The Crown of Embers(105)

I look away, feeling vaguely hurt. But I won’t ask if I’ve done something to anger him in front of the others. The four of us hike through the jungle in silence.

The night bloomers have unfurled by the time we return to camp. Our tents float in a garden of stars, reflecting palest blue in their soft light. A breeze rustles the palm fronds above us.

After a quick meal of whitefish baked on sticks over the fire pit, I unravel the hasty braid Mara did for me after our swim. I’m beginning to loose the laces of my blouse when the import of what I’ll do tomorrow hits me. My fingers pause on the ties.

I know so little about the zafira. I have no idea what will happen or what I’ll find. I don’t even know if I’ll make it back. What if I never see him again?

I crawl from my tent and go in search of Hector.

I find him on the beach, just outside the line of palm trees. He sits on a hollowed-out log, one knee bent, the other long leg stretched out in the sand. He grips a tall stick, which he whittles with his dagger. It takes me a moment to realize he’s making a spear.

He looks up as I approach, his face unreadable.

“Do you mind company?” I ask.

With a lift of his chin, he indicates the space on the log next to him. I settle beside him, careful to avoid the end of his stick, and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. The sea glows with the light of a half moon. I lift my face to the breeze and listen to the gentle lap and suck of the surf and the whisk-whisk sound of Hector’s knife against the wood.

“What are you doing here, Elisa?” he asks in a weary voice.

I flinch away. “I . . . I didn’t mean to intrude. If you’d rather be al—”

“Did you come to torment me?”

“What?” Well, yes, maybe a little. “I know you’re angry at me, but I’m not sure why.”

He’s gripping his dagger too tightly, and his next stroke lops off the tip of his spear. He sighs. Dagger still in hand, he wipes his brow with his wrist. He says, “I’m not angry at you. Mostly at myself.”

“Oh?”

He opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. Instead he whittles at his ruined stick, and I recognize the expression as the one he wears when chewing on a particularly tough problem.

Finally he says, “Honesty in all things, right?”

“Yes, please.” But I’m coiling in on myself, trying to make my heart a stone, because I have no idea what he’s going to say.

He stares out across the moon-glass bay. “It was difficult for me today,” he says, “to stand guard for you. To hear you laughing and splashing with Mara, knowing you were . . . bathing. Very . . .”

“Oh,” I breathe. “I see.”

“The most important thing I do is protect you. I would die to keep you safe.” He’s gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles are turning white. “But you make it very difficult. Sometimes you can’t help it, of course. But sometimes you can.”

“I don’t understand.” I don’t know why, but my chest tightens with shame. “I’ve been taking your advice. I’m taking fewer risks. . . .”

He lets the dagger and spear drop into the sand and twists to straddle the log. His eyes are very close when he says, “I can’t defend against you.”

My heart is a drum in my chest.

His forefinger reaches toward me, to my cheek, gently sweeps a strand of hair behind my ear. From there his finger trails along my jawline, up to my mouth.

My lips part. My whole body buzzes.

“I told you I wouldn’t let it interfere with my work. But every time you smile at me, and especially when you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now, everything disappears.” His thumb sweeps across my bottom lip, down my chin. His voice is low and dark as he says, “When it happens, I’m not guarding you anymore. Your enemy could come up behind me, and I would never know, because all I’m thinking about is how badly I want you.”

My heart sings. I stare at his mouth. It’s beautiful, with full pale lips set off by his sun-darkened skin. I would only have to lean the tiniest bit to close the distance between us.

He starts to back away.

In desperation, I blurt, “Mara says I should take you as my lover.”

His indrawn breath is as sharp and hard as if I’ve wounded him. My face fills with heat, and I can’t bear to look at his face. I’m embarrassed at my own weakness, unable to say such an important thing straight out. I want you as my lover, I should have said. But I can’t bring the words to my lips, because if he says no, he’ll be saying no to me, instead of merely to Mara’s idea.

But he’ll have none of that. “Elisa. Are you asking?”