He’s still watching me.
“Temra,” I whisper. “Someone is staring at us.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? No one is staring at you.”
“No, I mean it this time. Look, the fellow behind you.”
She turns in an obvious way to meet the eyes of the man near the door. He doesn’t have any food yet, and he’s certainly not looking at the menu held open in front of him.
Temra gives a quick half wave at the man before turning back around. “He’s handsome, if you can forget what he’s wearing. Maybe I should go talk to him?”
“Don’t you dare leave me,” I mutter between my teeth.
“I’d just invite him to join us.”
“No!”
“I’m teasing! I’ll wait until after dinner before—”
At first, I think the waitress has arrived with our food, but then I realize the far table is empty and the man has sauntered over. I turn my attention to the wood grain again as Temra twists delightedly toward the stranger.
“Hi there,” she says in a voice she only uses with men.
“Hello,” he says. “Forgive my interruption, but is there any chance you’d let me join you?”
Temra looks to me, but I can’t say anything. I still can’t look up properly. So she answers, “Please,” and indicates the free chair.
The hairs on my arms stand up at the close proximity of the stranger. I feel as though my insides are being kneaded like dough. I want to be anywhere else.
“I’m Temra,” my sister says.
“I’m Petrik,” the stranger says.
“Petrik,” Temra repeats, trying out the name. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m not from here. I came from Skiro’s Territory.”
“What do you do in Skiro?”
How does she do that? She just effortlessly knows what to say and how to say it. I manage to talk to my customers in the shop sometimes. Weapons I know well, and I don’t have too much trouble discussing them. But anything else?
I’m helpless.
A pit of longing rests in my gut. A wish to be more like my sister. So at ease with the world, so comfortable in her own skin.
“I’m a scholar from the Great Library,” Petrik continues in his deep tone. “I specialize in ancient magics.”
My eyes flit upward of their own accord, my interest piqued.
“Magic?” I question.
The man grins, and I find the courage to look at him properly. He’s somewhere around my age. He wears his hair shorn close to the scalp, a thin strip of black fuzz. He has full lips, a wide nose, and his skin is a deep brown with matching eyes.
His clothing is unusual. Most opt for tunics and leggings and sturdy boots, but this man wears a deep sapphire robe that covers his hands and ankles. In fact, all I can see of him are the pointed tips of his boots and his head. It would appear the robe has a hood, but he wears it down, so I can see his face.
“Yes, from the seeresses in the northern continent to the animal speakers in the western isles—I’ve read into all of it. I’m compiling my own book. A quick guide of sorts to every known magical ability in the history of the world.”
Temra’s eyes narrow, and she looks pointedly at me. She raises her brow, as though trying to communicate something silently to me. After a moment, she gives up and looks heavenward. “And this study has brought you to Ziva,” she says.
“Precisely,” Petrik says. “I was hoping Ziva might allow me to ask her some questions and inspect some of her work.”
At first, I feel delighted. A man my age wants to talk to me about my work? Is this the opportunity I’ve been waiting for? A promise to stay in safe conversational waters while getting to know someone new?
But then I remember he said this was for a book.
Other people will read it. Petrik will quote me. Describe me and my processes. I’ll be scrutinized. What if I say something wrong? What if he thinks my magic is boring and he rejects me and leaves? What if everyone who reads the book thinks I’m a hoax and I lose all my customers?
Even if I know most of that is unlikely to happen, I can’t shake the fear. Agreeing to talk with him doesn’t feel safe at all.
“No, thank you,” I say, and turn my attention to my hands in my lap.
The waitress comes then, delivering our food. She looks to Petrik. “Have you decided on anything?”
“Not yet,” he returns.
She leaves, silence and steam the only things filling the air in her wake.