Bastien’s rummaging draws my attention as I step farther into the room. I skirt around the hole that drips water and head toward a single-step platform near the front of the church. Tall, tarnished golden pipes line one wall. I peer up at them, confused.
“They were for an organ,” Bastien says, stepping around me to check out a back room.
Beside the pipes is a square, hollowed-out space. I lift up onto my tiptoes to look over the edge. “Bathtub?”
I can hear his laughter through the holes in the wall. “It’s a baptismal. For people who want to be saved.”
“Saved from what?”
He reemerges with an armful of hideous purple clothes. He dumps them onto the floor and dusts his hands off on his shirt, leaving trails of fingerprints upon his chest. “It’s really too complicated to explain.”
I look back toward the baptismal, wondering if any of the villagers sat in the missing pews, praying to their God for salvation when the Caldonians arrived. A lot of good that did them.
“Did you ever do this? Come into a church?” I ask as I move back toward him.
He lifts the purple material and I realize they are something resembling a cloak. There are two armholes, but the material is so huge it would swallow you whole.
“There used to be one down from where I lived. Mom knew I was fascinated with some of the carvings and windows, so on my birthday, she would sneak me out so I could sit in the pews and watch the moon rise, casting a rainbow of colors on the floor. It was almost magical.”
He holds out one of the cloaks to me. “Put on this choir robe. We gotta get these wet clothes off or we’ll get sick.”
I hesitate, not because of the overwhelming smell of age and disuse that clings to the fabric, but because I’m gripped by a memory: waking half naked in his arms after he pulled me from a lake. He saved my life that night, giving me his sweater to keep warm. I had thought he abandoned me in the city. I was wrong.
“I won’t look,” he says, and I realize he’s staring at me with an odd expression.
I don’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I turn my back on him and wait to hear him do the same.
My clothes don’t want to go without a fight, clinging to my damp skin as if it were surgically attached. I wiggle and thrust out my hips, hopping on one foot and nearly tumbling right over until finally I am free. I toss the uniform to the side. It lands with a thick splat.
Holding my breath, I slide the purple robe over my head. It bunches at the floor, covering me from neck to foot. I can’t even find my arms. Bastien turns and peeks over his shoulder, his grim expression shifting into one of mirth, shaking his head. “It suits you, I think.”
“Very funny,” I growl, doubling over to wring melting snow and ice from my hair. I realize I’ve just expelled enough moisture to form a small puddle at me feet and yank back on the fabric to keep from soaking the musty fabric.
I watch Bastien as he flattens out several more layers of cloth. “What are you doing?”
“Making a bed.”
I glance toward the windows. Although they are covered by years of grime, I can still see light outside. “It’s not dark yet. Shouldn’t we wait to see if the storm passes?”
Bastien looks up to find me nibbling on my lower lip. “You really don’t want to sleep near me, do you?” He sighs and points to a far corner. “I’ll stay over there if that makes you more comfortable.”
I’m about to respond with a cutting remark, but then I remember the snow last night and how Bastien remained outside to give me the space he knew I needed.
“No.” I shake my head, wishing I hadn’t lost my hair string in our mad dash for shelter so I could get my hair back out of my face. It hangs in thick, heavy locks over my shoulders, dampening the top layer of the robe. “It’s fine. I just… It’s weird, ya know. After what Sariana said.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” He shakes his head as I sink down beside him. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever.”
I wake sometime in the middle of the night to silence. The pounding of the sleet has fallen away and the stillness that remains feels eerie.
Bastien breathes steadily behind me; his shoulder and leg presses against my back. I had forgotten that he likes to sleep on his back with a knife in hand. Just like me. I look down at the glint of steel in my hand. Old habits die hard.
“It stopped a little while ago.” His voice rises from the dark.
I stiffen. “Did I wake you?”
I peer into the dark, wondering why he doesn’t speak. Is he as aware of how close we are as I am? The last time we lay like this was— I cut off that thought before it takes me into dangerous areas.