I gape in horror and he laughs. “Actually that’s the awful one.”
“Yeah…I also prefer the former.”
“Looks perfect for climbing,” I say, gesturing to the tangled limbs.
“You would think that.”
“Look at it!”
He grins. “I can’t say I haven’t done it. When I was a kid.”
I try to envision a smaller, younger version of Sitri foraging through the limbs. “I bet you were a handful.”
“Actually, I’ve been told I was rather good for a child.” My brows shoot up in disbelief. “Horrible teenager though,” he admits.
“I think I got quite a bit worse as a teenager too.” My grin shifts into a grimace. “Maybe even worse as an adult.”
“I think I get worse each year.”
I lift a hand toward one of the draping clusters. “Can I?”
He nods and I trail my fingers over the velvety petals. Sitri walks over to lean against the trunk as he watches me explore our surroundings.
I walk around trailing my hands over the blooms and putting them all at a sway. This conversation feels light,easyand I want to keep it there. I wrack my brain for a topic that will accomplish that. “There’s something I’ve been wondering. What is magic anyways?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…I don’t know…what exactly…is it?”
His brows crumple. “It’s…” he trails off. “Well, I mean, what are you? What am I?It is us. Our…essence.”
I squint and he chuckles. “I don’t know. I’ve never really tried to explain it to anyone before. It’s kind of like trying to explain what a soul is. We all just kind of know. It’s…the part of you that can separate from you and interact with the material plane. Like…an extra sense.”
“The da—I mean, my magic—“ I correct quickly. “It doesn’t feel like me. It doesn’t feel like it's mine.”
“Hmm.” His expression contorts into that look I’ve grown to detest, puzzling, searching for clues as to what I am—like if he stares hard enough he’ll piece it together. I cast him a glare that doesn’t catch his notice. He doesn’t see me at all. This is the conversation I was meaning to avoid.
I almost turn away in frustration yet I pivot instead. I’ll turn his methods back on him. See how he feels under the scrutiny.
Light gleams in the green of his eyes, a sharp contrast to the violet all around him. His hair’s grown out slightly, curls draping a little further across his forehead than usual. He’s gotten some sun from whatever it is he does during the day, cheeks blooming with color, some new freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones.
Clothed in full black, I study his form. The shape of his shoulders, the place his pants hug his waist. Always emanating strength, sturdiness, and often times a posture that screamsstay the fuck away from me.But right now it's open, receptive, shoulders relaxed and hands loose at his sides.
When our eyes meet again, he looks back at me. Except this timehe sees me. Not the thing inside of me butme. He doesn’t look the least bit bothered by the scrutiny nor upset with me for all that’s happened. Quite the opposite, almost as if…his tongue flicks out across his bottom lip, leaving it glossy. His eyes trace up and down my form in a way that reminds me far too much of the way he’d looked at me at the Rite. My cheeks heat, and I quickly turn back to the view I’m supposed to be admiring as he shifts closer. “Thank you for showing this to me,” I murmur.
“I should’ve already shown it to you.”
“Maybe. But maybe I needed to see it now.” I trace my hand over the bark as he settles back down across one of the low-hanging tree limbs. He surveys the land around us and casually forms a series of shapes with his hand.
I watch him weave the patterns with a fluid, well practiced grace. “What are you doing?”
“Just making sure no one’s around.”
“Don’t you need to teach me the symbols or something?” I ask, holding up my hand in a gesture I’ve become all too familiar with.
He looks amused. “What does that one mean?”
I narrow a glare. “That’s the one that locks me.”
