Page 14 of Forbidden Obsession
“Just one, sir? Orange, like your eyes. To wear behind your ear, perhaps?”
Pausing, I look him over. His face is clean, but his clothes are dirty. His feet are bare, even as the chill of the season has crept in. Though he’s a child, perhaps twelve or thirteen, he’s nearly as tall as me already, but skinny. Very skinny.
If selling imported flowers on the street is what he does for work, he couldn’t make much, but that’s no reason for him to appear so underfed. Clodhill is a thriving city with more than enough resources to feed its people. Why has this boy gone hungry?
He holds the bouquet too close to my face. I squint and step back. He’s correct; they’re beautiful flowers, the likes of which I’ve never laid eyes on, but then, I’ve never traveled to the southern regions. I’ve never traveled past Clodhill. I like Jodpirn. Rahz is there, so I have no reason to leave.
With a sigh, I decide to part with some of my coin for this boy. “How much?”
“For the orange flower or the bouquet?” His grin is so hopeful it strikes a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Both.”
He names his price. Too much, but I don’t haggle. I hand over the coin, and he presents the bouquet, but the single orange flower he bravely tucks behind my ear, moving my hair and skimming the sensitive skin beneath the lobe with rough fingers quite purposefully.
He leans in and says quietly, almost shyly, as though this part is new to him, “Would you likecompany, perhaps? I know a place.”
As my mind reluctantly parses out his meaning, I reel backward. Is a youngster in the street propositioning a full-grown man? How has Clodhill sunk to this? Does Rahz know? Does my father?
Would he even care?
“No, thank you,” I stutter the words out and hurry away from him. My mother is waiting. I can’t think of this now. The temple is just ahead. In my rush to leave the crowds on the main path, I break into a trot.
By the time I’m climbing the great marble staircase to the temple’s entrance, I’m out of breath, and my heart is racing. My mind can’t wrap itself around the boy’s situation, so instead, it offers me excuses. Perhaps he just liked the look of me. He’s of an age when those particular desires begin to manifest. He’s an early bloomer, looking to gain a new experience, that’s all. Nothing sordid going on. Nothing amuck in Clodhill. All is well. He’s probably already busy eating a steaming bowl of meat and vegetable stew with the coin he’s made on his overpriced flowers.
He’s fine.
Telling myself such lies and believing them are two different things, and only one is working for me. But I must shove the thoughts aside. The temple is a pure place, not meant for inelegant musings, and the divine elders must have no reason to bar my entry.
I bow to a robed guardian and walk through to the inner courtyard, then take a seat on a stone bench and unlace my shoes. I set them aside and slip on the soft temple sandals provided to visitors who pass beyond this point. I’m used to this ritual.
The strong scent of warmed cedar oil tickles my nostrils. I scrunch my nose to hold in a sneeze. Mother’s resting place is down a set of steps and through an arched doorway that leads to a large cavern with rows and rows of matching dormancy cradles. The soft beds are suspended from the ceiling like hammocks, fully contained nests of colorful silken sheets, feathered pillows, and decorated corded tassels as if trying to make what’s essentially an extended coma look cheerful. Each has a plaque labeled with the name of the sleeping fae inside, along with the date they fell asleep. In my mother’s case, that date is also my birthday, which is why I think it’s fitting for me to visit on hers.
My chest tightens. It always does when I’m here. There’s something oddly uncomfortable about being underground and surrounded by unconscious people.
One day, this could be me. I shiver.
Most fae fall dormant at some point in their long lives, but the idea of it gives me hives. Perhaps because I’m young. Perhaps because dormancy has stolen my mother from me. Perhaps because the very idea of being stuck inside a closed cradle makes my stomach flip and my throat clench.
A couple of deep breaths help me relax my shoulders and clear my mind as I sit on the bench in front of her cradle.
“Hello, Mother.” I run my finger along her name on the plaque. Elara Greywind.“Happy birthday. I brought you something.”
I place the flowers from the street boy at her feet. At least I hope that’s where her feet are. If I’ve been talking to her feet instead of her head all these years, I’m going to feel so dumb.
“I know you can’t see them, but they’re the most beautiful flowers from the south. They smell sweet as candy, and the colors are orange, purple, and green. I’m wearing one in my hair as well, an orange one to match my eyes. Are your eyes orange as well? Did mine come from you? Because Father’s are gray, so they didn’t come from him.
“He says ‘hello,’ by the way.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t send messages to Mother through me. I don’t know if he visits her because he won’t talk about her, and he complains when I do. “And so does Rahz.” This is true. Rahz always sends his goodwill when he doesn’t accompany me and can say as much himself. He’d have come with me today if I’d asked, but sometimes I like to make the trip alone. To have Mother all to myself.
“He’s worried, you know.” She doesn’t, but who cares? What else am I supposed to talk about? “There’s talk of fighting in the south. An uprising. Can you believe it? In Luminia? But we’re peaceful here, so the talk may still prove false. But the chatter worries Rahz. He’s always quick to fret.”
I straighten my legs, cross my ankles, and wiggle my toes in the borrowed sandals. I’m twitchier than normal today. The urge to make this a short visit is hard to ignore, but I find it important my mother knows my voice. Whether she hears me or not, whether she remembers me or not, I have little control, but I owe her my best effort.
So I stay. And I talk. I tell her everything, all my secrets and wishes. The stone bench warms beneath my bottom as I rattle off whatever comes to mind. I don’t leave until my throat is dry and my thirst demands I seek water.
Before going, I cast a quick look behind me to make sure we’re still alone. Confirming as much, I lean in, resting my weight against the weight of her in the cradle. This is forbidden. One mustn’t try to wake a dormant fae or disturb them in any way. But I’m so careful. So gentle. I’m not trying to wake her before she’s ready. I just want to feel her against me a little bit, to take comfort in her closeness for the span of a few stolen heartbeats.
“Until next time, Mother. I love you. Rest well.”
