Kitaryn

I stare at my father where he towers over the revelers around him. His shadowed gaze sends chills like ice down my spine.

Aodan's grip shifts from my arm to my back as he turns me around. “Have you ever been apple-bobbing?”

The music returns to my ears, warm and jolly, like his smile. “The children’s game?”

He moves me in a modified turn, his hand leading me to step in a zigzag, rather than a circle. At the rapid movement, I feel a small thrill, a shadow of the freedom from moments ago. I want to lose myself again.

“Yes, have you done it?”

But I need to figure out how to defend my actions to Athyr. The song is drawing near its end; I can't be distracted by children’s games. “I honestly can’t recall, but that’s not–”

“Friends ending,” he whispers, catching me close while the band strikes its ending sequence. His breath tickles my ear, his side warm against mine. That warmth seeps into me, crawling into my cheeks.

I nod. The ending, as in the previous dance, is meant to be performed in tandem with the other couples, creating an aesthetic finale. There are three complimentary variations, and friends is of medium familiarity, between lovers and neighbors. It's forward of him, but the entire situation is forward of me.

So I begin the steps, spinning around him with my arms by my sides while he mirrors the movement. We turn out to face each other, bow, and then take hands. Though he grips me gently, his hand is rough with calluses. I have one callus on my writing hand, and a few thin ones from when I tried to learn the lyre. Aodan’s hands have countless, more than he has smooth skin.

He pinches my fingers and sends a reassuring nod. For all his calluses, none have marred his soul. That eases me more than it should.

We land the final pose, one where I lean against his side with my arms crossed on my chest and he braces me as we tilt.

“Ready?” he whispers.

Ready? Before I can ask what he means, he throws his weight, and I stumble in front of him. He catches my ribs, pulling me toward the rear corner of the floor—where my father is not. He is delaying my confrontation.

Gratitude swells in my heart, even as I gasp and stumble on the cobbled bricks. As in the dance, his guidance is gentle and sure, leading me behind the amphitheater, under the struts that supported the flaming glass backdrop, and then back into the thick of the crowds. Aodan grasps my waist with strong, warm hands, striding with purpose.

“Where are we going?” I ask as we thread through the throng toward the booths. He has led me to the footpath at the furthermost ring of the courtyard, far from the dance floor and the men who seek me.

“Apple-bobbing.” He flashes a wide grin.

“What?”

“Apple–”

“Why?” I demand. Surely he doesn’t expect me to play.

“If there is one group that your nobility doesn't notice, it's the outer circle workers. We’re going back to my booth, thereby becoming invisible.” He wriggles his brows, clearly thinking himself clever.

Is that how Cultivators feel about us? That we ignore them?

But it is true. I can’t think of a time  I have spared even a second glance for a Cultivator before. I'm not sure there are more than five I can recognize by name. “Aodan, I have white hair. They will see me.”

He pulls me behind a booth shelved with baked goods. The aroma wafts to me as though fresh from the oven, despite how they have long since cooled in the crisp evening. 

“You think too little of me.” When he releases my waist, I'm surprised to find it regretful. He bends down and pulls from a shelf a simple brown cloak. This, he throws across my shoulders, affixing it in front, his bright eyes focused on the clasp he holds over my sternum.

With his face this close, I can't escape his handsomeness. He isn’t as fine-featured as many elves. His nose curves outward, rather than in or straight, and it rounds downward at the bottom. His cheeks and jaw are a touch broad compared to the nobility I'm used to, but all together it grants him a look of strength and courage. I swallow back my admiration.

He reaches over my shoulders and plucks up the hood, pulling it over my forehead. “There, totally unnoticeable.”

I look down as heat trickles into my face. He must have noticed my staring. He couldn’t miss it. Thanks to beauty, he ignores it.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I hold out my arms, inspecting the cloak. It is the same brown as his work clothes from this morning, though woven from goat hair instead of linen. It droops awkwardly around my shoulders, built for someone much broader than me, and would have trailed at my heels if not for my skirt. It smells of earth and wind and a rich, warm cinnamon. It has minimal stitching on the arms, making the cloak flow with my movement like great wings. The feature I find most unusual, however, is that the only embroidery is around the clasps on my sternum. “Is this yours?” I finally say.

“Yeah,” he scratches at the corner of his jaw, awkward for the first time since I've met him. “Sorry, that's all I have.”

“It’s perfect.” The ill fit and brown color will make Athyr skim right over me if he passes by. But what’s the point? In the end, I'll return the cloak to Aodan and find my way home, where he will be waiting. What I need is an excuse. 

The only thing to do is to press forward with my interrogation, like I had intended before Trom’s proposition. I will strike two targets with one arrow.

“Come on, then.” He beckons me to follow him out from behind the booth, squeezing behind a family to reach two booths down. We approach the merry sounds of laughter, and I discover a child knelt over a bin of water, chin-deep as he chases after apples. He lifts his face, an apple bit by the stem in his mouth. His family cheers, then the stem breaks, and the apple falls to the ground. They erupt into laughter again.

Before I realize it, I'm smiling. I wish I didn't have to ask Aodan about the fertilizer. I wish that we could simply enjoy the festival. But I need that excuse and his answer for the investigation.

“Great job!” Aodan applauds, pulling down a sugared apple from the booth behind the game. “Here’s your reward.”

The lad nabs the treat greedily.

“Aodan! Back so soon? Well, I suppose I can’t expect too much from you.” Leafras addresses her son from inside the booth, scooting out. “If you have this handled, I’ll go back to the bake-auction. Burnhill has been trying to steal the barleyballs again.” The she-elf strides off, barely glancing at me behind Aodan. The cloak really does make me invisible, even to Cultivators.

The first family moves on, and another steps up. “Do you want to try after them?” Aodan thumbs toward the bin as he scoots behind the booth, a smaller stand than most.

“Actually, I’d prefer to ask you a few questions.” I follow him, half-watching another youth crouch beside the water.

“Questions?” He raises a thick brow.

“Yes, about your family.”

“We’re all Cultivators, if that’s what you’re wondering. Though my brother hopes to make his way into business.”

I can't imagine why I would want to know that. I shake my head. “How old is your grandmother’s recipe?”

His warm smile fades. “You’re still concerned about that?”

It irritates me that he would be surprised. I explained the importance of cleaning the frayed edges, didn’t I? “It’s my job to be concerned as much as it’s yours to till the fields. We didn’t have a record of it, so anything you can tell me about your fertilizer would be welcome.” 

“Hmmm.” His face scrunches in thought. For a moment, I think he will recite the recipe from memory. “No. I’ll only say if you win an apple.”

“What?” I glance at the bucket where a young girl holds her hair out of the water as she repeatedly tries to bite her prize. It rolls and bobs out of the way. “No. It’s not a difficult question, Aodan.”

“It’s not a difficult game, Fyr-Ceann,” he goads, “or are you too prim to do it?”

“Kitaryn,” I tell him in a huff of righteous anger. I pull up a sleeve up to my elbow. “My name is Kitaryn. And it’s not about being prim. It’s the principle. I shouldn’t have to win an answer.”

“Then why are you rolling up your sleeves?”

“Because you don’t believe I will.”

The little girl finally wins her pursuit, the family congratulating her as they move on with their sugary prize.

I kneel in front of the bin. Inside, I see my reflection between the apples wobbling on the surface, a pale ghost of determination. Clasping my hair and hood away from the water, I select my target: an oblong apple near the edge. I duck for it, and feel it bob away under my teeth.

The next minute is agony. Dipping and bobbing and pinning the apple with my cheek only to inhale water and lose it. All as Aodan chuckles, an unrefined, yet rhythmic sound that resonates in his chest.

A family approaches, and I stand to allow them an attempt, wiping water from my chin and nose. I glare at Aodan, at the mirth sparkling in his eyes. I'm grateful for the hood that hides my identity from the world. This is too embarrassing.

“You’re looking a bit flustered, Fyr-Ceann. Do you need help?” Aodan leans and whispers to me while the new elfling buries his face in the water.

“Oh hush. You said it was easy just to trick me.”

“It’s quite easy.”

“It is not. They keep getting away from me.”

“That’s because you’re bad at this game.”

I huff. “Fine! If it’s so easy, then show me how to do it.”

“Gladly.” The creases of his smile spread to the apples of his cheeks, and he winks at me. “For a Fyr-Ceann has requested it.”

I glower at him. “That’s hypocritical. You’ll apple-bob, but not answer my question?”

“You assume I have an answer, Fyr-Ceann.”

“Don’t you?” If he doesn’t have an answer, I won’t have an excuse for talking to him for so long. Or a reason to embarrass myself here.

He shrugs as the family claim their sugared apple. “You’ll have to find out.”  He drops a few more apples into the barrel. “Now watch closely.”

He crouches on his knees and places his hands on the rims. His shoulders are broad, so when he leans forward, he nearly covers the bin’s surface. He moves in for an apple slowly, hesitating over it. “Are you watching?” he calls up to me.

“Yes, now impress me.” I cross my arms. He is vexing me on purpose.

He lunges forward, his nose and jaw disappearing under the water. He emerges moments later with the stem between his teeth, successfully lifting the apple straight out of the water. “Tada!” he says, catching the apple as he stands and offering it to me. “Easy.” Water drips from the tip of his nose and streams down the angle of his chin.

I try not to stare. “Well, you’ve had lots of practice.” I snatch the apple, slipping it into my pocket while I approach the bin for another attempt. This time, I grab one on the second try by the stem. I stomp up to Aodan, pluck up his hand, and press the apple into it. “Now that I know the secret to bobbing, you must tell me the secret of your fertilizer.”

He closes his hand atop mine, and I'm too bewildered by the gesture to push his hand away. “Very good job, Fyr-Ceann Kitaryn.” He pats that hand. “You win. I’ll tell you everything I know.” He takes the apple from me and bites while he thinks. “Last year, my mho-mattan found a journal mixed in with some family scrolls. It had several family recipes for farming and cooking and that fertilizer is one of them. I have no idea how it’s made; just a couple of the ingredients we have to buy.”

He takes another bite of the apple, which crunches crisply. I think I can smell the fresh fruit as he eats, mixing well with the cinnamon and earth from his cloak.

“That’s all you know?” I ask, not hiding my disappointment.

He nods. “Not much of a prize. Could I interest you in a candied apple?”

I glance over at the sweet apples rolled in nuts and syrup. It is tempting. Under the sounds of chatter and laughter, the band, having worked through a cycle or two, strikes up another waltzing partner dance. I'm not dancing with Trom on this one, either. Now everyone knows we aren’t a pair—that I'm not interested in him. It’s too late to correct my actions. I should at least look to dance with others of the upper tier. With real prospects. Not fraternize with a Cultivator all evening. He’s a dead-end in matchmaking as much as the investigation. But those sweets and his easy smile do tempt me.

He puts one in my hand. “Don’t start drooling now. Your image would be ruined.” That cheeky smile warms the words.

Heat crosses my face. I’d spent a moment too long hesitating. “Lovely of you.”

“Breeze’s bliss.” He rounds the booth to where his mother was standing when we arrived. “Though I’d say it’s my bliss, not the breeze’s, in this case.”

Beauty’s sake. He is really, truly flirting with me. “I wish it was your bliss to give more thorough answers about your family,” I nudge him back in the directions I need.

His eyes roll, the smile never leaving his face. “I wish it was your bliss to forget about work during a festival.”

I sigh. “I'm afraid I can’t.” I think it hurts me to say it.

“Sure you can. Think about apples and dumplings. Think about dancing, about the music and food. Stop worrying about things outside of your control.”

I cross my arms. “Stop telling a Fyr-Ceann what to do.”

“Yes, your loftiness, but perhaps you should consider worrying less about your station for a moment. It stresses you too much."

“You’re stressing me, not work. You don't seem to understand the situation.”

“The situation is,” he gives a dramatic pause. He straightens suddenly, staring past me. “It’s time for you to go.”

“What?” That isn't at all the glib remark I expected.

His hand reaches behind my shoulder, pushing me aside. “Go! Go go go.”