I sense, more than see, Perg deflate.
Frustration curls in my chest. “I’m sorry, Perg. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Mean what?” He reaches into my bag and hands me a stud. “The truth?”
I shake my head. I can tell Perg wants to ask me more about that day, but I keep my focus on the vest.
I’ve told only one other person my secret, and now I can’t speak to him at all.
I close the pliers, harder than I need to. I saw Azmar only briefly this morning, while Unach demonstrated how to stud the leather. He didn’t speak to me. He didn’t look at me. He just got his things together and left for work, leaving me smothered in my own shame. Something about my apartment’s walls felt claustrophobic, so I came to see how Perg was. Not that I’m good company.
Is this how it is to be, then? My fears realized, and not because I am a human endowed with fear, but because I dared to kiss a trollis? Is that what I am now, not a monster or monster slayer, not a servant, but a mistake?
I think about the men of my past, their propositions, their eager hands, their judgmental stares. Then I think about Azmar, and that brief moment of contact, and the tip of the awl bites my thigh. I hiss and pull it away.
“Told you,” Perg says.
Moving the vest, I inspect the damage, but it’s minimal. I put my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands, allowing myself a few deep breaths.
“Lark?” Perg sits up straighter. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Is she beating you?”
I laugh, though it’s dry and hard. “Unach? No. She’s prideful and hard skinned, but she wouldn’t lift a hand to me.”
Perg nods. “I’m glad.”
A bit of frustration ebbs out of me. Setting the vest aside, I gather up Perg’s dishes.
“I can do those,” he insists.
But I carry them to the tiny tin tub that serves as his sink. “I need something else to do.”
Perg frowns. “If you insist.”
I pour the last of his water over the dishes—I’ll need to fetch more for him so he can rest before returning to his labor. “Can I stay here for a while, Perg? Until Unach comes home.” I don’t have a shift today.
He regards me skeptically. “Are you lying about the beatings?” He touches his chin. “But I suppose if Grodd is nothing to you, Unach wouldn’t be, either.”
I deflate. “Let’s not talk about that, please.” Let me just be normal for a little while. Despite there being absolutely nothing normal about me.
“Yeah, if you want.”
Relieved, I turn my full attention to scrubbing.
Unach’s schedule has her returning at the eighteenth hour, so I plan to arrive a few minutes after that to start dinner. I prefer her rage to Azmar’s awkward indifference. When I arrive, though, Azmar sits at the tall kitchen table, a workbook in front of him. Unach is nowhere to be seen.
I almost retreat, but instead I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen. Being at the end of their rations limits our dinner options. I might as well pick up all our rations tomorrow.
I prepare the food in silence, skewer a hunk of liver over the low-burning fire, and occasionally glance at Azmar from the corner of my eye. He rests his chin in his hand, staring at the same page, tapping a pencil lightly.
Desperate to get over myself, I ask, “What are you looking at?”
He shifts, lifting his head. “The addition off the master armory. We’ve determined we should add a cliff anchor there, and I’m trying to decide how to do so with our budgeted resources while maintaining the city’s integrity.”
I glance over his thick arm to the book. Numbers and equations consume the left page, while sketches dominate the right, one of them unfinished. It’s all very symmetrical and familiar.
“Have you ever considered making it . . . pretty?” I suggest.
He glances at me, a short line forming between his brows. “Pretty?”
I shrug and continue into the kitchen. “Everything in Cagmar is so utilitarian. Even the council room limits its aesthetic.”
“It’s utilitarian because we must make do with what we’re given.”
“But even basic things can be beautiful.” Our gazes meet, and I look away, busying myself with dishes. “Where is Unach?”
“Charming another Montra at the south dock. She’ll be home late.”
I wonder. Not Troff, is it? Or maybe the south dock purely provides the meeting place. I reach for a plate and nearly drop it, the muscle at the base of my thumb cramping from overuse with the pliers. I move the plate to my elbow and rub the spot until it’s a dull burn.