A House Divided by Nicole Ciacchella (the giving tree read aloud txt) 📕

on her, as if she'd slipped into a warm bath. It soothed her, calmed her in ways her mother and father had never been able to do.

"No, I can't," she insisted, mollified but not entirely ready to be agreeable.

He smiled, knowing how irascible she could be at times like these. "You didn't think you could complete the sequence from the first two forms either," he reminded her.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she resisted the urge to thrust her bottom lip out. She was twelve years old, not a baby anymore, not in any sense of the word. She'd never be anyone's baby again, and the thought carved an aching hollow in her chest.

"It's so hard to remember the forms," she said, a whine creeping into her voice.

"I might have something that could help you with that," he said. Pulling himself up in a fluid movement, he disappeared into his lodgings, and Cianne took advantage of the moment of privacy to mop her face with her sleeve.

She'd been visiting Kila for a mere three weeks, yet his place already seemed like more of a home to her than her own. He treated her like the kind older brother she would have loved to have. She could sense the protectiveness he felt for her, and it drew her to him like a moth to a flame. Lach was her friend, her staunch defender, but now that her mother was gone Cianne had been left without an adult to protect and shelter her. Until Kila had come into her life, that was.

He returned, this time seating himself on the grass next to her. It was a quiet night. Though Kila's home wasn't near the wharves, the night was so still they could hear the faint shushing of the far-off waves. A few insects chirped dully, as if grudgingly admitting they were obliged to fill the night with sound. Cianne couldn't blame them. The summer, so newly arrived, was blazingly hot, and even at night she felt more like a melting candle than a person. This night was no exception, but it hadn't stopped her from coming to see Kila, nor had it stopped him from suggesting they continue with their lessons on the deshya.

"Discipline above all else," he had intoned, but the twinkle in his eye had let her know he didn't expect her to take him too seriously.

"Before I give you this, you must promise me something," he said, holding an object between his hands. They were so large that they enclosed the object, and even though Cianne crooked her neck and tried to peer sideways between them, she had no idea what he was holding.

"What kind of promise?" she asked, her heart picking up speed. What if he suspected she had lied to him and asked her to tell him her real name or where she was really from? She couldn't risk that. It would mean she would have to stop coming to see him, that she would have to find some way of contenting herself with creeping about the city rooftops rather than being in his company. It was only when she was with him that healing seemed possible, and she was terrified of being left alone once more to deal with the suppurating wound her mother's death had left behind.

"To take very good care of it for me. It's precious to me," he said, his voice serious.

Sweet relief flooded her, leaving her feeling woozy. That was an easy promise to make. Anything he could ever give her would be almost sacred, and she would guard it with her life. "I promise."

Opening his hands, he showed her the tiny book he cradled.

"What is it?" she asked, her fingers itching to reach out and touch it. Instead, she twisted her hands together and pushed them into her lap, her arms rigid.

"A book," he teased, his eyes twinkling again.

Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. "How amazing. It's not as though I've never read a book before," she said in the bored tone the other children in the enclave used when someone said something spectacularly stupid or ridiculously obvious.

His eyes widened a bit with interest and she realized too late what she had done. Biting her lip, she said nothing more, even though he sat there expectantly. Street urchins would know what books were, of course, but plenty of them couldn't read. Admitting she could didn't eliminate the possibility that she was who she claimed she was, but it was more information than she had wanted to give him about her real identity. Doubtless many members of her House would have been appalled and offended that she would accept someone thinking of her as common gutterspawn, but the truth was that she didn't mind. Better he think her street trash than know she was a House member. Better he think her anything but that.

Resigning himself that she would tell him nothing more, he said, "My father made this book for me when I was a boy. I had trouble remembering the forms too, so he drew this for me so that I wouldn't forget." He held the book out to her and she took it with trembling fingers.

With great care she opened the cover. She held the book close to her face, almost touching her nose, straining to make out the picture in the garden's low light.

Kila laughed. "You'll give yourself a headache like that. Why don't we sit near the house? I'll make tea while you study form three, then once we're done with tea you can try it again."

Nodding, she stood up and followed him to the table and chairs he kept outside his garden door. He went inside to make tea, leaving her alone with the book, and she gingerly turned its pages. She wanted to stop and examine each one, but he had told her to look at form three, and she was eager to prove herself responsible enough to be entrusted with the book, so she did as he'd instructed.

Transfixed, she stared at the image of form three. She combed it from top to bottom, taking in as many details as she could. The picture was startlingly lifelike, a perfect image of a boy, legs shoulder width apart, both knees bent, arms in front of him, slightly bent at the elbows, right arm extended in front of him at shoulder height, the other higher, near his face. Both of the boys' hands were straight, palms out, his left hand concealing his left eye and part of his face. He was poised on the edge of movement, ready to begin his slide into position four.

"It's you, isn't it?" she asked Kila when he returned, bearing a tea tray that included the biscuits she liked. He hadn't served them the first two times they'd had tea, but she'd eaten four when he produced them the third, and he'd included them on the tray ever since. Some people found Enforcers uncanny, but Cianne liked that he noticed even minute details, despite that it made lying to him far more complex.

"It is," he said, blowing on his tea.

Reluctantly, Cianne set the book aside, careful to put it far from the tea, and picked up her own cup. She closed her eyes and inhaled. At home her father favored an orange-scented black tea. Cianne liked it too, but she liked Kila's tea even more. Pale green in color, it looked like spring in her cup, but it smelled of autumn, rich and warm. She took a tentative sip, scalding her tongue.

"Hot," she said, putting it down.

"What do you notice about form three?" he asked, dunking a biscuit in his tea.

Cianne took one as well, biting into it thoughtfully. She knew he wasn't asking for her impression of the picture, but about the specifics of the form, so she described it as best she could, her words inadequate to quantify the combination of grace and strength that leapt out at her from the image.

"Very good," he said, with an approving nod.

"You said your father drew it?"

"Yes."

"Was he…" she began, hesitating. Would he think the question impertinent? "Was he an Adept too?"

"No," Kila said, flashing her a smile. "My mother was an Adept, but my father wasn't. His talent took years to develop, and he practiced drawing every chance he got."

"He was very talented," Cianne said sincerely. The idea that someone without Adept abilities could accomplish something so wonderful prompted a warm glow of hope within her.

She thought about the boy's face. Determination was etched in every line of it, yet she also got the impression he was a nice boy, just as he was now a nice man. Six years was a lot, half her lifetime. She wondered if she would seem as worldly as he did when she was eighteen.

"What about your parents?" he asked. He took a casual sip of tea as he gazed off into the night, but Cianne wasn't fooled. She'd already slipped once. She wasn't about to do it a second time.

"I'd like to try form three again," she said, ignoring the question altogether.

She didn't miss his sidelong glance. He didn't say anything for a moment, but then responded with, "Very well. Let's see it."

He set his tea aside and leaned forward in his seat as she took up her position. He watched with intense concentration, but his limbs were loose, as always. His elbows rested on his knees, his clasped hands hanging between them.

"Yes, that's much better. Start again from the beginning, and let's see if you can't manage that transition."

She was shaky, but she did make it, and he was generous with his praise for her efforts, which made her even more eager to perfect her skills. Tea forgotten, he rose and positioned himself across from her, going through the forms with her so that she could mirror his movements. He was the best, most patient teacher she had ever had.

 

***

 

She had never told him that. Perhaps she should. Perhaps she would, when she returned his little book to him.

She would miss it when it was gone, but he had told her his father had made it for him, and she knew his father was gone. He had also told her that his mother had died, but he had never spoken of the circumstances of their deaths, or why he had come to Astoran.

Not that she had asked him. She had liked him a great deal from the moment she had met him, and by the time he had disappeared she had grown to feel something much different from childish affection, feelings that had never quite faded. Many nights she had soothed her troubled mind by paging through the book, even after she had long since learned every last form by heart. Holding the book reminded her that he was real, that he hadn't been a wonderful figment of her imagination. It had made her feel as if he couldn't be gone forever, because surely he would have to return someday to collect such a precious object.

But if she gave the book back to him and he left, what reason would he ever have to return to her again?

 

 

Chapter 16

 

 

 

Several uneventful days passed, and though Kila kept an eye out for Miss Wyland, she didn't make a repeat appearance. He supposed she was busy with the funeral, and he wondered if she had learned anything more from Captain Stowley. Was the captain right that something was going on? Or had the man's insistence that his father hadn't committed suicide been the protestations of someone devastated by grief, and had he come to understand that