a finger along his jaw and told him he would need to shave before doing that again.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I thought I was allowed one minute. Now I have to shave first?

I kissed him to stop the complaint. He pulled the cover higher over us and reached for me again. When we finally got up, he could find only one sock. I let him search before admitting I was standing on the other.

He asked when he could see me again while struggling into his shirt. I could have made him wait. Instead, I told him I would be home that evening, and he asked whether I wanted him to bring supper.

His Home

At His Place — Bjorn’s flat · One week after our first night

Bjorn opened his door before I finished knocking. His hair was damp, his shirt fastened one button out of line. He followed my glance, looked down, and shut his eyes for a moment before stepping aside to let me in.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I had everything ready twenty minutes ago. Then I decided to shower.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That explains the hair. I am reserving judgment on the shirt.

I put my bag down and corrected the fastening while he stood in the doorway. He had shaved carefully. There was a small missed patch beneath his jaw. I kissed it, and his hands closed around my waist before I had finished with the last button.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Hello to you too.

From the entrance I could see a sofa, a low table, and shelves that reached nearly to the ceiling. Books occupied most of them. A stack of folded laundry sat on a chair beside a large screen, topped by a remote control he had apparently lost while tidying.

He took my coat, opened a cupboard, and reconsidered. There was a thump when he pressed something farther inside. I could have watched him struggle for another minute. Instead, I hung the coat over the chair and put my bag beneath it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: There. Your secret possessions may remain secret.

Bjorn Lindstrom: It's packaging. I keep thinking I'll need the boxes if something breaks.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I am delighted to learn you have planned for disaster.

He showed me where the bathroom was, then the kitchen. It was small enough that he could reach the refrigerator without leaving the cooker. A bowl of sliced potatoes stood beside two eggs. I looked at the food, then at him.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You asked what I could cook. I thought I'd better make something from the list.

He had remembered that I disliked sweet drinks. There was cold water in a jug, with lemon on a separate plate so I could decide for myself. I took a slice, squeezed it into my glass, and had to fish out a seed with my little finger.

While the pan heated, I went to inspect the shelves. Thick novels stood beside comics with bright spines. Several books had paper protruding from halfway through. I pulled out a volume with a woman on its cover who wore armor that protected almost none of her.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I see you have been conducting research.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That one's terrible. Give me a chance to recommend something better.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Too late. I have discovered your standards.

He reached past me and took down a different book. The movement brought his chest against my shoulder. I stayed where I was while he opened it, enjoying how carefully he tried to keep his attention on the page.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Try this one. The woman on the first cover spends most of the book waiting to be rescued. In this one she gets herself into trouble, which is much more interesting.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Does she spend the rest of it requiring rescue?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Occasionally. She returns the favor. I know that sounds like a terrible summary.

The drawing showed a dark elf in a fitted coat, standing on a roof. I turned the page and found her arguing with a colleague about a bill. That was less flattering than the first cover. It was also much easier to imagine continuing to read.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Do you know many Drow?

Bjorn Lindstrom: A few. Nobody I know particularly well. Why?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I wondered how much you expected me to resemble something from your shelves.

He looked at the book between us. For a moment I wished I had made it sound more like a joke. I liked being watched by him. I liked the interest in my ears, my teeth, the marks on my skin. I also wanted to know what else he had noticed.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You're a lot worse at accepting a compliment than any of them. And you complain when you're concentrating. Even when it's going well.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That is your considered assessment of me?

Bjorn Lindstrom: I've been collecting evidence for several weeks.

I shut the book against his chest. He caught it and laughed, but he kept watching me until I laughed too. Then something spat in the kitchen, and he hurried away to turn down the heat.

I followed with the book still in my hand. He tipped the potatoes into the pan, spreading them with a wooden spatula. Rosemary and garlic warmed in the oil. I leaned against the counter, close enough that he had to brush past me to fetch the salt.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Could you move over a little? I need that drawer.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You invited me into a very small kitchen.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I didn't expect you to occupy the exact place I needed to stand.

I moved to the other side. He handed me a bowl and asked me to beat the eggs. It was such a straightforward request that I looked at him for an explanation. He was already checking the underside of a potato with the spatula.

Arkhane Ruinblood: What happens if I do it badly?

Bjorn Lindstrom: We'll have uneven eggs. I'm prepared to take that chance.

I beat them too vigorously and splashed a little onto the counter. He slid a cloth towards me without looking up. I used it, then watched him scrape the browned potatoes loose before pouring the eggs around them.

We ate at the low table because the taller one held his half-built equipment. He offered to clear it. I sat on the floor and pulled a cushion beneath me before he could start moving things. He joined me, knees bent awkwardly under the table.

Arkhane Ruinblood: These are good.

Bjorn Lindstrom: The potatoes or the bravest eggs ever beaten?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Both. You needn't look so surprised.

He gave me some from his plate when I finished mine. I took them before I could make the offer complicated. There were browned pieces caught around the edge of the pan, and he admitted those were his favorite part. We carried it back to the table and ate them directly from it.

Afterwards he showed me a game he played with friends. He offered me the controller, then warned me that it was competitive. I immediately demanded an explanation of the scoring. He demonstrated once and refused to apologize when he won.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You neglected to mention that you could knock me off the course.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You knocked me off the course first.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I discovered it through exceptional ability. You should have declared your advantage.

He won the next round as well. On the third, I followed his figure closely enough that he braked to avoid a turn and I struck him from behind. We both fell. I laughed so hard that I missed the restart, and he held the game while I recovered.

We went out onto the little balcony with our water. Two folding chairs barely fitted beside a planter containing dry soil. Across the street, someone was carrying groceries up a lit stairwell. Bjorn angled his chair so our knees could fit beside each other.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Is this where you hide when the machines become tiresome?

Bjorn Lindstrom: When it's warm enough. The chair folds if you sit too far forward, by the way.

I settled carefully. He rested his glass on the flat top of the railing, thought better of it, and moved it to the floor. There was a red mark on his wrist where he had rested it on the pan handle. I ran my thumb beside it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You spend a great deal of time alone here.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Yes. I like it, mostly.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The games must make very accommodating company.

He took his wrist back to push his sleeve down. I heard how the remark had sounded and still hoped he would laugh. Instead, he looked through the open door towards the screen, then back at me.

Bjorn Lindstrom: My friends are there too, sometimes. I like talking to them. I know it doesn't look exciting from the outside.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I was being unkind. The game was enjoyable. Even when you cheated.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You lost honestly. I'm going to insist on that part.

He leaned back, and the chair creaked. I stretched my legs carefully between his, and he shifted to make room. We sat that way while the person across the street made another trip upstairs with a bag held in each hand.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Sometimes I come back and everything's exactly where I left it, and I'm relieved. Sometimes I wish somebody had moved something. I usually find out which after I open the door.

I looked through the glass at my coat on his chair. I knew the feeling of staying out late because I couldn't think what I would do once I returned. I was less accustomed to admitting it without insisting that I liked it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have gone to parties I disliked because I didn't want to spend the evening by myself. Then I stayed, because leaving early would have meant admitting I'd chosen badly.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Did you meet anyone worth staying for?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Sometimes. I wasn't always particularly good company for them.

He reached down and moved his glass away from my foot. I waited for another question. He gave me his hand instead, palm upwards between our chairs. I took it, rubbing the small callus beside his middle finger.

When we went inside, he started collecting the plates. I caught him by the back of his shirt. He turned with a fork still in his hand, and I took it away before pulling him towards me. His free hand went beneath my hair.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You can wash those later.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I was hoping you'd say that.

His mouth was warm. I pressed him against the edge of the table, felt it shift, and we both grabbed for the water jug. He set it on the floor while I laughed against his shoulder. Then he took my hand and led me past the shelves to his bedroom.

[Picture: Arkhane Ruinblood, sensual expression]

[Picture: Bjorn Lindstrom, sensual expression]

Later, I lay on my side while he looked for a clean towel. He brought the book from the kitchen with him and left it beside my pillow. I opened it and found a folded receipt marking his place. When he asked me to keep it there, I used one of my own slips instead.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That's the one I meant to lend you. Take it when you've finished making fun of the others.

Arkhane Ruinblood: An ambitious schedule. I have scarcely begun.

He put the towel within reach and climbed in beside me. I moved back until his arm fitted around my waist. When he asked whether the lamp should stay on, I said yes and opened the first page of his book.

Several Weeks Later — Bjorn’s flat · Six weeks after our first night

I returned the book with seven strips of paper marking passages I objected to. Bjorn counted them, then looked at me over the top of the cover. He was wearing the same shirt as on my first visit. This time, all the buttons were correctly fastened.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Should I be pleased you finished it?

Arkhane Ruinblood: You should be ready to defend the ending.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Come in. I've wanted to argue about that with someone for years.

He had been folding laundry. I sat beside the basket and folded two shirts while he made tea. One had a hole beneath the arm. I held it up when he returned, and he took it from me with an embarrassed assurance that it was still perfectly useful.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The captain should have accepted the offer. She spends the entire book getting people hurt, and then she refuses the one thing that would get her crew home.

Bjorn Lindstrom: She would've had to hand her sister over.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Her sister arranged the ambush. Why do the crew have to pay for that?

He put his cup down and took the book, opening to one of my slips. He found the sentence before it and pointed. I knew which one he meant. I had read it three times, trying to decide whether the author expected me to forgive something I still disliked.

Bjorn Lindstrom: The sister tried to call it off. The captain doesn't know that when she refuses. That's why I like it. She makes the choice without the useful explanation.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I was fond of the navigator. He loses his hand because neither of them can be sensible.

Bjorn blinked, then smiled. I had brought the book over mainly because I wanted to discuss that character. I hadn’t planned to make this so obvious. I folded another shirt with unnecessary care.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You liked him.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Someone had to. Everyone else kept ordering him into dangerous places.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I liked him too. I thought the scene in the infirmary was good.

I found another marked page and read him the line that had annoyed me most. He laughed, then admitted it was dreadful. That made it easier to tell him about the passage I had liked, which involved the navigator lying badly to stop his friends worrying.

We argued for long enough that his tea went cold. He got up to make more, still objecting to something I had said from the kitchen. I had to raise my voice to answer. The neighbor knocked once on the wall, and we both stopped.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Sorry. I forget how thin that part is.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Perhaps they have opinions about the captain.

He returned with the pot and sat closer. I took the book from him, put it on the table, and kissed the corner of his mouth. He caught my face gently between his hands and corrected my aim. His knee pressed against mine beneath the half-folded laundry.

We had arranged to go out that evening. I had dressed for it, choosing a necklace he had once caught himself looking at for too long. Now his fingers rested beside its clasp, and I found myself calculating how late we could arrive without losing our table.

Bjorn Lindstrom: We should go soon.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Then you should probably stop doing that.

He kissed me again, more slowly, then leaned away and reached for his shoes. I made an undignified noise of protest. He laughed, and I threw the worn shirt at him. It landed on his shoulder and stayed there until I took it back.

At the restaurant I spent too long looking at the menu. He was hungry and had chosen before I reached the second page. When I suggested we abandon it and find somewhere else, he put his menu down and shook his head.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I'm staying. You can come back and collect me after you've inspected every kitchen in the street.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I only said we might find something better.

Bjorn Lindstrom: We might. We already have a table here, and I would like to eat before it gets dark.

I wanted to argue because he had said it so firmly. I also knew I had rejected three places on our walk. I chose the mushrooms. When they arrived, they were so good that I resented having no complaint to make about them.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You are being conspicuously quiet about my excellent choice.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I'm eating. You should try it more often.

He let me steal one of his potatoes, then stole a mushroom in return. Under the table I slid my foot against his ankle. He kept talking about the book, but his fork stopped halfway to his mouth until I moved my foot again.

On the way home we bought bread for the morning. He asked which kind I wanted, and I chose without turning it into a debate. At his door he passed me the loaf while he searched his pockets. I held it against my chest and waited beside him.

Inside, the laundry still covered half the sofa. I moved the folded things onto the chair, putting the smaller things on top. He watched from the kitchen doorway, then brought two glasses of water and sat down beside me with the next book in the series.

Arkhane Ruinblood: There is another one?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Three. The navigator gets more pages in this one. I thought you'd want to know.

I took it from him and opened it in my lap. He rested against the other end of the sofa, my legs across his. I read while he finished his own book. From time to time his thumb moved over my ankle, and I would lose my place and have to begin the paragraph again.

The Things I Kept

The Things I Kept — The Linden Rooms · One week before the supper

My father had cleared a place for me at his writing table. A folded cloth, a lamp, and two pairs of spectacles occupied it. I put my wrapped crystal housing beside the spectacles and waited while he finished the line he was reading.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You have brought the broken one.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have brought the one which is temporarily refusing to justify its price.

He set his book aside and held out his hand. I unwrapped the housing myself. A crack ran from the inner corner towards the fixing hole. Beneath the lamp, it looked larger than it had at my bench, and considerably more expensive.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Show me what it fits around.

I spread the drawing between us. He turned it, moved my hand from the measurements, and asked which edge I had shaped last. I told him. He asked again, this time pointing to the small return beneath the fixing hole.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That is part of the same edge.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Then you will find it exceptionally easy to answer.

I made an unpleasant noise and told him the order. He listened without interrupting. When I finished, he took the spectacles with the finer lenses and bent over the crack. His magenta sleeve fell across the cloth; I pushed it back before it caught a sharp corner.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Here. Look where you brought the two curves together.

He moved the lamp while I examined it. There was a small ridge inside the join, almost hidden by the red of the crystal. I had polished the outer face until I was sick of looking at it and left the pressure concentrated inside.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I can open that curve. It will fit if I take the same amount off the bracket.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Yes. There you are.

I looked up too quickly. He was already reaching for a narrow file from the case beside his book. I knew that file: a dark wooden handle, one pale mark near the ferrule. He had let me use it often enough that I reached for it before he offered.

Vladimir von Zavallah: On the damaged piece first. Unless you would enjoy bringing me two.

I worked over the cloth. He watched my first two passes, then returned to his book. The lamp warmed the back of my hand. From the room below came a scrape of chairs as the Linden staff prepared for another gathering.

For a while, I liked being there without anything to explain. He shifted the lamp when my sleeve cast a shadow. I passed him the piece when I wanted him to examine it. He looked, nodded, and handed it back without making a lesson of the mistake.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You have written in the margin again. That book is borrowed.

Vladimir von Zavallah: The author has confused two entirely different preparations. Someone ought to warn the next reader.

Arkhane Ruinblood: With three underlines and an insult?

Vladimir von Zavallah: The first two underlines seemed inadequate.

I laughed. He turned the book so I could see the passage, and I found a second error beneath his correction. We argued about whether it was the author's mistake or the copyist's until he brought out another volume. The housing was still on the cloth.

I had intended to stay twenty minutes. When I next checked the clock, more than an hour had gone. I had a useful correction, a borrowed reference, and a pencil mark on my cheek which he pointed out only after letting me speak at length.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The client will have it by the end of the week. If he changes the dimensions again, I am charging him for the pleasure.

Vladimir von Zavallah: How much is he paying you?

I gave him the figure. He removed his spectacles. It was the small, patient movement he used before explaining that I had overlooked something obvious. I began wrapping the damaged piece, although I still wanted to show him the cleaner line.

Vladimir von Zavallah: For the hours you have spent on it? You could do better work with a patron who understood what you can make.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He wants a ward around a shop door. Understanding that much would be sufficient.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I could introduce you to someone. You would have proper facilities, assistance. You would not need to take every little repair that came up the stairs.

I had accepted introductions before. Afterwards, he had always known when I was expected, what I had promised, and which part of the arrangement he wished me to change. I folded the cloth around the housing and left his file beside it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have work. This client returns my messages and pays when I deliver.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You have three clients and more repairs on your bench than you can finish. I am offering to make things easier.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Then let me borrow the file.

He looked at it, then at me. I thought he would tell me I could work here whenever I needed it. Instead, he found its sheath and put both on top of my parcel. I picked them up before he could reconsider.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Return it in person. I won't have it left downstairs among somebody's parcels.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I shall have a procession arranged.

I bent to kiss his cheek. He caught my forearm to keep me from stepping on the strap of my bag, then let go. His book was still open to the passage we had argued over. I nearly sat down again.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Stay. I can have another place laid.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Bjorn is cooking. I said I would be there at six.

Vladimir von Zavallah: The human? You see a great deal of him.

The pleasure of the afternoon made me careless. I told him about the evening Bjorn had spent holding a lamp while I tested the ward, and how he had continued asking questions after I told him the answers would be dull.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I imagine everything you do is impressive to him.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He is interested in the work.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Of course. He has never seen anything like you. Enjoy his attention, but don't arrange your affairs around it.

I still had my hand on the back of the chair. He was speaking gently, as though warning me that the borrowed volume had a loose binding. I wanted to give him one fact about Bjorn which he could not turn into foolishness.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He has work of his own. He is making something difficult, and he keeps going when it fails. You might like him if you listened for more than a minute.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Then bring me something he has finished. I cannot form an opinion from your enthusiasm alone.

I began to explain the game, then heard myself listing reasons he should approve of my evening. The clock had passed half past five. I picked up my bag, leaving the book open because I could not trust myself to close it quietly.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Take the reference. You will want the section on narrow joins.

He marked the page and put it into my hands. I thanked him because I needed it. At the door, he reminded me to wrap the file separately from the crystal. I went back for another cloth and let him choose one.

What I Remembered — Red Thread Gardens · That evening, one week before the supper

By seven I was carrying a crate through the garden gate. One corner pressed into my hip; Eirhart had the other end. The grower had tied the saplings together with rough cord, and a branch kept catching the silver ornament on my sleeve.

I had left Bjorn's flat with dinner still in the pan. Eirhart's carrier had cancelled, the collection place was closing, and his message had arrived while we were choosing a film. I had said I would be back soon. Bjorn had asked how soon.

Eirhart: Stop here. I need to change hands.

We lowered the crate onto a bench. I pulled the branch free of my sleeve and examined the hooked thread it had left behind. Eirhart untied one loop of cord, moved the branch, and tied it back with room around the buds.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You might warn your associates to keep their hands to themselves.

Eirhart: You chose the end with the branches. I offered you the roots.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I made an informed decision about mud. I regret nothing.

He smiled while checking the cord. His hair had come loose from its tie, and he pushed it behind his pointed ear with the back of his wrist. I watched the movement, then took my end of the crate before he had to ask.

At the beds, he showed me where to set it. The evening light came through a gap between two buildings and reached only half the row. We had to move the heavier pots first. He counted them twice, comparing the labels with a list on his slate.

Arkhane Ruinblood: There are six. I can count to six without consulting a document.

Eirhart: They sent six last time. Two were the wrong kind. Could you read the label on that one?

I read it to him. He checked, made a small mark, and asked for the next. By the fourth label I was holding the slate while he worked, and he was laughing at my increasingly formal announcements of each plant's arrival.

I liked helping him when there was something I could get right. He showed me a bent root and asked me to hold the pot steady while he eased it free. I stopped talking to watch his fingers. He knew where to press and where to leave it alone.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You used to make me wait for hours while you did this.

Eirhart: Did I?

I almost described the old potting room as ours. It had been a place I could enter whenever I pleased. He had spent long stretches there, returning to the same benches. I could remember which window I favoured and the chair I had claimed beside it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I would sit by the west window. I brought books, usually. You were very tolerant of the interruptions.

Eirhart: I remember the latch on that window. It caught. I don't remember the chair.

He kept one hand beneath the loosened roots while I pulled the empty pot away. I wanted to supply more details until he remembered the evenings as I did. Instead, I held the pot against my skirt and watched him examine a damaged leaf.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The red crystal poppies. You must remember those. I left them on your bench. You used to put them in the window.

Eirhart: I remember moving sharp things away from where I put my hands. There were flowers among them.

I had watched him turn one of those flowers in the light. For years, I had kept that small movement among the things I knew he had enjoyed. Now he was asking for the pot back, and I had not heard him the first time.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought you liked them.

Eirhart: Perhaps I did. I remember my hands getting caught on things. I can't give you the rest.

I passed him the pot. He set the plant into it and pressed soil around the roots. I could still see the old window clearly. I could not remember ever asking whether he wanted flowers on the bench where he worked.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I wasn't trying to make your work difficult.

Eirhart: I know you liked being there. You have told me.

It would have been easy to tell him again. How lonely I had been, how much I had looked forward to those hours. He lifted the newly potted sapling with both hands and asked me to move the crate so he could reach the bed.

I moved it. The wood left a dirty stripe across my skirt. My phone vibrated in my bag, and I let it finish while we lowered the pot. When I checked, Bjorn had asked whether he should keep the food warm. I wrote that I was nearly done.

Eirhart: You can go. I can manage the rest.

Arkhane Ruinblood: There are still two pots.

Eirhart: I can manage two pots.

I took off my gloves rather than leave. The right one had twisted around my wrist. He waited while I struggled with it, then handed me a dry cloth from the bench. His fingers were stained with soil, the scars visible where he had wiped his palms.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I miss sitting with you. Without arriving to ask for something.

Eirhart: You could bring a book another day. I sometimes sit here after the others have gone.

I looked at him too quickly. He noticed. He set the cloth down between us and turned the empty crate upright, taking his time before he spoke again. I wished I had kept my face still.

Eirhart: Arkhane. I mean reading. I am not asking you here as a lover.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I had not yet proposed anything terribly indecent.

Eirhart: You looked as though I had.

I could have left him with a joke. I folded the gloves together instead and pressed the mud between them. I loved him standing there in his stained sleeves, looking directly at me, even when he was making it impossible to misunderstand him.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You know how I feel.

Eirhart: Yes. I would still like someone to read beside. If you want that too.

I did want it. I also wanted him to reach for me before I went. Both wishes remained while I put my gloves away. I told him I would bring something with fewer plants in it, and he asked whether I owned such a book.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Several. Most have unsuitable company in them. It would do you good.

Eirhart: Bring the one you enjoy. I can decide what it does for me.

At the gate, I looked back. He had already returned to the pots. I wanted him to notice I was leaving; then I was annoyed with myself for waiting. I lifted my bag away from the dirt on my skirt and went to find the quickest way back.

The Food He Kept Warm — Bjorn's flat · Later the same evening

Bjorn opened the door in his socks. There was a damp cloth over one shoulder and a mark of sauce on his wrist. I had been gone nearly two hours. Behind him, the plates were back in the cupboard and the film menu had closed.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The roots had to be checked. I should have said it would take longer.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Yes.

He stepped aside. I put my bag down and bent to unfasten my shoes, making a long business of a simple buckle. He went to the kitchen. A cupboard opened and shut. I could hear the scrape of a plate being put on the counter.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could have started eating.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I did. Eventually. You kept saying you were almost finished.

He took a covered pan from the stove and stirred it. I stood close enough to see where the sauce had caught around the edge. Earlier, he had asked me to taste it and then refused all three of my proposed additions. We had been having a good evening.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Still refusing to improve it with my excellent suggestions?

Bjorn Lindstrom: I haven't thought about the seasoning for a while.

He held out a plate. I took it and wished he would stop being useful. I wanted him to complain enough that I could answer, then pull me towards him as though he had spent the whole time wanting that too.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Was there really no one else?

Arkhane Ruinblood: The carrier cancelled. The grower was closing. Eirhart couldn't bring them all himself.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I meant after you got them there.

I looked at the food. He waited beside the counter, with the serving spoon still in his hand. I could have said I had stayed because I wanted to. I asked whether he would have preferred that I drop the crate at the gate and run.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Don't do that. You know what I'm asking.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You are asking whether I should have helped someone I care about. Apparently dinner would have been a better use of my time.

Bjorn Lindstrom: We had planned an evening. You barely looked at me before you got your coat.

I put the plate down hard enough to hear it against the counter. Sauce moved towards the rim. He set the spoon beside the pan and folded his arms. It made him look as though he had decided to be difficult, which was a convenient thought.

Arkhane Ruinblood: This would be much easier if you admitted you were jealous.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Yes, I'm jealous. There. Has that improved the evening?

I had expected him to deny it. For a moment I had nothing prepared. He unfolded his arms and rubbed his face, then caught himself doing it with the hand that had sauce on the wrist. He washed it at the sink while I stood behind him.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You came back disappointed. You didn't come back glad to see me. Did something happen?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Nothing happened.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Then why do I feel like I'm getting the evening he didn't want?

I stared at him. He turned off the tap. I had not told him about the book, the cloth, or Eirhart looking at my face when I misunderstood the invitation. Bjorn had seen me return from the gardens before. That was enough.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He doesn't arrange his life to inconvenience you. He has work, and he needed help.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Does he even like having you there? Or do you keep turning up until it's easier to let you stay?

He looked sorry before I had answered. I could have accepted that and still been furious. Instead, I moved closer. I wanted him to feel small, to regret asking about something he had never had to endure.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have known him longer than you will live. Do you really think you can explain him to me because you waited two hours with a saucepan?

Bjorn stopped drying his hands. The cloth hung between them. I heard what I had said, including the part I had chosen because it would hurt. I wanted to make it sound less deliberate and could find nothing that would do it.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Then what am I doing here?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Don't be absurd. I am here because I want to be with you.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You were also here before you left. If he asks again tomorrow, will you go?

Arkhane Ruinblood: If you cannot understand why he matters to me, perhaps I should stop trying to explain.

He nodded once and laid the cloth over the tap. I waited for another question. He went past me into the other room instead. I could hear him moving something off the sofa, then the brief sound of its springs as he sat.

The food on my plate had stopped steaming. I took a fork from the drawer, put it back, and wiped the sauce I had spilled on the counter. I had wanted him to stop asking. Now I wanted him back in the kitchen.

I found him sitting with his elbows on his knees. He looked up when I came in. The space beside him was clear; I sat there without touching him. My skirt still had the dirty stripe from the crate across it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I shouldn't have said that about how long you will live.

Bjorn Lindstrom: It was a horrible thing to say.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes.

He looked down at my hands. I had curled them tightly together in my lap. I loosened them, aware of the small ridges the glove seams had left across my skin. I wanted to explain the whole afternoon with Vladimir. I kept it to myself.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I shouldn't have said he puts up with you. I don't know that. I was angry.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He asked me to bring a book another day. To read beside him. I wanted it to mean more than that.

Bjorn leaned back and closed his eyes briefly. I watched his throat when he swallowed. I wanted to kiss the place below his jaw, where he usually tilted his head to let me. He opened his eyes before I had decided whether to move.

Bjorn Lindstrom: And if it ever does?

I looked away. I could have told him Eirhart wasn't offering that. It would have been true, and it would have left his question exactly where it was. He waited until I turned back to him, then rubbed both hands over his knees.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I love you. I don't want to stop coming here.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I love you too. That's why this is such a miserable evening.

He let me put my hand over his. For a few minutes we sat with our fingers loosely together. Then he said he had an early start and wanted to go to bed. He did not ask me to stay. I picked up my bag.

At the door, he handed me the food in a covered container. I took it awkwardly, with his shirt sleeve against my knuckles. I asked him to come closer. He did, and I kissed him once. He touched my waist before stepping back.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Don't leave that in your bag all night. Put it in the fridge.

I promised I would. Back at the studio, I put Vladimir's reference on the workbench, my dirty gloves beside the sink, and Bjorn's food where he had asked. Then I sat on the bed and opened our messages. I wrote his name and could not decide what should follow it.

Before Supper — Lantern Houses · Present day · The night before supper

Outside the houses, Bjorn stopped to readjust the bag slipping from his shoulder. I took it from him and held it while he did up his coat. He was still using the bag he had carried out of my studio that first morning.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You are smiling. What have I missed?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I was remembering your sock.

He groaned and took the bag back. I caught the front of his coat and kissed him beneath the entrance lamp. His hand came up to my cheek, familiar now. When I let go, I asked him to stay the night.

What I Sent

What I Sent — Red Thread Gardens · The following afternoon

Eirhart was kneeling beside a row of pots when I found him. His silver-white hair was tied back, with a loose strand stuck to his cheek. I almost reached to move it before he looked up and greeted me.

[Picture: Eirhart, thoughtful expression]

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have come with an invitation. Try to contain your delight.

Eirhart: I have soil on both hands. You will have to hold it.

I showed him the message on my phone. He leaned closer to read it, his right violet eye narrowed against the afternoon light. A strip of cloth secured his sleeve above the wrist. I noticed the old scars along his fingers.

Eirhart: Tonight? No. We are placing the trellis supports this evening.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Surely someone else can stand in a garden while you eat supper. Vladimir has asked for you.

He looked at me, then at the shallow holes marked out beside the path. I had stepped across a string stretched between two pegs. He pointed to it, and I moved my heel before I could break it.

Eirhart: I chose the placements. I need to be here when we set them. We arranged this last week.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could have told me you were busy.

Eirhart: You could have asked before this afternoon.

I put my phone away too quickly and caught a nail against the clasp of my bag. He returned to the pots. I stood beside him, wishing he would look up again, annoyed that I had to wait for it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought it would be pleasant to spend an evening together. Apparently that was presumptuous.

He pressed soil around a cutting with both thumbs. The movement was careful, familiar. I remembered watching those hands work when he could barely answer me, and wanted something from him now that I had never been able to ask for then.

Eirhart: I have work this evening. You can come another afternoon, if you want to help.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Another afternoon. How generous. Shall I wait for written notice?

He sat back on his heels and pointed towards a wooden joint laid out beside his tools. One arm of it had cracked where a bolt went through. I had been too occupied with his refusal to notice what he was showing me.

Eirhart: That is the help I meant. I want to ask about a crystal anchor for this joint. It must leave room for the stem. Can you look at it another day?

I crouched beside him, taking care to keep my skirt out of the soil. The crack was small. I turned the piece over and asked how much weight the joint would carry. He told me, then corrected where I had put my thumb.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. I can look at it. Ask me when you have the measurements.

Eirhart: I will. You can hold the pot now, if you have a minute.

I held it while he loosened the roots. He asked me to tilt it, then to stop tilting it. By the time the plant was free, I had dirt beneath two nails and he was trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could pretend I am indispensable.

Eirhart: You are holding the pot very well.

I laughed, though I had wanted a different answer. A gardener called to him from the path. He stood and picked up the wooden joint, telling me where to leave the pot before he went to discuss the supports.

He had given me a task and asked me back. I still felt disappointed. On the walk to the houses, I composed three versions of a casual message to him and sent none. Bjorn’s playtest would be finishing soon.

What I Sent — Lantern Houses · Late afternoon

Bjorn was waiting outside my studio with his laptop bag and an envelope. He kissed me hello, then followed me in. I asked how the playtest had gone while I set the kettle on. He said he wanted to talk first.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That sounds ominous. Did someone dislike my beautiful red coat?

Bjorn Lindstrom: The game went well. This is about last week. About us. I wrote it down because I could not get it right when we talked.

He held out the envelope. There was only my name on it. I opened it with my thumbnail and unfolded a single sheet. He stayed standing until I gestured towards the chair beside the worktable.

I know you love him. Some evenings I think you're waiting for him to change his mind. I love you. I need to know whether you want to live with me.

I read it twice. Bjorn rubbed his thumb over a loose thread at his cuff. I remembered returning from the gardens and telling him that, if he could not understand, perhaps I should stop trying to explain.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. I do.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Want to live with me?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes, Bjorn. Here, or somewhere we choose together. I want to wake up with you and complain about your socks. Every day, if you insist on leaving them there.

He smiled, but only briefly. I put the letter on the table and knelt between his knees so he would look at me. His hands rested loosely on his thighs. I laid mine over them.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I would like that. I need to know you mean the whole thing. My work here, my friends. The days when I am boring or you are angry with me.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I was angry with you yesterday. I still asked you to stay.

He nodded and turned his hands beneath mine, holding my fingers. I wanted to kiss him until he stopped looking so careful. I had not answered the part about Eirhart.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I love Eirhart. I have told you that. I have not stopped.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I know. He hasn't asked you to wait for him, has he?

Arkhane Ruinblood: No. He has not.

Eirhart had never suggested that he would want me later. I still imagined him reaching for my hand, asking me to stay, wanting the things I wanted. I did not describe those thoughts to Bjorn. I pressed his fingers to my cheek instead.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I want you here. I want you to bring your appalling chair and the flower you keep forgetting to dust. I am asking you to live with me.

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead. I shut my eyes, relieved enough that my throat hurt. When he kissed my mouth, I held his wrists and drew him closer. The kettle began to boil behind us.

Bjorn Lindstrom: We can talk about rooms tomorrow. We don't have to carry a desk down the street tonight.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Coward. I was going to make you carry two.

He pulled me up onto his lap. For several minutes we stayed there, the letter on the table beside us. I asked about the playtest again. This time he told me, laughing at the part where two players had discovered a way to get a block stuck in a door.

When he left to collect his clean shirt and wash at his own place, I opened my father’s message. He had asked whether Bjorn was still coming. Beneath it was yesterday’s question about how long I expected this arrangement to last.

I could answer that we had talked about living together. Vladimir would dismiss it as something I had arranged. Bjorn’s own words might make him listen. I smoothed the letter on the table and picked up my phone.

For a moment I considered asking Bjorn. He had written the note because saying it aloud had been difficult. He would probably refuse. I photographed the page before I could decide that this was a reason to stop.

I sent the picture to Vladimir and told him Bjorn wanted a life with me. I asked him to treat my partner seriously that evening. Then I placed the phone face down beside the letter and went to dress.

The fitted black dress fastened at the back. I could reach the lower hooks, but the upper ones required an awkward twist. I left them open and put on my crystal pendant. In the mirror, my red eyes looked brighter against the dark fabric.

My father’s reply arrived while I was pinning up my hair. He said he would receive Bjorn properly. I read it twice, trying to decide whether the promise meant what I wanted. I put the phone away before Bjorn returned.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You look wonderful. Do I need to go back and find a better shirt?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Come here. I have a task suited to your considerable patience.

I turned and lifted my hair. His fingers found the remaining hooks. He brushed a kiss just above the dress before fastening the last one. I wanted to turn around and pull him towards the bed, where neither of us would have to speak to my father.

Instead, I fixed the black dahlia at my collar and straightened Bjorn’s shirt. The note was still on the table. I folded it and put it in a drawer while he checked the time.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Eirhart?

Arkhane Ruinblood: He is setting the trellis supports tonight. He cannot come.

Bjorn nodded. I took his hand before he could ask anything else. Outside, he slowed his step to match mine. The dress made walking difficult, and I was absurdly pleased that he kept looking at me.

A Place at the Table

A Place at the Table — The Linden Rooms · Eight that evening

Vladimir had chosen a dining room with three tall windows and a table large enough for six. Four places were laid. I told him Eirhart could not come while an attendant took our coats. My father had the fourth setting removed.

Vladimir von Zavallah: His garden is fortunate to receive such devotion. Bjorn, welcome. I hope Arkhane allowed you time to finish your work.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I finished at five. She was very patient.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have been exemplary all day. You may both mention it to anyone who asks.

Vladimir kissed my forehead and inspected the pendant at my neck without touching it. His cloak, a startling magenta against the dark chair, was the only bright garment in the room. He noticed Bjorn looking at it.

Vladimir von Zavallah: My daughter dislikes the colour. I retain it partly for her benefit.

Bjorn Lindstrom: It does make her easier to find. She is usually glaring in its direction.

My father laughed. I looked at Bjorn, delighted and a little surprised. He drew out my chair before taking his own. Beneath the table, I pressed my knee against his and felt him press back.

For the first part of supper, Vladimir was good company. He asked about the Folio, listened to the answer, and described a previous tenant who had complained about every bell in the city while wearing a watch that chimed.

Bjorn laughed with his mouth full and apologised. I liked him for laughing before he thought about manners. When the attendant brought the next dish, he asked what was in the sauce and thanked her by looking up from his plate.

Vladimir von Zavallah: And the game? Arkhane tells me it has occupied a great deal of your time.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Two Doors. It's a puzzle game for two people. We tested a new set of rooms today. Most of them worked.

Arkhane Ruinblood: One door attempted to imprison a wooden block. I understand negotiations are continuing.

Bjorn smiled at me and explained the problem. He kept it brief, drawing the shape of the room with a fingertip beside his plate. My father asked whether players would buy it or simply come to the Folio to be entertained.

Bjorn Lindstrom: We'll sell it when it's ready. I have other paid work until then. Today was useful. People wanted to keep playing after we finished.

Vladimir von Zavallah: That must be encouraging. And does the other work support you comfortably?

I looked at my father. He adjusted the angle of his knife beside the plate, something he did when a setting displeased him. Bjorn took a sip of water before answering.

Bjorn Lindstrom: It pays my rent. I can't hire a room like this for every supper, if that's what you mean.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I meant exactly what I asked. Arkhane has had to reduce certain comforts since living independently. I would prefer that she did not reduce them further.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I bought this dress with my own money. The room is comfortable. You are welcome to visit it without inspecting the furniture.

Bjorn’s knee moved away from mine while he reached for his glass. I followed the movement with my eyes. I wanted my father to ask another question about the game, one that Bjorn would enjoy answering.

Bjorn Lindstrom: We haven't chosen a place yet. We started talking about it today. I like the studio, but we'd need room for both of us to work.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I see. Is this a recent decision, or simply a recent conversation?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Must every piece of good news be examined before you allow it? We want to live together.

Vladimir looked at me for a moment. Then he turned back to Bjorn. He did not raise his voice. Through the open window I could hear the faint scrape of a chair from a neighbouring room.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Forgive me. I want to know the man my daughter is making plans with. You are twenty-nine, I believe?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Yes.

Vladimir von Zavallah: There is a considerable difference in experience. It would be natural for her to appear more certain than you feel.

Bjorn Lindstrom: She generally appears certain. I have learned to ask her.

I put my hand on Bjorn’s forearm. He glanced at it but continued watching my father. I could feel the muscles in his arm tighten beneath my fingers when Vladimir spoke again.

Vladimir von Zavallah: And she has answered you? “Some evenings I think you're waiting for him to change his mind.” You meant Eirhart, I assume.

Bjorn went still. My hand remained on his sleeve. I took it away when he turned towards me. My father reached for his glass, leaving me to explain how he knew.

[Picture: Bjorn Lindstrom, sad expression]

Bjorn Lindstrom: What did you tell him?

Arkhane Ruinblood: We discussed this.

I said it quickly, looking at my father as though he could confirm it. Bjorn set his fork down.

Bjorn Lindstrom: When? When did we discuss you showing him my letter?

Arkhane Ruinblood: We did not. I sent him a copy this afternoon.

My face felt hot. I reached for my glass and found I did not want it. Bjorn looked down at the place where my hand had rested, then back at me. I hated that I could not get him to stop looking.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He keeps acting as though you are passing the time with me. I wanted him to know you were serious. Those were your own words. He could not dismiss them.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You could have told him I was serious. You could have let me tell him. I'm sitting right here.

Vladimir von Zavallah: It was an affectionate note. You need not be embarrassed by wanting an answer.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I'm angry that you've read it. I wrote something private, and now you're asking me about it over supper.

Vladimir placed his glass precisely on its coaster. His expression changed very little. He paused, looking from Bjorn to me. I should have interrupted him sooner.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You must understand my concern. Eirhart will remain much as he is while you grow older. You have noticed how attached she is to him. I would rather you understood the difficulty before moving your possessions.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Enough. You do not get to decide which of them I can love.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I am asking whether your partner understands the situation. You asked me to take him seriously. I am doing so.

I looked at Bjorn, expecting him to see how vicious my father was being. He was already pushing his chair back. I rose with him, catching the edge of my dress under one heel, and had to step awkwardly to free it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Please. He is doing this because he dislikes being left out of my life. Do not let him turn a few sentences into something they are not.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Did you show Eirhart too?

Arkhane Ruinblood: No. Only my father.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Only your father. You knew how he would talk to me. That is why you sent it, because you wanted him to change his mind.

I started to deny that I had known. I had expected my father to be impressed by the letter, perhaps even kind. I had also known Bjorn would not want him to read it. I looked down at my hands.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I wanted tonight to go well. If he had not brought Eirhart into it, we could have had a perfectly pleasant supper.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Eirhart was in the note. I asked you about him. You gave that to someone else before we'd finished talking.

He moved towards the door. I followed, close enough to touch his sleeve, but kept my hand at my side. The attendant brought his coat from the next room. Bjorn thanked her and struggled briefly with one cuff.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Come back with me. We can talk at home. I will leave now.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I'm going to my own place. I need some time.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I can explain it better than this. I did not want to hurt you.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I wrote it to you.

He looked at me once more, then opened the door and left. I stood where he had put on his coat. The attendant waited with mine, and I took it without managing to thank her.

Vladimir had remained at the table. He moved Bjorn’s water glass away from the edge, then looked up at me. I hated him for still sitting there, composed enough to notice a glass.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You can remain here tonight. There is no reason to return alone when you are upset.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You knew exactly what you were doing.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I asked him a question you had already shown me.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You waited until we were happy. You could have asked me before we came. You wanted to watch him hear it.

My father did not answer at once. I pulled on my coat before he could offer another room or tell me to sit down. The collar caught beneath the dahlia, and I left it crooked.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Do not follow me.

A Place at the Table — Lantern Houses · Late that evening

I walked home without checking my phone. At the studio door, I dropped my key and had to kneel to retrieve it. The narrow skirt caught beneath my knees. I swore loudly enough that someone paused in the corridor.

Inside, I put my coat on a chair and opened the drawer. Bjorn’s letter lay where I had left it. I read my name on the envelope, closed the drawer, then opened it again. I could still hear him asking when.

I tried to undo the top hook of the dress. My fingers slipped. Bjorn had fastened it less than three hours earlier, kissing my back while I decided what to tell him. I dropped my hands and sat on the bed.

The dress was still fastened. I took out my phone and looked at the names on the screen. I had no idea who to call.

Daisies

Daisies — Later that night

The last fastening on my dress sat between my shoulder blades. I could reach it if I twisted hard enough. I tried twice, swore, and sat at the dressing table with the dress still closed.

My black dahlia had slipped sideways. I pulled out the bone pins one at a time and dropped them beside the crystal pendant. In the open drawer, a pair of daisy earrings lay caught in a length of ribbon.

There was a matching ring. I put it on, then turned my hand under the lamp. One petal had a shallow scratch near its edge. I rubbed it with my thumb until I was remembering another table.

An adult memory — Dyrus, at thirty-two

Dyrus had a book open on a cloth, its cover propped against a cup. His green coat hung over a chair. The sleeves of his gray shirt were rolled above his elbows, and linen thread kept catching on his canvas apron.

[Picture: Dyrus Veylan, thoughtful expression]

I stood beside the window pretending to examine the loose cover. I had come to see him, and he had already spent an unreasonable amount of my visit looking at a book.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Do people pay extra for all this staring?

Dyrus Veylan: Only the very wealthy. Everyone else gets the stitching.

He pulled the thread through and lifted his head. A dark curl had fallen beside one ridged horn. I touched it, then let my fingers rest against the warm skin behind his ear.

Dyrus Veylan: I like that. I also need you to move.

Arkhane Ruinblood: An extraordinary way to welcome a woman.

Dyrus Veylan: You're standing in the light.

I looked down. My shadow covered the holes he was trying to find. I moved to the other side of the bench, dragging the empty chair with me. One of his unshod hooves tapped against its leg.

Dyrus Veylan: Thank you. Now you can watch me become rich, one damaged spine at a time.

His fingers were broad and a little rough. I watched him keep the thread clear of the page, draw it taut, then test it. When he finished that section, he set the needle down and reached for my hand.

He kissed the heel of my palm. His beard tickled. I laughed and caught his sleeve before he could return to work, but he kept looking at the unfinished book.

Arkhane Ruinblood: How long?

Dyrus Veylan: Until I've finished this gathering. Then you can distract me properly.

I complained about the competition. He laughed loudly enough that someone outside the open window turned. I stayed in the chair, out of his light, and watched him sew.

The studio — The same night

My hand was still beneath the lamp. I had no idea where Dyrus was now. I could remember the roughness of his fingertips more clearly than the last thing he had said to me.

I took off the ring and put it back on. Then I found the dress fastening by its reflection and managed it on the third attempt. There was nobody to see the red mark the seam had left.

Bjorn's name was near the top of my messages. I opened an empty reply and wrote that I was home. I added that I was sorry. Then I read it as if the right sentence might make him come upstairs.

I deleted the second sentence, then the first. He had asked for time. I hated giving it to him when it meant spending the evening with myself.

I changed into another black dress with fastenings I could reach, left the daisy ring on, and put my hair up badly. The Ninth Bell would still be open. I could have one pleasant hour without explaining anything.

The Ninth Bell — Near midnight

The brass bell above the red entrance shook when the door closed behind me. Beyond the small stage, dancers moved under low colored lamps. A server carried empty glasses through the open passage to the lounge.

I gave the attendant my admission money. For a while I danced with strangers who expected very little. I liked the music, the movement, the brief attention when I turned. Nobody there had read Bjorn's letter.

When the dancers parted, I caught my reflection in a dark window and adjusted my neckline. I was still attractive. Apparently I needed to check that tonight, which was a humiliating discovery to make while enjoying it.

Two men at a small table offered me the empty chair. Both looked to be in their thirties. One had spilled a drink down his cuff; the other was laughing too hard at something he had already said twice.

I sat. The man with the wet cuff asked about my eyes. I answered, and he interrupted to ask about my teeth. His friend told him to stop being an idiot, then nearly knocked over the remaining glass.

They were drunk. I knew it before the first man asked whether I actually fed on blood. I could hear how much effort he needed to finish the question. I stayed because they were paying attention to me.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. I do.

He held out his arm and said I could take a little. He added something about having a story for work tomorrow. His friend laughed. I watched him fumble with the cuff and decided that his offer was sufficient.

I should have sent him back to his drink and left the table. Instead I took his wrist. He could not keep it steady. I made a shallow bite and began to feed, with the table between us and the dance floor.

After a moment he pulled back. I lifted my head but kept hold of his arm. The urgency had not eased. His free hand was on my shoulder, still interrupting the settling I needed after taking nourishment.

I knew what would help: stop taking more and stop touching him. I had done it before. He said, clearly this time, that it was enough. I tightened my grip when he tried to withdraw his wrist.

I took more. He said it again, louder, and his friend stood up so quickly that the chair struck the wall. That was when I let go. The first man sagged sideways against the table.

His friend grabbed a folded napkin and pressed it into his hand. He shouted for a server. I stood too, furious at the noise, at the people turning, at being looked at for a reason I had not chosen.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Keep your voice down.

He put himself between us. His hands were shaking, but he stayed there. I stepped toward him and told him that if he tried to stop me leaving, I would hurt him as well.

The server had heard. She moved the second man back toward his friend and called someone from the door. I began telling her there had been an agreement. She did not stop helping him to listen.

The door attendant came beside me. Another member of staff knelt near the table. The man I had bitten was conscious, answering a question with a slow shake of his head. His friend would not look away from my hands.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I can explain.

The attendant pointed to the open passage. He told me to walk outside and keep my hands where he could see them. When I started to give my name, he said he did not need it to understand what he had seen.

I went. It was a choice I could have made at the table, before the man asked me to stop. The attendant followed at a distance. Once nobody was touching me, the hunger-like urgency began to ease.

Outside, he told me I was excluded from the venue. Staff had called for treatment. Both men were alive, and neither wanted me near them. I gave him my name and a way to reach me about the cost.

My first impulse was to ask whether he knew who my father was. I got as far as opening my mouth. Through the doorway I could see the second man sitting beside his friend, one hand flat against the table.

I had frightened him into watching me instead of helping the person he had come with. I could still hear myself making the threat. The music resumed beyond the door, lower now, while someone fetched their coats.

Outside the venue — A few minutes later

The night air cooled the sweat along my back. I stood out of the path of arriving guests. I had taken enough nourishment; the urgency was passing. I could still remember both times he had asked me to stop.

I called Vladimir. When he answered, I almost told him there had been trouble. That would have let him arrive angry at somebody else. I looked at the red door and changed the first sentence.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I hurt a man at the Ninth Bell. He asked me to stop and I didn't. His friend tried to help, and I threatened him.

Vladimir asked whether they were alive. I told him what the attendant had said. He asked where I was standing and whether staff still needed information from me. I could answer those questions.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I need help arranging the treatment costs. Don't come here to frighten anyone. Please.

He told me to stay outside the entrance until he arrived. I moved farther from the door so the men would not have to pass close to me. Then I gave him the street number.

The Morning After

The Morning After — The next morning

Vladimir returned my coat folded over his arm. I had left it on a chair at the Ninth Bell. He placed it where I could reach it without coming close, then asked whether the settling had finished.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Hours ago.

He had arranged transport and advanced the treatment costs during the night. The venue's attendant had since confirmed that both men had left with someone to take them home. I was not to return or try to speak to them.

I paid the amount Vladimir had advanced from my own account. It left less than I wanted for the next rent payment. I sent no letter for the attendant to pass on, although I had spent half the night composing one.

Vladimir von Zavallah: They may have further expenses.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Then the venue can contact me.

He put a second envelope on the table. There was money inside, more than the treatment had cost. I had not asked for it. He sat down before telling me what he intended it to cover.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You can take the adjoining suite for a while. I will deal with the practical arrangements. You should not be alone while you are behaving like this.

Arkhane Ruinblood: And Bjorn?

Vladimir von Zavallah: You leave him alone. That attachment has made you careless. End it before you cause further damage.

I looked at the envelope. For one tired moment I wanted to accept it. I knew what his meals cost, who handled a broken latch, how little I would have to decide if I went back.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You want me close enough to supervise.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I stood outside a club last night while a stranger described what my daughter had done. Do not lecture me about what I want.

I put the envelope beside his coat. He did not take it. There was a cup of water near his hand; he moved it toward me instead. I hated that I was thirsty and that he had noticed.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I am paying for the harm I did. You don't get to choose where I live because you arrived when I called.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You were frightened enough to ask for me then.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. I was. I still wanted help. I didn't offer you my rooms.

He looked toward the bed, then at the spare chair where Bjorn sometimes left his bag. I waited for another remark about human men. Vladimir rubbed one thumb along the edge of the untouched envelope.

[Picture: Vladimir von Zavallah, thoughtful expression]

Arkhane Ruinblood: At supper, when you quoted the letter. Did you mean to hurt him?

Vladimir von Zavallah: I meant him to understand that I knew what he was asking of you.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That isn't an answer.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Yes. I wanted him uncertain. He was becoming very comfortable.

I had expected a denial and was furious when he did not give me one. I gripped the water cup hard enough to hurt my fingers. He watched them and asked me to put it down.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I gave you something private because I wanted you to respect him. You saw where it would hurt and used it.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You gave it to me because you wanted me to settle a quarrel you would not have with him. I used it badly. You still sent it.

I stood up. He did too, slowly, making no move to gather the money. I told him to take it. When he asked what I would do if the next bill was larger, I said I would find out.

He took the envelope at last. At the door he told me I had fastened my sleeve incorrectly. I looked down. He was right. I fixed it myself while he waited, and neither of us said goodbye pleasantly.

The studio — Later that morning

My message to Bjorn was short. I had hurt someone while feeding and threatened his friend. Staff had intervened. Both were alive and receiving help; I had paid the known costs and was staying away from them.

I added that there was no immediate danger and he did not need to come. Then I sat with the phone in my hand, wanting him to answer anyway. When he asked if he could visit for a few minutes, I said yes.

He arrived in a worn blue work shirt with one sleeve still folded higher than the other. He kept his bag over his shoulder. I opened the door wide and moved aside instead of reaching for him.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Nobody died?

Arkhane Ruinblood: No.

Bjorn Lindstrom: And they're safe from you now?

I had known that question might come. Hearing it in his voice made me want to sit down. I told him I would not go near them, and that staff had my details if there were further costs.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Did you hear him tell you to stop?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. Twice.

He looked away. The small buckle on his bag clicked against the chair when he set it down, but he remained standing. I could see a pale mark where the strap had pressed his hand.

Bjorn Lindstrom: What the hell were you doing?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I wanted attention. Then I wanted them frightened enough to let me leave without being told what I'd done.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Was this because I left?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I was angry that you left. I went out because I didn't want to be alone. What happened at that table was something I chose. You weren't there.

He pushed his hair back and sat on the edge of the chair. For a moment I almost knelt beside him. I stayed near the table instead. I did not know if he would move away, and I could not bear to find out.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I keep hearing your father say my words. I wrote them because every time I tried to ask you, we ended up arguing about whether I was jealous.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You were jealous. I used that to avoid answering you.

Bjorn Lindstrom: And then you handed him the thing I couldn't say properly to you.

I told him I had wanted Vladimir to approve of us, and had thought that mattered more than asking Bjorn. He stared down at the floor while I spoke.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I wanted you to come this morning. Even after I told you that you didn't need to. I wanted to see you.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I wanted to see you too. I'm still going home afterward.

He stayed until the cup I had offered him went cold. We did not touch. When he picked up his bag, I asked if I could write again in a few days. He said yes, but not to turn up at his door.

Red Thread Gardens — That afternoon

Eirhart had a coil of cord over one shoulder and mud along the side of his boot. One end of the trellis support lay across the path. He pointed to the other side of it when I came too close.

Eirhart: Walk around. That end is loose.

I did as he asked. I had come without gloves, without the crystal sample he had mentioned, and without any sensible reason to stand there while he was working. He put down the cord and waited.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The supper went badly.

Eirhart: I heard from Bjorn. He told me about the letter.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You might have come. It would have been harder for Vladimir to do that with you there.

Eirhart lifted his head. His right eye was violet, his left amber-gold; both were fixed on me now. I regretted the sentence and still wanted him to say he would have protected me.

Eirhart: I was planting. You sent the letter. Don't put me at that table now.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That was unfair. I'm sorry.

Eirhart: And don't tell Bjorn I am what you would have chosen. I didn't ask for that. Talk to him about him.

I started to tell him he did not understand how I felt. He bent to lift the cord, leaving me with the sight of his hands doing work I had interrupted. I closed my mouth.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I wanted you to make me feel better. I haven't even brought what you asked for.

Eirhart: Bring the sample on Thursday if you want to do it. Today I need the path clear.

I left him to the trellis. At the studio, the shopkeeper's measurements were still beside an unfinished housing for an entrance ward. I had added a decorative curl she had specifically said she did not want.

I removed it and reshaped the edge, then checked the opening against her dimensions. There were two more pieces to make before delivery. I pulled the lamp closer and started the second.

While We Were Apart

While We Were Apart — Three weeks after the supper · The Open Folio courtyard

I changed my earrings outside the Folio. The first pair had looked excessive beneath my lamp; the second looked worse in the afternoon light. I put the first pair back on and closed the clasp by touch. Bjorn had offered half an hour for tea. I had spent longer deciding how to arrive.

He was already at a table with a pot and two cups. His bag occupied the chair beside him. I noticed it before I noticed that he had turned the other chair away from the sun. I sat opposite and put the book I had brought between us.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Hello. You found the table, then. I wasn't sure the message sent.

Arkhane Ruinblood: It sent. I have become a reasonably accomplished reader of your messages.

He looked down at the pot. I wished I had said hello first. It was something so easy that everyone else in the courtyard appeared to have managed it. I took off my gloves slowly, laying one over the other to give myself a moment before trying again.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Hello, Bjorn. Thank you for asking me.

He poured the tea, then turned the handle of my cup towards me. I remembered his hands doing ordinary things in my room and had to look away. On the next table, somebody was sorting loose pages into a folder. The paper made a dry scraping sound each time they tapped it straight.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You brought the book. Did you finish it?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought you might want it back.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You could have kept it a little longer. I wasn't asking for things back.

I had brought the mystery because he lent it to me before the supper. Returning it was an uncomplicated reason to sit down together. Now he held it with his fingers inside the cover, and I wanted to snatch it back before he put it away.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I haven't finished it. I brought it so I would have something sensible to do with my hands when I saw you.

He closed the book and put it beside my gloves. For a moment his mouth twitched. I leaned forward, hoping he would laugh, but he only asked whether I wanted milk. We had drunk enough tea together that he knew. I said yes and watched him pass the little jug.

Arkhane Ruinblood: How have you been?

Bjorn Lindstrom: I went walking with a friend last weekend. Much farther than either of us meant to. We missed the turn and ended up having lunch somewhere we couldn't find again if we tried.

He described a meal so large they had argued over whether to carry the leftovers home. I knew the expression he made while telling it, the frown that arrived just before he admitted doing something foolish. I began smiling before the story ended. He noticed and stopped moving his hands.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You carried it. I can hear the argument from here.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Of course I carried it. It was good. I had enough for supper too.

I wanted to hear about the walk again with his head on my pillow. Instead I lifted my cup. The tea had been sitting too long and tasted bitter. I added more milk, hoping that taking a drink would stop me from asking whether he had missed me while he was away.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Are you busy tomorrow evening?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Yes. Why?

Arkhane Ruinblood: There is a place near the houses that does the food you like. I could bring something back. We would not have to make an occasion of it.

He set his cup down. I had rehearsed several ways of proposing supper, all of them intended to sound less prepared than they were. I had even checked when the kitchen would close. None of that helped while he examined the tea stain on the saucer instead of answering.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I asked you for tea today. I don't want to come up to your room tomorrow.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I mentioned food. You need not make it sound as though I have laid a trap beneath the table.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Then let me say I don't want to come. You asked. I answered.

I sat back. My coat caught beneath one hip, and I tugged at it too hard. A woman at the nearby table glanced over and returned to her pages. I was grateful that she had something else to look at, then furious that I had been grateful.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I had hoped we might do something we used to enjoy. Forgive the extravagance of the suggestion.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I am sitting here trying to have tea with you. Can we do that before you decide it's too little?

He had not raised his voice, but I could hear the strain. I looked at the book, my gloves, the spoon I had left balanced across the cup. I moved it to the saucer. He poured more tea into his own cup and did not offer to refill mine.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Is this all you wanted? Half an hour in a courtyard, talking about a walk?

Bjorn Lindstrom: I thought I did. I wanted to find out whether we could still talk about something without the whole thing going wrong.

That made me angrier than the refusal. I had come dressed to be wanted, and he was trying to find out whether conversation was possible. I wanted to tell him that his careful half hour was cruel. He rubbed his forehead with two fingers, and I could not get the accusation out.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought about kissing you before I got through the gate. I have thought about very little else since I sat down. Talking about lunch is difficult.

He looked at me then, directly enough that I stopped moving the spoon. His collar was open. I could see the hollow above his shirt, the place I liked to kiss when he leaned over me. He put a hand against the table edge and pressed his fingertips into the wood.

Bjorn Lindstrom: It isn't easy for me either. That doesn't mean I can come home with you and find out how I feel tomorrow.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I did not ask you to move in.

Bjorn Lindstrom: No. You asked that last time. I said yes, and three hours later your father was reading my letter back to me.

I looked towards the gate. For several seconds I considered leaving before he could. I could stand, say that he had plainly had enough, and make him stop me if he wanted me there. I stayed seated instead and let him finish his tea.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I remember what happened. I haven't mistaken this for an ordinary quarrel.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Then don't be surprised that I'm still having trouble with ordinary things.

We sat while the table beside us emptied. I could hear the woman folding her chair and thanking someone inside. Bjorn asked whether I had work that week. I said I had a commission for crystal flowers and described the shape badly, leaving out the part he would have asked about before.

When his phone vibrated, he checked it and began putting on his coat. The half hour was over. I stood too quickly. He reached towards me, stopped, and picked up his bag instead. I held my gloves so tightly that one of the seams pressed a line into my palm.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Take the book. Finish it if you want. It gets considerably more ridiculous.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I will try not to improve the ending in the margins.

He left by the courtyard gate. I sat down again and opened the book at the ribbon I had used to mark my place. I read the same paragraph twice without understanding it. Then I closed it, paid for my tea, and took the longer route home.

The Uncollected Flowers — Five weeks after the supper · Lantern Houses

Six crystal flowers stood in a row on my workbench. The client had chosen them for a dining room that was not going to open on time. I learned this on the morning they were supposed to collect them and pay the balance. I had already spent that money twice in my calculations.

I read the message, called, and asked for a date. They could give me an estimate. I asked again and was told that the room was still being repaired. The flowers would only be in the way. I looked at the row on my bench while the client explained this to me.

The deposit had paid for materials. The balance was supposed to cover the rent and replace what I had taken from my savings for the treatment bill. I had agreed to payment on collection because collection had been arranged for a particular morning. I had been pleased with how quickly we had settled it.

I ended the call without agreeing to a further order. Then I picked up a flower and examined the curve of a petal. There was nothing wrong with it. I had remade that edge twice, and nobody who entered the room would ever know. I wanted someone to look at the damned thing.

Instead, I covered all six against dust and went through the drawer where I kept my receipts. There was enough for most of the rent. I calculated it again, adding a small payment that had not arrived either. The second result was worse because I noticed an expense I had forgotten.

Vladimir’s name remained on my phone. I could ask him. I could describe a temporary delay so neatly that he would enjoy solving it. I knew what would follow: an inquiry about the next payment, another about the person who owed it, a suggestion that he could manage this more efficiently.

I put the phone down and opened my clothes cupboard. At the back hung a black evening coat with a heavy silver clasp. I had bought it because the lining felt wonderful against my arms. I wore it twice, both times with Bjorn, and had spent much of each evening complaining that he kept standing on its hem.

I unfastened the clasp, brushed a pale thread from the sleeve, and laid the coat over a chair. Then I put it back in the cupboard. By the time Eirhart arrived for the sample, I had taken it out again. He knocked with the side of his hand because he was carrying a rolled plan.

Eirhart: Have I come at the wrong time?

Arkhane Ruinblood: You have come at the time we agreed. It has become inconvenient of its own accord. Sit down before I accuse you of arranging it.

He moved a box from the spare chair and sat. I gave him the second anchor sample. He turned it beside the drawing, checked a measurement with a small ruler, and frowned. I watched him long enough to regret every second I had spent hoping for a compliment.

Arkhane Ruinblood: It matches the measurements you gave me.

Eirhart: Yes. I measured the wrong part. The stem needs room here when we tie it. I brought the corrected drawing.

He flattened the roll beneath the ruler. I had prepared an argument about my workmanship and now had to put it aside without letting him see it. He showed me the extra space he needed. It was not a large alteration, but it would require another sample.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Next time, send the drawing before I finish the piece.

Eirhart: I will. Can you change it? It can wait until your other work is done.

I told him I could. He marked the part I should keep, then asked about the covered flowers. I showed him one. His scarred fingertip stopped just short of the curled petal. He asked how I had made it thin enough to let the light through, and I turned it towards the window.

For several minutes I talked without thinking about the unpaid balance. He listened, then disagreed with the shape I had given one leaf. It did not look like the plant I claimed to have copied. I told him it was an interpretation. He said it was a very distant one.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could have admired it quietly. People do manage that.

Eirhart: You asked what I thought of the leaves. I like the flower.

I put it back beneath the cloth and asked whether he had time to stay. He glanced at the clock and said he could spare ten minutes before meeting friends. I nearly told him not to trouble himself. Then I pulled my chair around and asked what he had been reading for his course.

He described a garden built around paths too narrow for the people using it. He had drawn an alternative and wanted to try one part at the allotments. When he left, he took the faulty measurements with him. I set his new drawing beside my tools and found somewhere to put the second sample.

The Price of the Coat — The following afternoon

The buyer offered less for the coat than I had hoped. I brought it home, hung it up, and spent an hour looking for something I liked less that somebody else might want. Then I wrapped the coat again and carried it back. The silver clasp knocked softly against the counter while the payment was counted.

At the Workbench — Lantern Houses · later that afternoon

I returned with the empty wrapping under my arm. Nobody stopped me on the stairs to demand an account of the afternoon. Upstairs, the flowers still needed a box that would keep the petals apart. I measured the spaces between them and began cutting the packing material.

I wanted Bjorn badly enough to reach for my phone several times. There had been evenings when he sat on the floor beside my bench and read while I worked. I had complained about the space he took. Now there was enough room, and I kept looking down when I moved my chair.

I wrote to ask whether he had a moment. His answer came while I was still holding the phone: yes, but he was cooking for friends. He asked whether it was urgent. I stared at that question until the screen dimmed. I could have made it urgent by telling the story in the right order.

I wrote that it could wait. He sent a brief apology and a photograph of something overcooking in a pan. I asked how many times it had caught fire before he considered it ready. He replied that his friends had asked the same thing. I put the phone down before I could ask who was there.

At the dressing table that night, I tried to take off one earring with fingers that would not manage the clasp. I began crying before I had freed it. I cried harder because it was an earring, because the day had been stupid, because I wanted someone who had once made all of those things easier to bear.

When I could see properly, I loosened the clasp and put the earrings away. I washed my face. The book was still in my bag. I brought it to bed, turned to the marked page, and read far enough to become irritated with the detective. This time I kept reading.

The Second Pot — Eight weeks after the supper · The Open Folio courtyard

This time I arrived with the book finished and no proposal for the next evening. Bjorn was late. I chose a table where the chairs did not wobble, ordered tea, and spent several minutes deciding whether to tell him I was there. He appeared before I sent anything, breathing hard from the walk.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Sorry. I thought I knew where I'd put my keys. Then I remembered moving them somewhere sensible.

Arkhane Ruinblood: A terrible practice. I recommend leaving everything where it causes the greatest possible inconvenience. You can always find it again.

He dropped into the opposite chair and laughed. It was a small laugh, but I had missed it enough to lose the sentence I meant to say next. I poured his tea instead. He took off his coat, folded it over the spare chair, and put his bag underneath.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Your detective is an idiot.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Good afternoon to you too. Did you like it?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I enjoyed being angry with it. He looks out of the same window twice and sees a different side of the house. Nobody considers that worth investigating.

I opened the book to a place I had marked with a narrow scrap of paper. Bjorn leaned over to read. I pointed out the second description and watched him check the earlier page. He looked so offended by the discovery that I laughed before he looked up.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I have read this twice. How did I miss that?

Arkhane Ruinblood: You were distracted by the hat. As was everybody else, for three chapters.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I thought the hat was going to matter. I had an entire explanation for it.

He described an explanation considerably more elaborate than the ending we had been given. I interrupted twice, and he defended both objections with his finger pressed against the open page. It was absurdly pleasant to disagree over something neither of us had done to the other.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You have written a different book. You should demand payment for the additional effort.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You can draw the house. Apparently you are the only person who knows where any of it is.

I reached for a pencil in my bag. He had one out already and put it beside my cup. For a moment I looked at it rather than pick it up. Then I drew the two incompatible windows on the back of an old receipt, and we argued over which description to keep.

When I handed him the pencil, he tucked it behind his ear. It immediately fell onto the table. I caught it before it rolled into a gap and slid it back. He thanked me with the faintly sheepish smile he used when he knew I had seen every part of a small disaster.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Did the flowers get collected? The ones you told me about last time.

Arkhane Ruinblood: At last. The client was very pleased. I had enjoyed several private opportunities to be less pleased with them before they arrived.

I told him about the delayed payment. At first I described it as an irritation. He asked how late it had been, and I gave him the actual number of days. His eyes moved to the plain coat folded beside my gloves. He had seen me in the other coat.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Did you manage the rent?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. I sold the long coat. The one you considered a danger to innocent feet.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I liked that coat. I would have liked it more if I had not kept standing on the hem.

I remembered him holding the hem while I climbed ahead of him. I had accused him of enjoying the view, and he had refused to deny it. Now he was sitting across a table, apparently unsure what else to ask about a garment neither of us could do anything about.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I liked it too. The rent is paid. I will be more careful about when I expect a client to arrive with the rest of my money.

Bjorn Lindstrom: If there's another delay, you could tell me. You don't have to make it sound amusing before I'm allowed to hear it.

I looked down at the receipt with the impossible house on it. I wanted to ask exactly what telling him would mean. Whether I could call at night. Whether he would come. Instead I told him the part about returning to the buyer after spending an hour looking for something else to sell.

He let me finish without interrupting. Then he said it sounded like a horrible afternoon. I nodded. I had been ready to argue if he told me I could buy another coat. I reached for the pot and offered him more tea.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Please. I can stay a little longer today.

We ordered another pot. He told me that the supper with his friends had eventually been edible, after they removed the parts visible in the photograph. One friend had brought bread, which he now considered a remarkable act of foresight. I asked whether they had been permitted to cook the next time.

Bjorn Lindstrom: They have established a system. I chop things. Someone else decides when they should leave the pan.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Cruel. Have you considered responding with unreasonable confidence and doing exactly as you please?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Apparently I am already very good at that. They thought I could try chopping.

I laughed and nearly spilled my tea. He moved the open book out of reach of the cup. The familiar gesture hurt less than it had at the first meeting, and I wanted to keep him there until the courtyard emptied. I asked about the walk he had been planning with the same friends instead.

He had bought better shoes. He showed me one beneath the table and explained why he had returned the first pair. I listened to the whole story, including the part about the unhelpful shop assistant. He had listened to me describe a clasp for considerably longer on occasions we had both enjoyed.

Eventually he checked the time and began gathering his things. I wanted him to offer another meeting before he stood. He put the book in his bag, forgot the receipt, and came back for it. I had begun tearing the blank edge into small pieces without noticing.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Keep the drawing. You may need it when you write to the author.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I shall demand a staircase next. He has been disgracefully vague about the upper floor.

He laughed, properly this time, with his head bent and one hand against the chair. I touched his sleeve while I was still laughing too. It was a small, familiar movement, my fingers settling just above his wrist. His arm stopped moving beneath them, and the laugh ended.

[Picture: Arkhane Ruinblood, happy expression]

[Picture: Bjorn Lindstrom, wary expression]

I took my hand away. He pulled his sleeve straight and looked towards the gate. The cup beside me was empty. I could not think why I noticed that, except that I suddenly wanted something to do with my hands again. I folded them in my lap.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I'm sorry.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I know. Please don't yet.

I nodded. He picked up his bag and waited while I put on my coat. Neither of us hurried, but the easy conversation had ended. At the gate I stood far enough away that our sleeves did not brush. He looked at the book in his bag, then back at me.

Bjorn Lindstrom: There's another one. A worse detective, if you can believe it. I'll find the title for you.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I am afraid I can. Send it when you find it.

We left in opposite directions. His message came while I was waiting to cross the street: the title, followed by a warning about a missing umbrella. I read it twice before answering that I would try it if he promised to reread the window chapter first.

An Afternoon Together

An Afternoon Together — Three months after the supper — Monday

The customer put the crystal housing back on my bench and tapped one corner. It caught against the metal frame she had brought. I had checked the opening carefully and neglected the outside edge.

For a moment I wanted to blame the frame. Instead I fitted the pieces together myself. They stuck in exactly the place she had indicated. She stood with her shopping bag against her knee while I examined it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Can you leave it with me until tomorrow?

She could, but she would collect it before noon. I agreed. After she left, I shut the studio door too hard and called the housing several inventive names. Then I found the tool I needed to correct it.

The commissions were paying my rent now. Some also paid for mistakes like this one. I had covered the final treatment expense sent through the Ninth Bell, and their door remained closed to me. I did not ask when that would change.

Bjorn had invited me for a walk on Saturday. I had answered yes before I could begin composing something suitably indifferent.

I thought of that while I worked. I wanted Saturday to go well so badly that I had already changed my mind about what to wear four times. The edge of the housing needed another careful pass. I made myself look at it.

The trellis — Thursday afternoon

Eirhart fitted my third crystal sample against the trellis support and asked me to hold it there. Sunlight caught the pale seam inside it. I had made the opening wide enough this time for his chosen stem and the ordinary supporting pin.

Eirhart: Turn it a little. Toward you.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought you wanted it straight.

Eirhart: The path bends.

He knelt to check it from below. I held the anchor until my wrist ached. The living stem lay against the support where he had placed it; nothing was going to grow into the proper position merely because I admired the result.

He secured the pin, tested the fit, and told me I could let go. Then he walked the path himself, checking the room beneath the planned growth. I waited for him to come back before asking whether it would do.

Eirhart: Yes. Thank you. Keep the shape of this one.

I wanted to touch his shoulder. I kept my hands on the empty cloth I had carried the sample in. He had thanked me for an anchor. We stayed beside it while he explained where the next support would go.

Eirhart: Bjorn tested the path yesterday. He tried to duck before there was anything overhead.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You've been seeing him?

Eirhart: Yes. I watched a playtest afterward.

My first question was whether Bjorn had mentioned me. I bit it back so sharply that Eirhart looked at my mouth. I asked how the game had gone instead. He said Bjorn had become stuck behind a gate.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That sounds familiar.

Eirhart: His partner let go of the switch. Bjorn argued with the screen.

I laughed. Eirhart returned to his planting while I wrapped the spare sample. He asked whether I could make two more of the same size next month. I told him when I could fit them around paid work, and he wrote it on his slate.

The Open Folio — Saturday afternoon

Bjorn was packing up when I arrived. There were two controllers on the table and a smear of pencil on his thumb. He wore the blue shirt again. I had chosen black, abandoned a second pair of earrings, and arrived five minutes early.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You're early.

Arkhane Ruinblood: A terrible accident. Please don't tell anyone.

He smiled, then put the controllers away with more care than they needed. I stayed by the door. On the table, two handwritten comments from a playtest had been crossed out and replaced by longer questions.

Arkhane Ruinblood: How is it going?

Bjorn Lindstrom: Today? Badly. Overall, better. They can finish it now, when I'm not hovering behind them telling them where to stand.

He asked about my work. I told him about the housing and the customer who had found the fault before I did. He laughed when I admitted how thoroughly I had blamed the empty room after she left.

We went out into the courtyard. He sat on the low wall, leaving enough room beside him. I took it. From the kitchen came the sound of someone arguing amiably about the last clean pan.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Eirhart said the anchor fitted.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Eventually. He has very particular ideas about plants.

Bjorn Lindstrom: He has particular ideas about being talked about, too.

I looked at my hands. Bjorn did not make me guess the question for long. He asked whether I still loved Eirhart. I said yes. My voice sounded steadier than the fingers twisting the edge of my sleeve.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Are you still waiting for him?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Sometimes I catch myself hoping he will want something he has never offered. He hasn't asked me to wait. I made that up for myself.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I like him. That's the really annoying part. I like spending time with him, and then I wonder whether I'm supposed to be preparing to get out of the way.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I want you here. I want your company, and your ridiculous opinions about my clothes, and your hands on me. I have been miserable without you. I also know that isn't a reason you have to come back.

He rubbed the pencil mark with his other thumb. I waited, wishing I could take back the last sentence simply because I wanted him to say I did not need it. He looked up at me instead of at the studio windows.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I still want you. I am still angry. Sometimes I start writing something and think about your father reading it, and then I don't send it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Don't make it easy for me by pretending you don't. If I could undo that, I would. I can't.

He let out a tired breath. I nearly added another explanation of why I had sent the note, but he had heard it. I asked if he wanted to keep seeing me. I spoke more quietly than I intended.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Yes. Slowly. And I want a bad afternoon to be a bad afternoon, without worrying that you'll do something terrible because I went home.

I looked at him. He was angry enough to say it plainly and frightened enough that his voice had changed. I told him I had no right to make that his job. It sounded insufficient. I meant it anyway.

He laid his hand on the wall between us. I touched his fingers, and this time he turned his hand beneath mine. We sat there until the quarrel in the kitchen ended with a burst of laughter.

[Picture: Arkhane Ruinblood, sad expression]

[Picture: Bjorn Lindstrom, thoughtful expression]

The private studio — That evening

He came upstairs after we ate. I put a small measure of stored blood into a cup while he took off his coat. I drank it at the workbench and set the cup aside. He was looking at a half-finished crystal flower.

Bjorn Lindstrom: This one is new.

Arkhane Ruinblood: And entirely unnecessary. I've been making useful things all week.

He turned toward me, close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw. I kissed him first. He answered with a hand at my waist, drawing me closer through the thin fabric of my blouse.

The hunger-like urgency returned before the stored nourishment had settled. I had thought I was ready. I broke the kiss, took his hand from my waist, and stepped back far enough that our clothes were no longer touching.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Wait. Hands off for a moment. I've just eaten. Touch makes it take longer to settle.

He withdrew at once. I hated the alarm on his face and the empty space where his hand had been. The cup remained on the bench. Taking more would not help, so I moved to the other chair and left it there.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Do you want me to go?

Arkhane Ruinblood: No. I want you to sit there and tell me why the playtest was bad. I need a little time without touching anyone.

He sat. At first his explanation was careful; then he reached the part where both players had dragged the same block in opposite directions. He had become so irritated that one of them had told him to stop watching.

Bjorn Lindstrom: They were right. I was unbearable. They'd have spent the evening reassuring me instead of playing.

I laughed, and he gave me a wounded look that was mostly performance. By the time he had demonstrated both players' arguments with his hands, the urgency had eased. I waited a little longer, because wanting him closer did not make it finished.

Arkhane Ruinblood: It's settled now. Come here.

He stood slowly. I met him halfway and put his hand back at my waist. His mouth brushed mine once, then again with more confidence. I caught his shirt and pulled him close enough to feel him laughing at my impatience.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I'm here. You don't have to drag me.

I kissed the corner of his mouth and told him he could complain later. He asked whether I wanted him to stay. I answered plainly, then took his coat from the chair and left it on the floor with mine.

Later, he found a bone hairpin beneath his elbow and held it up accusingly. I took it from him, kissed the mark on his arm, and moved the remaining pins to the far side of the table.

The next morning — Before work

He left after breakfast with his own bag and a promise to write when he knew his next free evening. I wanted to ask him to leave a shirt. I asked which day the next playtest was instead.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Thursday. You can come, but you have to let other people be bad at it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: That is an unreasonable condition.

He kissed me in the doorway. Then he went to his work, and I carried the cups downstairs to wash them.

Two Doors

Two Doors — One year after the supper

Bjorn had put the game's name on a sheet of paper and stuck it to the wrong door. By the time I arrived, two guests had gone upstairs looking for it. I took the sign down while he apologized to a tenant.

Arkhane Ruinblood: An excellent start. Two doors, and you've already confused them.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I have been awake since six. Please save something for when I spill a drink on the controllers.

He was thirty now. There was a small shaving cut beneath his chin, and he had buttoned his good shirt correctly. I straightened its collar because I wanted to touch him, then asked where he wanted the sign.

The finished game had become available that morning. People he had never met had already bought copies. He checked the number again before putting his phone away, smiling at it so openly that I kissed him.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Congratulations.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Thank you. I think I'm going to be sick.

I took his coffee from him. There were two workroom tables pushed together, a screen at one end, and a plate of biscuits too close to the cables. I moved the plate while he tested the sound again.

He had invited friends, other makers from the Folio, and people who had played unfinished versions. Most arrived with somebody else. A woman recognized a room she had once spent an hour failing to finish and demanded to try it again.

Bjorn gave her a controller. Her partner sat beside her, pulling their chairs close enough that their knees knocked. Within a minute they were arguing over which figure belonged to whom. He started toward them. I caught his sleeve.

Arkhane Ruinblood: They have worked out the chairs. Give them a chance with the game.

He stayed beside me, shifting from foot to foot. I understood the urge to interfere. Every time somebody bought one of my pieces, I wanted to explain precisely where they ought to put it. He had heard those explanations over breakfast.

The woman found the movable block. Her partner held a floor switch while she dragged it across the room. When the gate opened, they cheered loudly enough that people at the biscuit plate turned to watch.

Bjorn grinned. Then someone asked what came next, and he was across the room discussing a new idea with his hands. I watched him talk until he noticed and beckoned me over to meet them.

After several pairs had finished, a controller was put into my hand. Bjorn took the other. He looked at me, then deliberately placed his coffee on a different table. I told him the precaution was insulting.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Last time you waved at the screen while holding mine.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Last time you were in the way.

I remembered the buttons. I moved my figure neatly around a corner, reached the switch, and opened his gate. He took too long to cross. I stepped away to inspect the block, and the gate closed in front of him.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Arkhane.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought you were through.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You can see me. I'm the one standing beside the closed gate.

Someone behind us laughed. I looked back with enough irritation to make Bjorn laugh too. He leaned closer and reminded me which button moved the block. I knew perfectly well. I had simply wanted him to hurry.

On the second attempt I held the switch until he was through. He opened my way from the other side. We brought the block across, left it where it would keep the first gate open, and reached the exit together.

Arkhane Ruinblood: There. A devastating display of competence.

Bjorn Lindstrom: After only one public argument.

He kissed my cheek while somebody applauded far too enthusiastically. I handed over the controller before another room could ruin my result. My face was hot. I liked being there with him, ridiculous applause included.

Eirhart arrived with a folded drawing beneath his arm and dried soil along one thumbnail. He congratulated Bjorn, then watched the pair arguing at the screen. He grinned and asked whether they knew they were meant to help each other.

Bjorn Lindstrom: They understood. They've just decided to argue first. Do you want to try?

Eirhart: I'll watch this pair first.

He stood beside the table while Bjorn pointed out a changed passage. Eirhart followed the figures with his eyes, then tapped Bjorn's arm. Both players had moved off their switches to go after the block.

The gate closed. One player groaned; the other accused him of giving terrible directions. Eirhart laughed, then asked about the shape of the room. Bjorn fetched a discarded sketch and began showing him how it had changed.

I brought them water. For several minutes neither remembered to drink it. Eirhart wanted to know why the block could only be pushed from certain sides. Bjorn disagreed with his suggested change and drew another little square.

There had been afternoons when I would have pushed myself into that conversation just to make them notice me. I left the glasses beside the sketch and joined the woman who wanted to show me the earring she had broken.

Eirhart found me later, after the drawing had gone back beneath his arm. He said my anchors had held through the last rain. He wanted another pair, wider this time, for the bend beside the path.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You came to a game release to commission garden fittings?

Eirhart: I came for both. Are you taking the work?

I was. He gave me the measurements and asked me to visit before cutting anything. Then he went to find Bjorn, because they had still not finished disagreeing about the block. I put the drawing safely in my bag.

That evening — A small celebration at the Linden Rooms

We had booked a room at the Linden for supper afterward. By the time I arrived, Bjorn had taken off his jacket and was helping move a chair away from the window. Someone had brought a speaker. I could smell warm bread.

Vladimir met me outside the room. He had waited downstairs instead of joining the guests uninvited. His gloves were folded in one hand, and he asked whether he might offer Bjorn his congratulations before leaving.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Ask him. And please don't tell him what he ought to charge.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I had intended to say that he appeared pleased.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He is. You can say that without sounding surprised.

Vladimir looked past me, then asked whether I was staying the night at my own rooms. I said yes. He nodded and told me there would be rain before morning. He had brought an umbrella I recognized from his hall.

I accepted the loan. When Bjorn came to the doorway, Vladimir congratulated him with no remark about how long the work had taken. Bjorn thanked him. Neither tried to embrace. I was relieved when my father left after a few minutes.

Inside, someone had started the music too loudly. Bjorn lowered it, was accused of interfering with his own celebration, and turned it up halfway. He caught my hand on his way back from the speaker.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Dance with me.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You've been watching my feet all evening. I wondered when you would ask.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I was wondering how you walk in those shoes.

I made him wait while I slipped them off beside my chair. Then I stepped close and put his hand at my waist. The floor was cool beneath my stockings. He pulled me nearer when the other dancers made room.

He knew how I liked to be held. I rested my cheek against his, then turned to kiss the warm skin just below his ear. His fingers tightened through the back of my dress. I heard him lose the next few words of his sentence.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Sorry. Were you telling me something terribly important?

Bjorn Lindstrom: I was trying to. You make this difficult on purpose.

I lifted my head. His hair was untidy from the crowded workroom, and I wanted to undo the top button of his shirt. Instead I waited. He kept moving with the music, his thumb resting beside the seam at my waist.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I want to live with you. Properly. My books, my desk, the ugly lamp you keep pretending you haven't seen.

I stopped dancing. He nearly stepped on my foot and pulled back, apologizing. I caught his sleeve before he could put too much distance between us.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. Bring the lamp.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You haven't seen all of it. It has a matching shade.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I may have to love you with my eyes closed.

He laughed and kissed me. I began listing the furniture in my studio, trying to work out where his desk could go. He stopped me at the window bench and said that was where he'd like to put it.

We would need room for his desk and somewhere I could shape crystals without scattering grit over his things. He wanted to keep his workroom at the Folio. I wanted my window bench. We could measure before moving the heavy furniture.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Tomorrow?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Late tomorrow. I have plans for you tonight.

He bent to kiss me again, smiling against my mouth. When the song ended, I fetched my shoes. Bjorn found his jacket, promising to bring the measuring tape after breakfast.

The Years We Had

The Years We Had — Twelve years after the supper · Bjorn, 41

Bjorn had put my anniversary present beneath a stack of invoices. I found it while looking for an unpaid commission and held up the flat parcel between two fingers. Across the room, he abandoned any pretence of answering his messages.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That was an excellent hiding place until you decided to work on a day off.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Darling, you hid something from me beneath money I am owed. You might as well have put bells on it.

Inside was a pair of black gloves, the fingers cut short enough for crystal work. The stitching around each opening was small and even. I slipped one on and spread my hand. He watched my face with the same excessive interest he brought to a first playtest.

Arkhane Ruinblood: They fit.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You left the old ones on my desk. I borrowed them for the measurements. That is why I was asking where you kept them.

I crossed the studio and sat on the edge of his desk. It was his second desk since we had moved in together. He had chosen this one, carried it up with two friends, and spent an afternoon making it level while I offered increasingly unwelcome advice.

There were silver hairs above his ears. At forty-one, he wore his hair shorter and his shirts no more carefully. I caught a loose thread at his cuff. He took my wrist before I could pull it and kissed the exposed ends of my fingers.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Leave my shirt alone. We have a reservation.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Then you should stop doing that.

He did it again. His mouth was warm against the inside of my wrist. I moved my hand to the back of his neck and drew him close enough to kiss. The desk edge pressed into my thighs; his hand settled at my waist, then tightened when I shifted towards him.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Are we going to be late?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I allowed time for your inability to find matching socks.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Both black. I am years ahead of you.

He lifted the hem of my skirt just enough to touch my knee. I opened my legs for him and pulled him between them. When his mouth moved down my neck, I tried to undo his collar with the new gloves on and missed the button twice.

Bjorn Lindstrom: For working in, apparently.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could assist instead of reviewing the equipment.

He undid it himself. I kissed the skin beneath, felt him shiver, and took the gloves off with my teeth. We reached the bed after knocking his empty mug over. The reservation survived. The careful arrangement of my hair did not.

Separate Plans — The following evening

The next evening, he packed for a week away with two of the people who made games with him. Their latest release was finished. They wanted to spend several days somewhere without their desks. I had known about it for months and disliked it afresh when he put his shoes in the bag.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I could join you for the last two nights.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You could, if it were that sort of trip. We planned this one for the three of us.

I folded a shirt he had already folded. He took it from me and put it back in his bag. On my worktable, a half-finished ward fitting waited beneath a cloth. I had three appointments that week and had been pleased with the amount of work until the packing began.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You need not look so delighted to escape the place.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I am delighted to go away with my friends. Please let me be that without making it an insult.

I could have described the remark as a joke. His hands had stopped above the open bag, and I knew he would hear the excuse. I sat on the bed beside the bag and smoothed a crease in my skirt instead.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I will miss you. I was trying to make that your fault.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You can call me. Just remember I will sometimes be doing something.

He sat beside me. I leaned against his shoulder, and for a while we watched neither of us finish packing. Then he asked about the troublesome commission, and I explained what the client had demanded from a doorway far too narrow to accommodate it.

By the time he left, he knew more about that doorway than either of us wanted. He called on the second evening with wind blowing into the microphone. I complained that I could hear nothing. He sent a photograph of all three of them, wet and grinning, and I saved it.

When He Came Home — A week later · Bjorn, 41

He came home with damp boots and a paper bag held carefully apart from his luggage. I had been listening for him on the stairs for twenty minutes. When he knocked, I waited long enough to make it appear that I had been occupied.

Bjorn Lindstrom: The bag is leaking. Could you open the door a little wider?

I took the paper bag. There were pastries inside, flattened against one another where the bottom had softened. Bjorn put down his luggage, straightened, and held out both hands. I went to him before he could make a remark about the wait.

His coat smelled of rain and the soap from somewhere else. I pushed it off his shoulders while kissing him. He laughed against my mouth, caught one sleeve before it dragged across the floor, and tried to put the coat on its hook without letting go of me.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could have left that until afterwards.

Bjorn Lindstrom: The pastries are already suffering. Let me save one item.

He had a scrape on his palm. I found it when I took his hand again and turned it towards the lamp. He told me he had slipped on a wet step, which became a longer account of all three of them trying to reach an inn before the rain.

I wanted to examine the scrape. He wanted to tell me the part where his friend had dropped the directions into a puddle. I brought a cloth and listened while he cleaned his own hand. By the end of the story I was laughing hard enough to spill the water.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That was approximately the amount of sympathy I received there.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I am prepared to offer more interesting remedies.

Bjorn Lindstrom: After I take these boots off. I have been imagining taking them off since noon.

He sat on the bed and pulled at the laces. I opened his bag to find the dry socks, discovered three folded shirts in a heap, and began explaining how he ought to have packed them. He looked up. I put the socks beside him and shut the bag.

We ate the damaged pastries at the worktable. He had chosen the ones with the tart fruit filling because I always took that part from his plate. I cut them into pieces small enough to pick up. He watched me take the largest piece and moved the plate nearer.

Bjorn Lindstrom: What did you do on Thursday? I called after supper and you were out.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Eirhart brought the planting drawings. We ended up at the Folio because I had left my measuring tools there. I sent you a message.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I saw it in the morning. There was very little reception where we were.

He brushed pastry flakes from his trousers. I thought he might be jealous and began telling him who else had been at the Folio. Halfway through the list, he reached for the empty bag and folded it flat.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I asked what you did. You sound as though I have asked where you were at the time of a robbery.

I stopped. He was tired, his hair still flattened where his hood had pressed it, and I had started defending an evening neither of us had accused me of concealing. I put down the knife.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought you might be unhappy about it.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Sometimes I am. I still want to hear about your week.

I told him about the drawings. Eirhart had left a path too narrow beside an existing wall; I had spotted it, become insufferable, and then discovered that I had been reading an old version. Bjorn laughed and asked how long I had taken to admit that.

Arkhane Ruinblood: A reasonable amount of time.

Bjorn Lindstrom: How long?

Arkhane Ruinblood: He had time to find the correct drawing and make tea.

Bjorn leaned back in his chair. I could see the scrape again, a small red patch beside the heel of his hand. I wanted to ask whether it hurt and knew he had already told me. Instead I asked whether he had enjoyed being away.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Very much. I missed you when we went out to eat. You would have had opinions.

I reached across the table. He put his hand in mine. We stayed like that while he described a shop selling terrible painted plates and the argument over whether I would have bought one out of spite.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You should have brought it. I could have put it above your desk.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That was the conclusion. We left it there for my protection.

Later, he unpacked while I sat on the bed. A little pressed flower fell from the guide he had brought home. I caught it before it reached the floor. He had meant to show it to Eirhart because none of them had agreed on what it was.

Bjorn Lindstrom: He can come over when you look at the new plans. I want to hear which of us was right.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You could ask him yourself.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I intend to. I am checking when your table will be covered in drawings.

I found a clean piece of paper for the flower. Bjorn watched me fold it. When I looked up, he had put the last shirt away but was still standing at the drawer.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You do still love him.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes.

I wanted a longer answer that would hurt him less without requiring me to lie. He came to sit beside me before I found one. There was room between us for the folded guide.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I know. It catches me sometimes. I can have a perfectly good afternoon with him, then come home and be ridiculous about a drawing.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You have been away for a week. I have spent the last hour trying to get your coat and boots off. You are the person I wanted through that door.

He looked at me, then down at the guide. I left it where it was. Telling him more about Eirhart would have been easier than sitting there while he decided whether he believed me.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I would like you to keep telling me things. Even when you expect me to dislike them.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I disliked being alone on the first evening. By the third, I had spread my work over your whole desk. I spent this morning putting it back.

He turned to look. One of my tools was still beside his lamp. He pointed at it. I told him I had left it deliberately to improve the arrangement. He picked up the guide, put it safely on the table, and came back to the bed.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I missed you saying things like that with a straight face.

I lay back and pulled him down beside me. He kissed me, stopped to move the pillow from beneath his shoulder, then tried again. I put my hand inside the open collar of his shirt and felt him settle closer.

We had to get up once more because he had left a wet sock on the cover. I made him hang it over the bath. When he returned, I had taken his side of the bed, and he climbed in behind me complaining about it.

The Grey at His Temples — Twenty-eight years after the supper · Bjorn, 57

At fifty-seven, Bjorn found the hair colour before I could put it away. He held the unopened jar beneath the kitchen light and read the label. I had chosen a shade close to the brown he used to have. His thumb moved over the lid without opening it.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Is this for me?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I thought you might like to try it. There is no obligation.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Then why did you buy it before asking? Last month you asked whether I wanted my portrait retouched. The month before, it was the line beside my eye.

I remembered touching that line. We had been laughing in bed, and I had stopped to examine it. I had called it a change without thinking how closely he was watching me. Now he set the jar down between us.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I keep noticing.

Bjorn Lindstrom: So do I. I am the one washing my face in the morning. I would like an evening when you look at me without checking what has happened since the last one.

He turned to rinse his mug. I hated the sight of his shoulders bent over the sink because I wanted him to turn back before I had found anything useful to say. I picked up the jar, then put it back. We still needed to talk.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I am frightened. And I have been unpleasant about your face, which is a remarkably stupid response to wanting to kiss it.

He dried the mug slowly. When he turned, he was still frowning. I asked whether I could kiss him. He considered me for an uncomfortable moment before stepping closer. I put the jar down and used both hands to hold his face.

His beard scratched my palms. There was more grey in it than brown now. He kissed me once, then again with his hand at the back of my head. I liked his weight against me and the small impatient sound he made when I spoke too soon.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I will return the jar.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Good. That shade would make me look like an upholstered chair.

The Maintained Edition — Later that week

At The Open Folio, one of Bjorn’s newer games occupied the large table. The old Two Doors ran on a smaller screen beside it. He had kept it working through several changes of equipment, and the little figures still needed someone at each controller.

Vladimir turned the controller over and examined the buttons before accepting instruction. Bjorn showed him the switch. My father pressed it, stepped off, and complained when the gate closed on the other figure.

[Picture: Vladimir von Zavallah, thoughtful expression]

Vladimir von Zavallah: It is an unnecessarily restrictive arrangement.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Stay where you are for three seconds and you may survive it.

I laughed loudly enough for Vladimir to glance at me. He returned to the screen and held the switch down. When Bjorn got through, my father gave a small, satisfied nod. He stayed for another room after declaring that he had understood the principle.

Eirhart arrived with soil beneath one thumbnail and a rolled planting plan. His own garden practice now occupied more of his week than he liked to admit. He had come from a meal with friends and stayed to ask Bjorn about a puzzle in the newer game.

Eirhart: He made me walk all the way around it. I had the right answer. Wrong entrance.

Bjorn Lindstrom: You noticed the clue before the testers did. They are going to be furious.

They bent over the table together. I went to look at the planting plan instead of interrupting. Later, on our walk home, Bjorn asked whether I had chosen the dates for our trip. I took his hand and told him which week I had kept free. He stopped beneath a lamp to check his calendar, making me wait in the drizzle.

What We Could Try

What We Could Try — Forty-four years after the supper · Bjorn, 73

Bjorn had dressed before I woke. He was sitting on the bed with one shoe on and the other in his hand. Seventy-three, thin after the illness had worsened, and furious with a lace. I stopped in the doorway when I saw him watching me watch.

Bjorn Lindstrom: If you ask whether I need help, I shall throw it at you.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Your aim has deteriorated. You might hit the lamp.

He laughed, then coughed until I wanted to cross the room. I stayed where I was. When it passed, he handed me the shoe. I knelt, eased it onto his foot, and tied the lace while he rested his hand lightly on my shoulder.

Bjorn Lindstrom: I wanted to be ready before you got up.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I know.

He had hoped to go out that morning. The healer had left after another visit with instructions to rest and return word if his breathing worsened. I knew how to send for help. I also knew that each visit left him more tired, and none had given us a way to make him well.

He ate a little toast while I opened the curtains. Outside, someone dragged a chair across the courtyard paving. He looked towards the sound and asked whether Eirhart had finished the new bed along the garden path. I said I would ask.

The Available Notes — That evening

Vladimir had cleared a table in his rented sitting room. Three books and a bundle of copied accounts lay beneath the lamp. I took my gloves off without unfastening my coat. He looked at the coat, then pushed one of the books towards me.

Vladimir von Zavallah: There are procedures described here. I will tell you what the accounts support. You will dislike how little that is.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Then find better accounts. I am not asking you to impress me with the deficiencies of these.

He let the remark pass. A description of bodily alteration ran down one page. I followed it to a report of continued movement and speech. In the margin, a later reader had marked the passage concerning memory. I had already begun planning whom we could ask before I reached it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: They could still speak. They recognised someone.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Some did. It does not say whether they remembered the same lives a month later. One account stops after the third day.

I turned the page. There was an inventory of materials, then another hand arguing over what had been used. No later account followed. I went back to the first description and read it more slowly, searching for a qualification I had somehow missed.

Arkhane Ruinblood: What would it cost to find out more? Money? Work? Give me something I can actually do.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I can ask people who have studied it. I cannot promise that they have tried it, or that the attempt would leave him as you know him.

He reached for my sleeve. I caught his hand and held it so tightly that his fingers stiffened. I wanted my father to be withholding the answer. I knew how to argue with him when he had decided I should not have something.

[Picture: Arkhane Ruinblood, sad expression]

[Picture: Vladimir von Zavallah, thoughtful expression]

Arkhane Ruinblood: Please. Be difficult about the price. Tell me I have to come home. Anything except this.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I do not have an answer I can sell you, Arkhane.

I released his hand. The small red marks my nails had left faded while I watched. He poured water into a glass and placed it within reach. When I asked to take the copied accounts, he gathered them for me and added the pages I had wanted to leave behind.

The Question at Home — Later that night

Bjorn was awake with a lamp beside him. His glasses had slid down his nose, and the book in his lap had not advanced beyond the page he was on when I left. I put the copies where he could reach them and sat at the foot of the bed.

Bjorn Lindstrom: What did you find?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Something that might keep a body alive differently. Nobody can tell us enough about what happens to memory. I asked for more information. I have agreed to nothing.

He read the first pages, then asked me to read the smaller writing aloud. Twice he stopped me to have a sentence repeated. I heard myself trying to hurry past the uncertain parts and began those sentences again without waiting for him to ask.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Would I know you? Would I remember making anything? Or would you have to explain my life to whoever woke up?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I do not know.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Then I do not want you arranging it.

I folded my hands to keep them still. We had not even been offered a procedure; we had uncertain descriptions and a promise to ask. I wanted to tell him that refusing already was absurd. He pulled his glasses off and pressed his fingers against his eyes.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Do you think I want to die? I wanted another summer. I wanted to finish the stupid argument about our kitchen. I am frightened every time I wake up and it is harder to breathe.

I moved closer but did not know where to put my hands. He was crying, angrily, wiping his face before the tears could reach his mouth. I had seen him cry before. This time I could not offer to help without wanting to beg him for something.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I do not know how to do this.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Neither do I. Stop looking at me as though I have decided to leave you.

The words hurt badly enough that I turned away. He swore under his breath and reached for my wrist. I let him take it. We sat without speaking until he loosened his grip and asked me to come beside him on the bed.

Bjorn Lindstrom: That was cruel. I know you are trying. I need you to hear the part where I am scared of what they might do as well.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I heard it. I wish I had not, but I heard it.

I set the copies on the floor where neither of us could see them. He asked whether I would keep asking ordinary questions of the healer. I said yes. He asked whether I would let him read any other answer before I made plans around it. I said yes to that too.

The Short Way Around — Four days later

Eirhart met us at the entrance with a wheeled visitor’s chair he had borrowed from the garden store. Bjorn considered it with open resentment, then sat and tested the wheels. I had dressed for an expedition. He had insisted on the blue shirt that was softer than the good one.

Eirhart: The path on the left is dry. The other one is being repaired. I will show you where to turn.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Does the short route still go past your expensive mistake?

Eirhart: It is becoming a less expensive mistake. The cuttings took.

Bjorn wheeled himself along the level path and asked me to push at the short slope. Eirhart led us to a bed where low plants had spread beneath an ordinary support. Bjorn asked which had survived. Eirhart pointed with a folded plan and described what he had moved.

I had brought a blanket, another coat, and enough worry to keep offering both. Bjorn asked me to sit beside him. I pulled a chair over from the table and laid the blanket across his knees only when he lifted his hands for it.

Bjorn Lindstrom: There. Now tell me whether the gloves survived that commission.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The left one did. I have written a strongly worded complaint to the giver about his choice of recipient.

He reached for my hand and rubbed his thumb over the uncovered knuckles. Eirhart went to speak to a colleague at the gate. We stayed until Bjorn said he was tired, then took the short way back without bargaining for another turn around the garden.

At home, I helped him out of the blue shirt. His skin was warm beneath my palm. He drew me close by the front of my dress and kissed me with enough intention to make me forget the pile of clothes in my arms. I dropped them on the floor.

Bjorn Lindstrom: Come here. Carefully. My back is an absolute nuisance.

I lay beside him and let him arrange my hand where he wanted it, flat against his chest. We kissed until he needed to stop. Then he rested against me while I unfastened the last pin in my hair. He found it in the sheet with his elbow and made me put it somewhere sensible.

The Following Day

The Following Day — The same season · a week after the garden visit

He died before dawn. I had been awake, sitting beside him with one foot tucked beneath me and a glass of water on the table. He had asked for it. I had helped him drink, and a little had run down his chin onto the neck of his shirt.

I wiped it with the corner of a cloth. He closed his eyes. His breathing had been uneven for hours, with pauses long enough to make me hold my own breath. I watched his chest and waited for the next movement. Then I put my hand against it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Bjorn. Wake up.

I said it again more loudly. When he did not answer, I sent for the healer and called Vladimir. My first attempt at the call failed because I pressed the wrong part of the screen. I was furious with the device while Bjorn lay beside me.

By the time the healer arrived, I had rubbed his hands between mine until the skin looked reddened. They asked me to let go so they could examine him. I refused once, then moved aside. The glass of water tipped when my skirt caught the table.

The healer told me he was dead. I looked at the water spreading across the floorboards. There was a cloth within reach, but I could not make sense of using it. My father came in, saw the bed, and stopped with his hand still on the open door.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I was here.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I know.

I wanted him to ask me something I could answer. What time it had happened. Whether Bjorn had spoken. Whether I had sent for the right person. He sat in the chair by the bed instead. His coat sleeve brushed the spilled water, and he did not move it.

The Funeral Morning — Several days later

On the morning of the funeral, I fastened my dress and brushed my hair. There were black roses on the table. Eirhart had asked whether he could leave them; I remembered saying yes. One stem was shorter than the others and would not stay where I put it.

Vladimir had arranged the funeral after asking me over several visits. He had told me the place, the hour, who would come. I remembered each answer I had given. I knew how much time remained to get there. I stood at the window and watched a neighbour carry a bag across the courtyard.

Bjorn should have been coming up the stairs. The thought arrived so simply that I turned towards the door before I remembered. I sat down to fasten a shoe I had already fastened. When my father knocked, I told him I was nearly ready.

Vladimir von Zavallah: I can wait a little longer.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Five minutes.

He waited. I heard the small movements of his boots outside the room and hated him for being dressed, for knowing what came next, for having a place to go. When he knocked again, I went to the door but did not open it.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You have everything you wanted now. You need not stand there making certain.

He made no answer for long enough that I thought he had left. Then his voice came through the door, quieter than before. He said he was going to the funeral. If I came later, he would be near the entrance. I listened to him walk away.

I stayed in the dress until evening. I could have gone. I knew the way, and nobody had stopped me. Each time I stood, I imagined reaching the others and being unable to leave again. I sat back down. I did not attend Bjorn’s funeral.

What Was Still in the House — Three weeks later

His blue shirt hung over the chair where I had put it after the garden visit. I had washed the clothes he wore in bed because I had to. This one still smelled faintly of him at the collar. I pressed my face against it and stood there until my legs hurt.

There was a repair beneath one sleeve. I had stitched it badly, then refused to believe his complaint that the seam scratched. He had turned the shirt inside out to show me. I found the neater repair he made himself and ran my thumb over it.

In the kitchen, the bread had gone hard. I threw it away, then took the knife out of the washing-up bowl and dried it. I had kept buying things for breakfasts he would not eat. There were too many mugs by the sink and no reason I could remember for leaving them there.

Two of his collaborators came one afternoon. I nearly cancelled when I saw them through the window. They brought his work from The Open Folio and stayed at the table while I chose what should remain at home. Neither tried to take the controller from beside his chair.

They already had copies of the games they had made together. The newest work could continue with the people who knew it. I told them to continue. When one asked whether I wanted to see what they had finished that week, I said I could not bear it yet. They left the invitation open and took their bags away.

Eirhart came the next evening to collect a book Bjorn had borrowed. It was about gardens, full of marked pages and objections written on scraps of paper. I found it under his desk and held it against my chest instead of handing it over.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You can replace it. Must you begin carrying things away already?

Eirhart: It is mine. He wanted to argue about the path widths. We were going to look at them together.

His mouth tightened. I looked down at the papers projecting from the book. I had heard them argue over it and had asked them to do it somewhere else while I worked. Eirhart held out his hand. I gave him the book with all the papers still inside.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I am sorry. I knew it was yours.

Eirhart: I can bring it another day if you want to read what he wrote. I am taking it home now.

He left. I wanted him to turn back, but I had said enough for one visit. I put the blue shirt in a drawer and took it out again before shutting it. There was no arrangement of the room I could finish and then tolerate for the rest of the evening.

My Father’s Visit — The following week

Vladimir knocked and waited until I opened the door. He had brought the small case Bjorn used to keep spare leads in. Someone had found it at The Open Folio. My father set it on the table and asked whether I wanted the window closed.

Arkhane Ruinblood: What I said through the door was cruel. You did not want him dead. I knew that when I said it.

He rubbed the clasp of the case with one finger. I waited for a reprimand. When he spoke, he told me Bjorn had visited him alone twice during the winter. They had played Two Doors badly and disagreed about whether a puzzle could be unfair.

Vladimir von Zavallah: He brought a different one the second time. I thought there would be a third visit. I was keeping an evening free.

I sat on the floor because the chair was too far away. My father asked whether he could sit beside me. I nodded. His coat folded awkwardly against the boards. He stayed while I cried with my face in my hands, and did not tell me how long I had been there.

His Name — Later that week

I went to the Memorial Grove alone. The ground was damp enough to stain the hem of my dress. I found his place without asking anyone, then stood with a bunch of black roses held too tightly in one hand. A thorn had made a small hole in my glove.

I knelt and arranged the flowers. I had brought nothing to say. The sentences I had rehearsed on the way sounded unbearable now that I was there, so I let them go unfinished. I cleaned a little dirt from the lettering with my thumb and read his name.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Bjorn.

The Spare Controller

The Spare Controller — Eleven months after Bjorn’s death

I broke a crystal fitting on the morning it was due. The fracture ran through a corner I had been making thinner for no useful reason. I put the pieces down, closed my eyes, and tried to decide whether I was angry enough to throw the whole thing away.

The client had paid a deposit. I had paid the rent. I had also promised a fitting that would work. I moved the broken pieces aside and began another one. Halfway through, I stopped to eat, because pretending I could work through the hunger had become both expensive and tedious.

I drank the stored blood in the kitchen and stayed there alone until the familiar urgency eased. The unfinished fitting was where I had left it. Nobody needed an explanation for the delay of a few minutes. I returned to the bench and made the corner thicker.

By afternoon it was finished. I wrapped it for collection and wrote the remaining amount on the invoice. My handwriting was untidy, but legible. I had managed three commissions that month. One had been late. I was still avoiding the client whose disappointed message I had not known how to answer.

When Vladimir knocked, I checked the clock. He was early. He knocked again before I reached the door, so I opened it with an expression I hoped would discourage conversation. His eyes moved from my face to the parcel on the worktable.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You appear occupied.

Arkhane Ruinblood: An astute observation. Usually made before the second knock.

Vladimir von Zavallah: May I come in?

I stepped aside. He took his coat off and waited while I cleared a chair. He still suggested that I would be more comfortable with fewer responsibilities. He had stopped presenting that suggestion as an arrangement he had already made. The distinction required occasional repetition.

Vladimir von Zavallah: You could have someone collect these for you. I know a reliable service.

Arkhane Ruinblood: The clients already collect them. You have passed two on the stairs this month.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Then I shall direct my useful advice elsewhere.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Must someone receive it?

He complained about the chair. I told him he had chosen it on his last visit. He remained in it while I sealed the parcel, then asked whether I had heard from Bjorn’s collaborators. I handed him my phone with their latest message open.

They had finished the game they were making when Bjorn became too ill to work. His contributions remained credited, and they were keeping his earlier games available. I had seen the release at The Open Folio the previous week. I stayed twenty minutes before I had to leave.

Vladimir von Zavallah: Would you like company if you go again?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Perhaps. I would like you to ask when I have decided to go.

He nodded and returned my phone. Before leaving, he washed his empty cup and studied the rest of the sink with a disapproving expression. He asked where I kept the dishcloth. I pointed to the cloth he had draped over the tap on his previous visit and let him finish.

A Drawer I Could Open — Later that afternoon

I was looking for a small clasp when I found the daisies. The jewellery had slipped beneath a folded piece of cloth. I held it in my palm and remembered Dyrus asking me to move because I was standing in his working light, then laughing when I made a production of obeying.

I still did not know where Dyrus was, or what had happened to him. I held the jewellery for a while before setting it in its little box. I put the box where I could find it. The clasp was caught in the drawer lining beside it.

Bjorn’s blue shirt occupied the drawer below. I took it out to reach a handkerchief and held the collar against my face. It smelled mostly of the drawer now. I folded it badly, tried again, and left it on the bed instead.

A Practical Visit — Early evening

Eirhart arrived with a bent bracket wrapped in cloth. He had sent word first. I cleared space on the table, and he laid it down beside a drawing of his trellis. One of the supports needed replacing before the plants grew heavier in the next season.

Eirhart: The old fitting held. This piece moved. I want the replacement to attach here, with room to take it off again.

He tapped the drawing twice. I reached for a pencil and altered the curve. He looked at it, shook his head, and moved the paper back. My beautiful correction would put the fastener behind a stem he needed to reach.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You have become excessively particular.

Eirhart: You charge for this. I am being an excellent customer.

I laughed before I meant to. He waited while I rubbed out the line. We tried a less elegant shape that would actually fit. He asked what it would cost, and I told him. He wrote the amount beside the drawing and gave me the damaged piece to keep as a guide.

Eirhart: I can bring you to see it on Tuesday. Before noon. I am meeting friends afterwards.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Tuesday, then. I will require enough room to complain while I work.

Eirhart: There is an entire path.

I carried the drawing to the bench. When I turned back, he was looking at the two controllers beside the smaller screen. I had moved the equipment out from under its dust cover that morning while searching for space. One lead still lay across the floor.

Eirhart: Does Two Doors work on that?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. Bjorn kept an edition working. His friends checked it when they brought the rest of his things home.

Eirhart: He got me through a few rooms years ago. I kept asking him to explain what he was doing. Then I got distracted by something we were arguing about. We often did that.

I picked up one controller and rubbed a mark beside the buttons. The plastic had worn smooth where a thumb rested. Eirhart waited by the table with his hands on the back of a chair. I nearly put the controller away again. Instead, I turned to him.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Would you stay for a round? I remember the first rooms. I can probably explain them badly enough for you.

Eirhart: One round. You will have to show me the buttons.

He pulled a chair over from the worktable and sat down. I connected the loose lead, turned the screen on, and waited through the opening. There was the title, the small pair of figures, the same menu I had opened by mistake when Bjorn first showed it to me.

[Picture: Eirhart, thoughtful expression]

My eyes blurred before I had selected anything. I put the controller in my lap. Eirhart waited beside me, examining the buttons without pressing them. I wiped my face with the handkerchief and had to do it again because the first attempt made almost no difference.

Eirhart: I miss him. He would have been enjoying how long this is taking me.

Arkhane Ruinblood: He would already have told you which button to press. Then he would have denied helping.

I chose the first room. My figure appeared beside his. Eirhart moved directly into a wall, tried the same direction again, and looked down at his hands. I told him which thumb moved the figure. He asked why I had not begun with that information.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I warned you about the standard of instruction.

Eirhart: I am glad I agreed the price for the bracket first.

He reached the floor switch and stood on it. The gate opened. I moved towards it, then stopped because I was laughing and could not see properly. Eirhart glanced at me and took his figure off the switch. The gate shut directly in front of mine.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Wait. I have not got through the door yet.

Eirhart moved back onto the switch and kept his thumb still. I wiped my cheek with my sleeve, picked the controller up in both hands, and took my figure through.

An Evening of Our Own

An Evening of Our Own — Five years after Bjorn’s death

Eirhart wrote that he would come at six, without any drawings. I read the last part twice. Usually there was a damaged fitting, a question about a support, or a roll of plans tied so badly that I had to help him carry them.

This time he had been away for three months, working with a garden crew in another city. He had sent short messages and one photograph of a wall he disliked. I had returned the photograph with three improvements he had not requested.

His answer to those had been a photograph of his own face. He was frowning. I had kept both pictures.

I moved the tools from my table, then put back two that belonged there. His message said supper. It did not say he had begun an entirely new life in which he would never again arrive carrying work.

There were two cups by the kettle. I took down a third before remembering that Vladimir was coming the following day. I put it back, checked the clock, and changed the pins in my hair. At five minutes to six, I took the new pins out again.

My father had offered to send food from the Linden. When I refused, he wanted to know what I intended to make. I told him Eirhart was bringing supper. Vladimir had questions about that too. I ended the call before he found a helpful way to ask them.

Bjorn’s small screen still stood beside the shelves. I had used it the previous weekend with two of his old friends. One of them had remembered a dreadful joke I had forgotten, and I had laughed. Afterwards, washing the cups alone, I had cried into the dishcloth.

The cloth was dry now, folded over the tap. I left it there and went to answer the knock.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You are on time. I was counting on at least another five minutes.

Eirhart: I can stand outside.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Come in before I take you seriously.

He had cut his hair a little shorter at the ends. A narrow braid kept it back from his left eye. There was a pale patch on his coat where someone had repaired the lining, and the strap of his bag had made a crease across it.

I reached for the bag. He held it away from me and took out a covered dish first. He set that on the table before allowing me the rest. A parcel of bread followed, still warm enough to heat my fingers through the paper.

Eirhart: The kitchen let me use the oven. I have to take the dish back tomorrow.

Arkhane Ruinblood: So you have come with a task after all.

Eirhart: You may eat without repairing anything.

He took off his coat. I held it while he freed one wrist from the lining. Years ago I would have reached inside and done that for him before he knew what I was doing. Now I watched him discover the loose thread, swear, and show it to me.

Eirhart: I mended this badly.

Arkhane Ruinblood: It is a bold arrangement of thread. Put it there. We can both pretend not to see it until after supper.

He hung the coat on the back of a chair. He had seen the clear table; his glance moved from the dishes to my hands. I had caught one finger in the cord from his bag and was winding it tighter instead of putting it down.

Eirhart: I did mean no work tonight.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I believed you. Eventually.

We sat. The dish held mushrooms, potatoes and onions, browned around the edges. He had brought too much. I told him so while taking a second helping, and he asked whether that was a complaint he needed to act upon.

I asked about the garden. He described a dispute over a path, then stopped himself and asked about the exhibition I had missed in his absence. I had sent him a message about a broken piece; he wanted to know what happened afterwards.

I told him I had rebuilt it, delivered it late, and stood beside it for two hours while people admired the one I liked less. He laughed when I admitted I had tried to redirect a visitor towards the correct piece.

Eirhart: Perhaps she liked that one.

Arkhane Ruinblood: She was entitled to be wrong in private.

He put down his fork to laugh properly. I had missed that sound. I had missed his habit of considering an answer before he gave it, and the way he moved his cup when I talked with my hands.

For most of supper I managed to ask questions without inventing the answers while he spoke. When he mentioned a woman on the garden crew, I asked whether they would work together again. I wanted to ask several other things. He answered the question I had actually spoken.

Eirhart: Probably. We argued about every bed we planted. The result was good.

Arkhane Ruinblood: You make that sound almost attractive.

Eirhart: The planting?

I looked at him. He took another mouthful before answering my expression. I could see that he was enjoying the delay. I reached for my cup so he would not see how pleased I was.

Eirhart: I came here tonight because I wanted to have supper with you.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I am trying very hard to let that be what you said.

He set his fork down. I expected him to explain that I had misunderstood. Instead he asked me whether I wanted him to be more specific. I said yes so quickly that we both laughed, although mine came out unevenly.

Eirhart: I missed you while I was away. I kept thinking of things I wanted to tell you. Then I began wondering what it would be like to come back to an evening like this.

My hand was still around the cup. I made myself put it down before I broke the handle. He watched the movement, then looked back at my face. He had not asked me for anything. I wanted to give him so many answers that I could not choose one.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have imagined rather a lot of evenings with you.

Eirhart: Then let me invite you somewhere next time. I would like that.

I nodded. He asked whether there was more tea. It was such an ordinary request that I nearly laughed again. I got up to make it and stood by the kettle until my hands had steadied.

When I returned, he was looking at a small box on the shelf beside my workbench. I had left it open while changing my hairpins. One of the unfinished pieces inside was a black poppy, smaller than the end of my thumb.

Eirhart: May I look at this?

Arkhane Ruinblood: Yes. The pin is loose. Hold it by the stem.

He lifted it out carefully. I had made the flower years before and remade the fastening twice. I told him I had once thought of giving it to him, then never found an occasion on which I trusted myself to offer it without attaching a long speech.

Eirhart: Would there be a speech now?

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have prepared several. You may choose silence.

He turned the poppy towards the lamp. A small defect showed where two petals met. He touched the stem below it, avoiding the delicate edge. When he gave it back, he asked whether I could fix the pin while he washed the dishes.

[Picture: Eirhart, thoughtful expression]

The work took less time than I had expected. He dried the cups and argued about where I kept the plates. I put the last tool down and tested the fastening against a folded cloth. It held.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Would you like to wear it?

Eirhart: For a while. Show me how to take it out.

He sat in the chair beneath the lamp. I stood beside him and showed him the catch. Then I lifted a narrow section of his hair, waited until he tilted his head to help me, and fastened the poppy above the braid.

His hair slid over the backs of my fingers when I withdrew them. I had touched him often over the years, for practical reasons and, sometimes, because he had wanted comfort. I knew how to do that. Now I could not decide where to put my hands.

He stood and turned towards me. I moved back to give him room; he followed only far enough to keep us facing each other. His right eye caught the lamplight, violet above the line of his cheek.

Eirhart: Arkhane. I am nervous.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I had hoped that was only me.

He offered his hand. I took it, carefully at first, until his fingers closed around mine. I could feel a rough place on his thumb where the skin had healed. His grip was steady. Mine was much less convincing.

Arkhane Ruinblood: May I kiss you?

Eirhart: Yes.

I moved slowly enough that he had time to meet me. The kiss was brief. His other hand touched my sleeve, then rested against my arm. When I drew back, he stayed close, looking at my mouth before he looked up.

For a moment I wanted to ask what every small movement meant. I wanted to know what he would want next week, next year, whether I should be frightened already. He rubbed his thumb over mine and asked me to sit with him.

We took our tea to the window. His chair caught the edge of the rug; I lifted it while he moved the leg. Then there was nothing practical left to do, and we sat rather stiffly beside one another.

Arkhane Ruinblood: I have loved you for a very long time. I know that makes this more complicated.

Eirhart: You can tell me what you want now.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Another evening. And another kiss, if you want one. I am attempting to stop the list there.

He smiled down at our hands. I had taken his again without remembering when. He said he would like to walk with me on Thursday, before the gardens closed. He knew a place we could eat afterwards. He wanted to show it to me.

Arkhane Ruinblood: Thursday. What time?

Eirhart: Six. I will send the address.

On the shelf beyond him, Bjorn’s framed photograph leaned against a book. I had taken it during our last long trip. The wind had ruined his hair; he had laughed when I tried to flatten it for the picture. I looked at it for a moment, then back at Eirhart.

I did not know how Thursday would go. I knew which dress I was already considering and disliked how much it mattered. Eirhart reached up to feel the poppy, found the catch, and checked that he could open it himself.

Eirhart: Will it survive the walk home?

Arkhane Ruinblood: It will survive considerably worse. Your coat lining, for example.

He laughed. We sat until the tea had cooled, talking about the streets near his rooms and which route I preferred. When he left, he took the pin with him. He left the covered dish for collection the next morning.

I closed the door, put the kettle on, and began clearing the last plates. His message arrived before I had finished. There was the address for Thursday, followed by a question about whether six gave me enough time after work.

I wrote yes. Then I added that I intended to arrive hungry and he should choose somewhere with a decent table. His reply asked how many plates I expected to steal from. I was still writing my answer when the kettle clicked off.