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

next to me, winding my sash about my waist and tying it there, and passing me the journal to slip into my pocket.

“The young master sent a sheath for your knife,” she says, fetching what appears to be a leather strap from beside the cushion where she sat.

“That’s a sheath?”

It actually is a bit more than a leather strap, it turns out, and Bakira shows herself to have a great deal more knowledge than I gave her credit for, expertly buckling the sheath to my calf and showing me how to reach my knife in its new home.

Once that is done, she bustles away. She returns with a tray of food and the information that the “young master” will meet me downstairs shortly, where he’s arranged for a carriage to take me back to the palace. At Bakira’s insistence, I choke down a slice of bread with olive oil and herbs, and a few chunks of cheese that stick in my throat as if they were stones. And then there is no more avoiding Bren.

Bakira leads me downstairs. I follow slowly, grateful to find my foot is only a little more tender than it has been the last day—and, indeed, I’ve managed to avoid any new blisters. A miracle, all things considered. Though I suppose my arm makes up for any shortfall there well enough.

Bakira gestures me into a small atrium, tiny in comparison to Bardok Three-Fingers’. Bren and Artemian chat together before what I take to be an exit to the street, though the door is closed.

“Hallo, Rae,” Bren says, catching sight of me. “Sleep off the rest of that medicine?”

I stop short, and he in turn walks over to greet me, all smiles and laughing eyes.

“I’m feeling better, yes,” I hedge, my cheeks warming yet again.

Artemian offers me a sympathetic smile.

“Glad to hear it,” Bren says, his gaze flicking to my arm, the stitches hidden beneath my sleeves.

I shrug uncomfortably. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Nothing to apologize about,” Bren says, his grin turning wicked. “I quite enjoyed our conversation. I take it I should visit your village at some point, meet the local thieving population.”

Why did he have to say that? In front of Artemian too?

“I wasn’t quite myself,” I reply, voice tight. Can’t he just let me be? I don’t want this conversation—I have no idea why I so desperately wanted to see him again last night, because I cannot imagine a worse meeting than this.

“No,” he agrees. “I imagine it wasn’t that different from being drunk, though.”

“I’ve never been drunk,” I say, the words sharp with frustration and embarrassment.

“Then last night must have been very educational for you,” he says, and laughs. “Though if you’d like to play with my hair again, I won’t say no. What do you say?”

My cheeks burn with twin spots of humiliation, my hands curling into fists. Artemian turns his head away, but Bren is still chuckling softly and watching me, and I hate him, how stupid I’ve been, how stupid he must think me. I hate the sound of his laughter, laughter I’ve heard all my life, but coming from him now—I hate it. My fury sends me forward one sharp step, my fist pistoning out as if I could smash that laughter from him, undo him with my rage.

The painful thunk of my fist glancing off the bottom of his jaw brings me back to myself. Bren stumbles backward, one hand coming up to cradle his face, his eyes wide. We stare at each other.

Artemian makes a slight sound. I glance toward him, my fist still raised, my knuckles sending lines of fire up my arm. My other arm is curled against my torso, the wound protected. He stands a pace away, his mouth slightly ajar, his eyes darting between me and Bren. And then Bren starts laughing.

I pivot toward him, cradling my fist against my chest, furious and hurt. He massages his jaw with one hand and laughs as if I have told him the funniest joke he’s heard in years.

“Clearly,” he manages to gasp, “I’ve underestimated you country girls.”

Pain flashes through me, cutting my breath from my lungs and burning my eyes. I don’t have any words. None at all. Nothing that can undo this moment, or fix it, or save me from what I’ve done.

I turn and flee for the door, hobbling across the distance with my stupid limping gait. I yank it open, grateful to see a carriage waiting on the other side. At least I won’t have the added shame of dealing with his laughter over not being able to find my way out. The driver opens the carriage door for me. Inside, I collapse onto the bench, dropping my head to my knees, my breath aching in my chest. Or is that my heart? What did I just do?

Someone else climbs into the carriage, sitting down opposite me in silence, and the carriage begins to rattle down the alley. I don’t look up. I punched him. I punched Bren. So hard my whole hand aches with it. I punched—

“Are you all right?” Artemian asks.

I nod into the folds of my skirt, but I’m not. Tears have begun to leak out my eyes, God only knows why. I sniffle, try to blink my eyes clear. Why would I cry? That stupid boy-man, laughing at me. Baiting me.

“I don’t think he meant to hurt you,” Artemian offers, which only makes things worse.

“Well, I meant to punch him,” I inform my skirts wetly.

“It was . . . impressive. I don’t think he’s been taken by surprise like that in a long time.”

“He should have expected it,” I say, voice shaky. I spouted all kinds of nonsense last night. And he thought it was funny. Only he’d been gentle then. I remember being surprised by his kindness.

And he saved my life.

So what if he baited me with my foolishness? How could I let my anger, all this resentment I’ve been harboring, come out at him like this? How could I