The Sweet Far Thing

Page 68

“How can you be sure?”
“He has on his best hedgehog suit.”
“Ah, I should have noticed,” I say, happy to play this game—any game—with him. I put my hand on a tree’s trunk and swing myself around it slowly, letting my body feel gravity’s pull. “And why has he worn his best?”
“He’s been away in London, you see, and now he has returned to her,” Kartik continues.
“And what if she is angry with him for being away so long?”
Kartik circles just behind me. “She will forgive him.”
“Will she?” I say pointedly.
“It is his hope that she will, for he didn’t mean to upset her,” Kartik answers, and I am no longer sure we speak of the hedgehog.
“And is he happy to see her again?”
“Yes,” Kartik says. “He should like to stay longer, but he cannot.”
The bark chafes against my hand. “Why is that?”
“He has his reasons, and he hopes his lady will understand them one day.” Kartik has changed direction. He comes around the other side of the tree. We are face to face. A palm of moonglow reaches through the branches to caress his face.
“Oh,” I say, heart beating fast.
“And what would the lady hedgehog say to that?” he asks. His voice is soft and low.
“She would say…” I swallow hard.
Kartik steps closer. “Yes?”
“She would say,” I whisper, “‘If you please, I am not a hedgehog. I am a woodchuck.’”
A small sad smile plays at Kartik’s lips.
“He is fortunate to have found so witty a lady friend,” he says, and I wish I could have the moment back again to play differently.
We offer more of the apple to Freya, who gobbles it greedily. Kartik strokes her mane and she softens under his touch, nuzzling him with her nose. Around us the night creatures have their say. We are surrounded by a symphony of crickets and frogs. Neither of us feels the need to speak, and I suppose that is one of the qualities I find comforting in Kartik. We can be alone together.
“Well, that’s done,” he says, wiping his hands on his trousers. “No more for you, Freya.”
Yawning, Kartik stretches his arms overhead. His shirt comes untucked. It rises with his arms and a faint trail of dark hair is visible on the muscled plain of his stomach.
“Y-you seem tired,” I stammer, grateful that he cannot see my red cheeks in the dark. “You should go to bed.”
“No!” he says. “I thought I might walk by the lake, if you care to join me.”
“Of course,” I say, happy to be asked.
The lake laps lazily at the bank in a peaceful rhythm. An owl hoots in the distance. A light breeze blows my hair against my cheeks, tickling them. Kartik sits with his back against a tree. I settle near him.
“What did you mean when you said our fates were no longer intertwined?” I ask.
“I thought my fate was to be Rakshana. But I was wrong. Now I don’t know what my destiny is. I don’t even know if I believe in destiny.”
As much as I’ve been infuriated by Kartik’s arrogance, his sureness, I find I miss it now. It is hard to see him so lost.
We fall into silence again. His eyes flutter with sleep, but he fights it. “There’s only one thing I must know and then I’ll not ask again. Have you seen Amar?”
“No. I promise.”
He seems relieved. “That is good. Good.” His eyes close, and within seconds, he’s asleep. I sit beside him, listening to his breathing, stealing secret glances at his beauty: long, dark eyelashes resting on high cheekbones; strong nose leading to full, slightly parted lips. They say a lady should not feel such desires, but how could a lady not? I should have to sleepwalk through my life not to feel the pull of those lips.
I reach out a tentative hand to touch them. Kartik startles awake violently, gasping for breath and frightened. I yelp, and he grabs hold of me and won’t let go.
“Kartik!” I call, but he’s fighting me. “Kartik, stop!”
He comes back to himself, releasing me. “I’m sorry. I have these dreams,” he says, breathing heavily. “Such awful dreams.”
“What sorts of dreams?” I still feel the imprint of his hands on my arms.
He rakes shaking fingers through his hair. “I see Amar on a white horse, but he’s not as I remember him. He’s like some horrible cursed creature. I try to run after him, but he’s always just ahead. The mist thickens, and I lose him. When the mist parts, I’m in a cold, bleak land—a terrible, beautiful place. An army of lost souls comes out of the mist. They’re looking to me, and I’m so very powerful. More powerful than I could have imagined.”