This chapter contains sex. Just a fair warning.
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“Hey Familiar,” the witch batted her eyes at him as he pulled his cart up to an empty stall.
“Hi Amber,” Tate hefted a block of wood off the cart, trying to make it look easy. He was dripping with perspiration and he hoped it didn't show.
A customer held up a bundle of rosemary. “Seven blessings for that one,” Amber said smartly. Tate shook his head. Amber Kant took advantage of anyone she didn't know. When he first met her, she was trying to sell flowers. Even though her blossoms were beautiful, no one wanted to buy flowers from a woman with a greenish pallor and warts. She had cannily switched to herbs after a customer asked her for a charm.
Seeing that he was watching her, she pulled the elastic out of her red hair and shook it. “Want to drop by my hut tonight, Hon’?”
“I can't,” he set one piece of wood on top of the other, “I have an unwelcome visitor. I could have you for lunch though.” He split the wood, then stuck the axe in place.
“I might already have a lunch date,” Amber’s blue eyes sparkled.
Tate walked into her booth, standing next to her, “That would be a shame.”
“Quit your flirting. Nobody wants to see that,” said a deep voice. It was Lamar Helmer, the woodworker. Like Bianca, his curse hadn't touched his physical appearance. Much worse, as far as Tate was concerned, the skin of Lamar's head was too hot to be touched.
“I fancy one of those big pieces of wood,” Lamar pointed at the largest piece, “What will you have for it?”
“I need a chair.”
“Well, I would normally charge two pieces of wood for that, but for you, only one,” Lamar cracked a grin.
“Take two,” Tate nodded, “and make it a chair that rocks.”
Lamar’s smile widened, “Help carry one back to my cart and you got yourself a deal.”
Tate and Lamar hauled the pieces of wood over to the woodworker’s booth. After depositing the wood in the cart, Lamar offered Tate a pine rocking chair. It was simple in construction, but crafted so well that it had a stately elegance to it. It was perfect for Bianca. He carried it back to his wagon, then dropped by another stall to pick up doughnuts.
Returning to his space, he handed a doughnut to Amber. She ate it silently, occasionally glancing in his direction. Tate gazed back at her coyly. He should be focusing on cutting and selling his wood, not to mention purchasing enough staples for two people. He glanced at Amber again. Should be, but he was distracted by the smudge of powdered sugar on her chin. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he was standing in front of her, rubbing it off with his thumb. She kissed him gently, and he could feel his body react to her touch.
With a surge of energy, he cut the tree round down into smaller pieces suitable for a fire. More people trickled into the marketplace, and he sold out of wood quickly. Not wanting to linger unnecessarily, he purchased a large bag of rice and smaller bag of dried beans.
Amber was waiting for him when he returned. “A friend is going to watch my booth for a while,” she offered.
He nodded and followed her meekly back to her shack. She called it a hut, but it was similar to all the houses in Egregia; a small wooden affair with a hearth in the center. Amber at least had a real bed, and she was pulling the covers off it now, neatly folding them at the bottom. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, kissing and sniffing her neck. She turned her head towards him, her mouth eager with kisses.
He took his time touching her, running his hands over the curves of her body, inhaling the scent that rose off her skin as she grew excited. She ran her fingers through his fur, petting him, then removing his pants. He pulled her shirt over her head, and she shucked the rest of her clothing, rubbing against him like a cat. Picking her up, he staggered to the bedside. They landed on top of it in a tangle of limbs, laughing. Playfully, he rolled her onto her stomach and rubbed against her. She moaned and lifted her hips to meet his. He pressed himself into her, the heat of their bodies intensifying with their union. He rocked his body against hers until their bodies seemed to meld. Laying together, they kissed and caressed each other until the tie released.
Leaving Amber’s house, he felt a mixture of shame and satisfaction. Instead of working, he had spent the day indulging every pleasure. Everything he was, everything he craved, was something Bianca would look down her nose at. He stopped in the market to buy milk and eggs, then reluctantly pulled his cart back towards home.
The sun was just a sliver above the horizon by the time he reached his door. He undid the latch and hoisted the bag of rice onto his shoulders. He was greeted with the sight of Bianca sitting in his chair, writing in a loose-leaf notebook. She barely glanced up as he walked in, absorbed in thought.
“I got us some rice,” he dropped the bag next to the bed, then went outside. Retrieving the rest of the food items, he tried again, “Beans and milk and eggs.”
“Oh yeah?” Bianca continued writing.
He went through the door again, maneuvering the rocking chair through the doorway. He placed it next to the other chair. When she still didn't look up, he sat in it. “Bee,” he rocked the chair, “What are you writing?”
She looked at him, her eyes a wild constellation of emotions, “What did you say?”
“I asked what you were writing.”
“No, before that.”
“Beans and milk and eggs,” he pointed.
“After that,” she closed her notebook, “I thought you said ‘Bee.’”
He opened and closed his jaw with a click. Had he really called her by her childhood nickname? He was getting way too relaxed.
“Sorry, I must be hearing things,” she closed her eyes, “I’m writing down some ideas I have about the rights of the cursed. If people in Citadel knew what exile was really like, they wouldn't be so eager to cast people out.”
He snorted at her, “They’d probably do it more. You give people too much credit.”
“And you give them too little,” she rubbed the ink stain on the side of her hand. “Do you know anyone who has a printing press?”
“Let me see it,” he pointed at her book.
She opened her notebook, her eyes moving as she read her own writing. “It needs a bit of editing,” she bit her lip, then passed him the notebook.
No one can imagine the pain of exile until they’ve gone through it. Torn not just from friends and family, but from the culture, lifestyle, and infrastructure that makes us feel human. Not even given the dignity of an animal released into the wild, I was dumped by a drone in the middle of an Egregian road. Unconscious from the fall, there I lay until Fortune picked me up and threw me in the back of a rough wooden cart, high technology in these parts.
“Fortune, Bee?” he scrunched up his face skeptically.
“Would Fate be a better word? Or Luck?”
“Luck is a gentleman and Death is a lady,” Tate recited the old parable without thinking.
“You sound like your mother,” Bianca’s hand hovered over his for a second, before she tucked it in her lap.
“I’ll ask around next time I’m at the market, see if anyone has a printing press,” he handed the notebook back to her and stood. “I, uh, I’d like to read more of that later,” he gazed into the fire, “but right now I’m really hungry.”
“Oh,” Bianca rose next to him, “I suppose cooking is part of this job?” She walked over to the hearth and peered in the pot, “We’ll need to dump some of this water if we’re to cook rice.”
He couldn’t hide the horrified expression on his face.
“Not like dump it, dump it, I’m not that stupid,” Bianca scanned the cabin. “Do you not even have a bucket?”
“Hold on,” he went out the front door and up the path about ten feet. A small trail snaked into the woods, and he followed it to the brackish creek. It almost didn’t even deserve the title of creek, so small was the trickle that flowed through the eroded river bed. If the bed was any indication, at one time it must have been a grand roaring river, strong enough to pull a horse off its feet. Next to it, on the bank sat an aluminum pail. He picked it up and headed back down the path. The woods were dark around him, and he could hear the rustles of a racoon family playing in a fir tree.
Bianca was staring dolefully in the bag of rice.
“Lose something in there?” he asked, setting the pail down with a clang.
“Just my sanity,” she picked up the bucket and carried it over to the hearth. She ladled water into the bucket, her eyes suddenly lighting up orange, “I can use the ladle!”
He shook his head and picked up his fiddle. It always took newcomers awhile to adjust. Having lived in Egregia for ten years made it hard to show patience in the face of such callowness. He sat in his chair, toying with the frog on his bow while Bianca muttered to herself.
There was an old song he had taught himself, a happy, tripping little tune called “What If?” He played it while Bianca struggled to ladle out water and ladle in the dried beans. When she finished, she sat down in the floor, the front of her shirt wet from dripping water on herself, a faraway look in her eyes.
He closed his eyes and sang as he played:
“If the moon never rose,
If the sun never shined,
I would always be yours,
And you would be mine.
Darkest sky,
Sea of glass,
I always knew,
Love wouldn't last.
If the waves didn't roll,
If the tide didn't turn,
I would always be yours,
N’er again would I yearn.
Darkest sky,
Sea of glass,
What if I said,
Our love could last?”
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