Shannan looks her up and down, assesses her with a sharpness to his gaze, and she knows at once that she has erred though not how. Then he speaks... and she damn near flinches. Shame burns a pit in her stomach: She did not flinch to see the Grannvaleans coming for Genoa Castle nor to endure a slaverâs vitriol, but her nephewâs bluntness almost did her in. It was only almost, true enough, but still â This is not befitting. The fact she doesnât know what to say is even more so. How do you think? comes to mind first, but she can hardly snap at him for treating her as she has him. Itâs easier if I do is too vulnerable by half, never mind that Shannan must already understand this since he noted her phrasing at all. If the admission she distances herself from her death is too much, then to admit he is right is no less than unthinkable.
Because, of course, he should not be. It should not be worse for her than it is for him, when he was the one left to shoulder burdens too heavy for one so young. When he was the one left unmoored without his mother aunt, when he felt unmoored by her absence in these very halls after decades without her. And so she says nothing, for there is nothing she can say that will not be damning.
That her nephew also says nothing is damning in itself; and, worse yet, he does not keep silent but he laughs. She would have given the world to have him laugh in derision at her, but she can see plain as day that any derision therein is only directed at himself â or else at what he deems an absurd question, but not at her. Never at her, she is beginning to understand, for he holds her in much the same esteem she holds him... and himself in the same contempt she reserves for herself. In other words, they are at an impasse.
Oh, it pains her to think of their reunion in such unfeeling terms when she has an abundance of tenderness for him. But then, of course, it is the same abundance that has led them here in the first: Emotion has always been weakness, and neither of them know what to make of it.
Ayra keeps her silence for a while, offering it in lieu of an apology seeing as he doesnât want the latter. She speaks again only when it becomes evident he will not, and this time her words are less piercing. Yet her nephew argues even still, and she must bite her tongue lest she repeat herself uselessly.
â Of course I would, â she asserts, the challenge less direct than it could have been; would have been, in truth, were it anyone else. Sheâs never been any good at curbing her tongue, but for him she can manage. She smiles too, sincere no matter her wryness. â You drive a hard bargain, donât you? But, yes, fair is fair. â
Theyâve both conceded to some extent, but not enough yet. Not nearly enough. The abundance of feeling remains unaddressed, their impasse unresolved. By now, Ayra has the sense that if she lowers her walls he will raise his in answer. That he will worry for her before he ever thinks to join her, and that is the opposite of what she wants.
Yet Shannan leaves her no choice in the matter.
Hold on, he says, when she could not interject if she tried for the dread that pools at the bottom of her stomach. He reads her with the same ease she does him, so his guess in itself is no surprise â but his amusement is; and it cuts deep, deeper than she cares to admit.
She regrets having tried to laugh the matter off at once, for all she did was add to his mirth. The sound tapers off, void of humor by the end, and she is left with burning eyes and a lump in her throat in its place. She swallows, works her jaw and finds no words.
â Thatâs not â â Realizing she must look as stricken as she feels Ayra rises abruptly, though does not move away from him. â Well, yes, it is the health seminar â but â â She hates how brittle her voice sounds, on the verge of breaking; and she does leave him in the end, turn her back and make for the cabinet, where she places her hands around the jar of water more to try and halt their shaking than anything. â It is not that I â do not want to deal with it, but that... â
She pauses, swallows again, desperately holding on to the slivers of her composure even as they slip between her fingers. She will not â will not â cry in front of Shannan, for Odâs sake, let alone for what he meant to be a bit of teasing. How do you feel about it?
â â You were a boy when last I saw you, â she blurts out and the rest follows without pause, brittleness and all, â you were a boy and now you are telling me itâs not so bad, which you know because you told my children about it while I was â was dead and now I might not have died at all except there are twenty years between us, and all I can think is I should have been there and it should have been me when that does not matter one whit â and Iâm meant to, what, laugh while you advise me on how to talk about sex? You were a boy â no, you are a boy to me, Shannan, do you understand that? â
Ayra is breathing harder than she realized, clutching the damned jar tighter than she realized too, and she lifts one hand to wipe her tears away furiously. She will not. And, to reaffirm that as much as prevent the weeping, she turns to face him again.
â Time has not passed for me. Time will never pass for me. â It would be better for them both if he left, but the words that tumble from her lips instead are, â Donât do this, my heart. Please. â
