Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(97)

He met her eyes, and seemed to be thinking the same thing. Perhaps there was another possibility, and she tried to send her mind that way instead. How bizarre that she’d come to relish this time in the cold spring—the renewing water, mixed with the familiar sun and its comfortable warmth. The quiet time alone with Painter. That should have been unremarkable, with how Connected they were, but it felt like every other moment was filled with things they should be doing.

Or…she admitted to herself…maybe that sense of anxiety at other times was just her. Feeling guilty for not being of use when Painter would have preferred to simply relax.

Either way, the bath was a peaceful time for her. Hair wet against her back, the tips trailing in the water behind her, skin prickling as the top half of her dried while her legs remained in the water—which somehow felt warm by contrast. The most surreal part—the part that only struck her when she stopped to think about it—was how natural it felt.

The last few days, she’d hardly considered the fact that she was bare. Painter seemed to react the same way, no longer staring, no longer embarrassed. He merely floated comfortably, thoughtful as he gazed at the sky and the spinning flowers high above. What had once been the single most stressful moment of her entire life was now just…normal.

“Maybe we’re still from different planets,” Painter said, “but they’re farther apart. Design is from somewhere else. You could be too.”

“Maybe,” she said, trailing her fingers in the water as she walked. “But Design said she thought that was unlikely. If you think about it, we decided on a whim that we were from two different planets.”

“I was looking at the star when the strange event happened.”

“Which was completely coincidental. If you’d been looking at a bowl of noodles, would that imply that I came from the land of the noodle people?”

“That’s a perfect explanation for you.” He raised a finger. “Stiff and rigid until you soak her in water.”

She gave him a flat stare.

“Come on, Yumi,” he said. “How long did you spend in the shower yesterday?”

She clasped her hands behind her back and turned away, strolling lightly on her tiptoes, buoyant in the water. “You’re right about Mrs. Shinja,” she said. “She really gets mad about running out of hot water. Why do you suppose I like cold springs in my world and near-scalding warmth on yours?”

“Variety, I guess,” Painter said. Then in a lower yet dramatic voice: “Cold noodles with ice for hot days, warm noodles with broth on cool ones. The noodle princess must be master of both realms.”

She splashed a huge wave of water at him, and it was satisfying how he cringed—even though it was spirit water and flew straight through him. She smiled, then continued her strolling.

“I’m trying,” she said, “to solve our problem. Please make an effort to pay attention.”

“But we’ve solved it. Nightmare is dealt with.”

“And if the nightmare isn’t what caused the spirits to reach out to me? It could still be the machine.”

Those scholars were suspicious. She wanted to be wrong—she wanted it all to be over now, finished as soon as the Dreamwatch did their jobs—but she was afraid she was right. She couldn’t let go, not until she knew.

“I suppose,” he said, resting back, the tips of his feet popping up out of the water again. “I guess we can solve the problem no matter if we’re from different times or different planets. Nothing changes except…”

She slowed, then met his eyes and again saw the unspoken tragedy he acknowledged in them. Neither of them dared say the words. That they didn’t want this to end. How crazy was it that they would rather live in limbo like this, disorienting though it was, so long as it meant they could be together?

Why couldn’t she form the words? Why didn’t she dare speak them? Was it because she was afraid if she acknowledged what she felt, she would somehow ruin it? Send whatever it was that was growing between them flying off, like flower petals in a thermal?

Or was it something worse? Something that terrified her more than a nightmare? The worry that maybe he didn’t feel the same way. What if her assumptions when looking in his eyes were untrue? What if he wanted this to be finished so that he could have his life back, no longer forced to deal with the imperious demands of a yoki-hijo who didn’t know how to person correctly?

She struggled to say something. But all she could think of was waking up one day alone, not knowing where he was.

It’s going to end poorly, isn’t it? she thought with mounting dread. There’s no way for it to work out. It can’t work out, not for the yoki-hijo.

Her life, as Liyun had always promised, was not one of joy. Her life was not her own.

Her life was service.

The two eventually climbed out of the spring to begin dressing. “How long do you think it will take,” she asked him, “before my people invent bras? It’s difficult to return to this time, wrap a band underneath my chest, and pretend that’s good enough.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’ll need elastic for bras first, right?”

“How should I know?” Maybe she could invent them. Sketch it out, tell everyone that the spirits had shown the garment to her in a vision—which, in comparison to some of the ways she’d been forced to distort the facts recently, would be remarkably close to the truth.