Page 106 of The Winner's Curse
Words were useless, pitifully useless—criminal, even, in how they could not account for Arin’s grief, and could not excuse how her people had lived on the ruin of his. Yet again Kestrel said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
It felt as if it was.
Arin led the way out of his old suite. When they came to the last room, the greeting room, he paused before the outermost door. It was the slightest of hesitations, no longer than if the second hand of a clock stayed a beat longer on its mark than it should. But in that fraction of time, Kestrel understood that the last door was not paler than the others because it had been made from a different wood.
It was newer.
Kestrel took Arin’s battered hand in hers, the rough heat of it, the fingernails still ringed with carbon from the smith’s coal fire. His skin was raw-looking: scrubbed clean and scrubbed often. But the black grime was too ingrained.
She twined her fingers with his. Kestrel and Arin walked together through the passageway and the ghost of its old door, which her people had smashed through ten years before.
* * *
After that, Kestrel sought him out. She used the excuse of those lessons he had given her. She said that she wanted more. She acquired a number of menial skills, like how to blacken boots.
Arin was easy to find. Although raids on the countryside continued, he increasingly relied on lieutenants to lead the sorties. He spent more time at home.
“I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing,” Sarsine said.
“He’s giving officers under his command the chance to prove their worth,” Kestrel said. “He’s showing his trust in them and letting them build their confidence. It’s sound military strategy.”
Sarsine gave her a hard look.
“He’s delegating,” Kestrel said.
“He’s shirking. And for what, I’m sure you know.”
This struck a bright match of pleasure within Kestrel.
Like a match, it burned out quickly. She recalled her promise to Jess to make the Herrani pay.
But she did not want to think about that.
It occurred to her that she had never thanked Arin for bringing her piano here. She found him in the library and meant to say what she had come to say, yet when she saw him studying a map near the fire, lit by an upward shower of sparks as one log fell on another, she remembered her promise precisely because of how she longed to forget it.
She blurted something that had nothing to do with anything. “Do you know how to make honeyed half-moons?”
“Do I…?” He lowered the map. “Kestrel, I hate to disappoint you, but I was never a cook.”
“You know how to make tea.”
He laughed. “You do realize that boiling water is within the capabilities of anybody?”
“Oh.” Kestrel moved to leave, feeling foolish. What had possessed her to ask such a ridiculous question anyway?
“I mean, yes,” Arin said. “Yes, I know how to make half-moons.”
“Really?”
“Ah … no. But we can try.”
They went into the kitchens. A glance from Arin cleared the room, and then it was only the two of them, dumping flour onto the wooden worktable, Arin palming a jar of honey out of a cabinet.
Kestrel cracked an egg into a bowl and knew why she had asked for this.
So that she could pretend that there had been no war, there were no sides, and that this was her life.
