The Theft of Sunlight by Intisar Khanani (story reading .TXT) 📕

He meets my gaze unapologetically. “Yes.”

I look away, unable to bear the steadiness of his gaze. Yes. Yes, he is unjust. Yes, he has killed. A sorrow wells up in me that I did not expect, that I do not know how to stop.

“Rae,” Bren says, a faint note of disbelief in his voice. “You’re crying.”

I shrug. How does one dispute fact?

“You’ve known what I am since we first met.”

“Of course I have,” I say, keeping my face tilted away from him. At least I am not sobbing, though I cannot stop this: the steady fall of my tears.

“Then why do you grieve my words now?”

Grief. Is that what this is? This hurt that makes no sense, that I can neither swallow down nor dispel? “It must be because I am just a foolish country girl,” I say, careful not to look at him.

“I never called you foolish,” Bren says softly. “Rae.” His fingers move uncertainly on his thigh, twitching toward me, then back to curl into a fist on his leg. It’s the first uncertain movement I can remember him making.

I shake my head, swipe at my cheeks. “I’m just tired,” I say, which is a lie and we both know it.

But there is a distinct relief in the way he turns to me. “Well, let’s get you back in bed, then.” He takes my elbow in one hand and slides his other arm around my back. “Up you get.”

I stagger to my feet and thump down on the bed, thanks in large part to Bren pushing me in the right direction. I freeze as pain washes over me from my wounded arm.

“All right?” Bren asks softly, kneeling beside me.

I nod stiffly, aware that he must have seen my foot by now, though he knew about it already. He’s been adjusting his pace for me all along, even if he misread my limp that first time. I just—didn’t want him to see my foot bare. Well, there’s no help for that now. I let my breath out in a sigh, and he must take that as a sign that I’m all right, for he lifts my legs onto the bed, levels a look on me that has me lying back at once, and pulls the blanket over me. I give silent thanks for that.

He takes a spare pillow and props my wounded arm on top of it, his touch surprisingly gentle. As he works, I find myself following his arm, the long curving scar that travels the outside of it from his wrist nearly to his elbow. It’s healed but still slightly pink. And even though my cut begins on the inside of my arm, slicing up before curving out, I can’t help thinking we match. I would laugh if I didn’t hurt so much. Who would have thought a horse rancher and a thief would have matching scars?

“I suggest keeping your arm raised to reduce the risk of the bleeding restarting,” he says. “You lost a lot of blood. We don’t want you to lose any more.”

“Is that why my legs aren’t working?” With the pain receding, I find myself almost giddy.

He settles on the edge of the bed. “Nearly thirty stitches, Rae.”

That sounds like a lot, but I see no reason to admit it. “Could have been more,” I say. For some reason this strikes me as wonderfully absurd, and I find myself chuckling.

“It’s not a laughing matter.” Bren’s face is stern.

“I think I’m drunk on relief,” I tell him. “I’ve never been drunk before. It’s actually quite pleasant.” Although it feels hollow, coming on the heels of the grief of hearing from his own lips what he is, what he doesn’t regret. I want so much to forget that conversation.

He tilts his head forward, his lips quirked down as if he were fighting a smile. “Not drunk, Rae. You had a rather bitter brew the healer made up for you. Do you remember? He said it would ease the pain and help you sleep, but also make you a bit woozy.”

Now that Bren mentions it, I do recall a somber-faced man with a cup full of the bitterest drink I’ve ever swallowed. As for woozy . . . “I’m having trouble thinking straight,” I say. “I think.” I can push it away, the knowledge of what he is, at least for now, while my thoughts can so easily and repeatedly shake loose of their path, spin away and latch onto new things. My gaze drops to his hair, hanging down to brush the blankets. I reach out to touch it. “Do you know, your hair is much finer than mine? Very pretty. Shorter, though.”

“Pretty. Now I know you’re not feeling yourself,” he says, watching my fingers twirl his hair. “Or perhaps I should be worrying about my manliness.”

I let out a shaky giggle. “That’s absurd. I bet you have city girls coming after you in droves. You probably even have a sweetheart hidden away who thinks you’re the light of her world.”

Bren curls his hand around my fingers, stilling them. “No girls,” he says, his voice so quiet I barely hear it. “No sweetheart.”

“Surely city girls aren’t that stupid,” I say, smiling hazily. He doesn’t answer. “Come to Sheltershorn, then. You’ll be mobbed.”

He scoffs. “I’m a thief, Rae. What country family would entrust their daughter to me?”

“We’ve got plenty of criminals,” I assure him, trying to focus only on the fact that he’s a thief. Nothing more than that, just someone who pinches purses and treasured gold rings. “Kelari Freshna lifts vegetables from the market stalls purely by force of habit. It would be a perfect match.” I shift. I know I should answer him more seriously, but I don’t want to, and my hand feels strangely comfortable in his. “Anyhow, Artemian said Red Hawk has girl thieves as well. You should get to know them.”

“I already have,” he says. He gives my hand a squeeze and gently sets it down on the