Page 77 of The Shadows Between Us
Oh, but how I wish I could feel the exact texture of his hair.
When done, I let my hand fall back into my lap. But our eyes are still trapped upon each other.
Finally, Kallias looks down at my sketchbook. “What are you making? A day dress? Something with pants?” His voice is deeper than it was before, I note, and it almost rambles, as though he’s making up the words just before he says them.
After a lengthy pause in which I’d forgotten that I’d held anything in my hands at all, I manage, “A ball gown, actually. I was inspired by your mother’s roses.” I look up at the blossoms in question.
“We must throw a ball, then, so you may show it off once it is finished.”
“Could we? Oh, I’ve never organized a ball before.”
“Would you like to?”
I nod.
“You name the date, and we will make it happen.”
All of a sudden, I don’t feel as though I need the shawl wrapped around my shoulders. I’m so very warm and light.
Once, there was another boy who made me feel this way. One who made me feel full and seen and loved.
Now the bugs of the earth have feasted on his flesh.
But I won’t let Hektor ruin this moment I’m having with the king.
Something moves out of the corner of my vision. I turn, thinking perhaps it is only a flower stem swaying with the breeze.
But it is much bigger. Much sturdier. Much more alive.
“Kallias!”
I throw myself forward, but too late.
A shot sounds before I can move, filling the garden’s quiet. Ruining its peace.
Striking the king.
Kallias falls backward, his back hitting a patch of grass first, before his legs follow, slipping over the sides of the bench.
I’m paralyzed to the spot, staring in horror at where Kallias lies, his vest a deeper black right in the middle of his gut, where the fabric has become damp with blood.
Demodocus leaps after the king. He whines lightly when Kallias doesn’t move after he nudges him with his nose.
My hand shakes as I reach for Kallias, but what am I to do? I don’t know anything of healing.
Help. I should go for help.
I stand abruptly, but then I notice a man running toward us. I don’t process anything other than the fact that he’s holding a semiautomatic handgun, which he returns to a holster on his side, and reaches for the rapier at his waist to replace it.
The assassin is coming to make sure his mark is dead.
I plant my feet before the bench and stare the assassin down. He comes to an abrupt halt before me and points his sword out in front of him.
“Out of the way, or I’ll run you through.”
All I can hear is my breathing in my ears. All I can feel is the rise and fall of my chest. But I don’t move an inch to let the man by.
My single night of failed boxing comes to mind.
