Page 32 of The Sorcerer's Thief
Regret sits heavily in my gut.
But not as heavily as the fourteen slices of pie currently making themselves at home there.
The important thing is, I beat Cricket, who bowed out after eleven measly slices, then cheered for me as I won third prize, which, to my chagrin, was another blasted pie. We promptly gave it away to a skinny lad in the audience.
We lie side by side on our bedrolls—propped up with two pillows each because he convinced me to conjure him an extra—both of us nursing stomach aches.
He pokes my belly. “What should we name the baby?”
“Oh, shut up.” I bat his hand away. “It’s not as if you’re not just as pudgy around the middle as me.”
“But I’ve already named mine.” He cups his stomach and gives it a little pat. “Cricket Jr.”
“Very creative.”
“Jules Jr. doesn’t have the same ring to it. You’ll have to think of something else.”
“How about Punkin?”
“Perfect.” He chuckles, turning his head sideways to me. “Do you want kids?”
“Decidedly not. You?”
“Same. I already have too many.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “You’re a father?”
“Not as such, no. None of them are my own, and yet I have a village full of kids back home.”
“Why is that?”
“When there are hungry mouths to feed, and you’re the best in town at snitching food, you make a lot of friends, Jules.”
I imagine so. That’s a great deal of responsibility for someone as young as Cricket. “Is that why you became a thief?”
“Well, I didn’t do it to get rich.” He snorts.
“Money can buy many things.”
“I don’t care about money or things. I care about people.” After a pause, he adds, “Even if none of them need me anymore.”
What’s that like? To care about people that much? It’s been an age since I cared for anyone but myself. Caring for others only leads to pain. But…
Cricket has closed his eyes, and the dark crescents of his lashes fan prettily over his full cheeks. His hair is messy and tousled from the day, curling in every possible direction. Soft. I could care for someone like Cricket. Young, determined, angry. Both innocent and decidedly not, each in its own way.
Despite the unwelcome nature of my company, he’s kind to me. I can’t help but like him. A dangerous feeling. One I should avoid at all costs.
His eyelids flutter open, and he catches me staring.
My cheeks heat as I look away.
“Good night, Jules.” He rolls over and tucks himself into a little ball.
I turn the other way and curl up as well. “Good night, Cricket.”
Chapter 10
Julian
