Page 10 of Minor Works of Meda

“What a disappointment,” Kalcedon said mockingly.

“What? The wedding? I told you.” Unsure what to do with my hands, I twisted them into the thin blanket covering my lap.

Kalcedon’s lips spread in a slow smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You, actually. I was certain I’d find you with a stolen book.”

My eyes grew round.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I wetted my lips, gulped, and looked away from him. The half-faerie laughed silently.

“You’re a terrible liar, Meda.”

“So you had a good time, then?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

His smile flattened. Kalcedon took a step into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. It was a small space, and he made it smaller yet, cramming every corner with blazing, roiling heat.

My credenza desk sat against the rounded edge of the tower. There was just enough room for a narrow bed along one of the perpendicular walls; a small storage chest beside the door. That left barely any floor room to move.

Ignoring the desk’s chair, Kalcedon sat at the edge of the bed with a sigh. I felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. Pulling my feet closer to my torso, I reminded myself I couldn’t risk scooting back without potential damage to the priceless book hidden just behind me.

“Terrible,” Kalcedon admitted, his voice low. I watched him rub a hand over his flawless face. He sighed, then looked at me with an exhausted half-smile. “Nobody talked to me. Nobody came within ten feet of where I stood.”

“I don’t know why you’d want them to,” I admitted, even though my heart ached for him. The villagers were fools. “None of them understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“Magic.”

Kalcedon frowned.

“There’s more to life than that, Meda.”

“Not much. Trust me.”

“How lucky I am, then, in my isolation,” he muttered.

He didn’t know about people who smiled to your face but talked behind your back. He didn’t know about walking into a room full of those you’d known your whole life, and hearing the gossip stop, and realizing it was about you, not because you’d done wrong but because you were wrong. He didn’t know it was better, here in the tower with books and magic and each other’s company, than it was down in a terrible village like Missaniech, never knowing the right thing to say or when to laugh so that nobody would realize you didn’t belong.

I hoped he never found out. That he could keep on dreaming life might get better, even if it never did.

“You have Eudoria,” I reminded him.

“That’s not… the same thing,” he admitted. Kalcedon sighed, and then scanned his eyes slowly across the room. Reaching over, without standing, he tugged open the nearest drawer of the credenza.

“Don’t go through my things,” I told him. “And it’s better.”

“She’s the woman who raised me.” It occurred to me I’d never heard the word mother on his lips, even though Eudoria was as good as.

“Then what about me? You have me.”

“What about you, Meda? You don’t care for anyone.” He shoved the drawer closed with some difficulty—that one had a tendency to stick—and eased open the one below it.

“Not true. I care about some people. If you’re looking for a book, you won’t find it.”

“It?” His eyes were on me like a moth to light.

“A theoretical ‘it.’ Stop going through my things.” Sticking one foot out from my blanket, I prodded his elbow.

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