I don’t remember much about the wounding, other than I was very young, and it was a dagger. When I cried out, mother held my chin in her hand, squeezing hard, and told me I would end up dead if I didn’t learn to hush.
She was afraid.
Even though her own death was a sure thing, unalterable, she was afraid.
I am really not happy that I can’t put my sword into my carry on.
. . . other than being very young. When mother finally peeled the bandage off, she turned my wrist this way and that, clucking her tongue.
“Now that’s a proper scar,” she’d said, as if the twisted, red knot of flesh were a prize. A badge of honor—even though I was too slow to avoid being wounded.
As if I could find some pride in being weak.
“Silent as the grave” doesn’t seem to apply to Brin. You’d think a ghost as old as him would be tired of his own voice by now.
“He had a secret?”
“He did.” Her eyes showed her sorrow. “And it is a very hard thing to know.”
. . . and something inside me starts to thaw. Something I’ve kept carefully hidden in the ice. This is madness.
“Christmas was a month ago,” I remind him. “Why keep a moldy piece of mistletoe?”
He gives me a shrug and a grin as he closes his locker. “Maybe I’m waiting for just the right girl.”
His hand comes across to grasp mine.
My head turns at the sound of my name on his lips.
Topic: Open Door