Kitaryn

I have always been told I look like my mattan. Our fair hair wafts down like loose cobwebs that not even the finest goat-hair brush can smooth, and our eyes shine such a pale, clear blue that it seems stolen from the summer horizon. The resemblance ends there. 

The lady crumples a napkin in her lap, her tea hardly touched despite the fact that this is her favorite teahouse in the city. The crumpet, at least, has been left as crumbs.

I sit on slippered feet, my dress smooth, hands folded in my lap. This is my bi-annual brunch with my mattan.“And Dysren, how is he?” I ask after my mother’s husband’s son, which makes him my brother–though I'm fairly certain I've never met the man.

My mattan's long, flaxen lashes flutter as she smiles shyly. “Oh, very good. He’s just been offered a matronage with a very nice young lady in the arts.”

“The one you mentioned in the spring? What was her family name… Rosebright?”

“Yes, Bealwyn Roseshine! She livens up our family nights nicely. We all think it's a lovematch. It's… lovely to see.” The napkin is once again crushed in my mattan’s hands, and the woman stares down at it, leaving what she really means unsaid. I wish you would come, Kitty.

“Very good.” I nod my approval. “He’ll be happy.” You all are fine without me.

“Speaking of partners, who were those young men you danced with?” My mattan's eyes wander even further toward the floor as she traces the napkin’s embroidery with her finger. “Anyone special?” She glances up for only the sparest moment, then away again as if spooked by my unwavering gaze.

“No, though Athyr wishes I’d partner with Trom–that’s the gray-haired fellow in the orange tunic set. I was only trying to please him. But, well, I’m not ready to choose a partner.” I raise my cup to find it empty and set it in my lap. 

“Was he angry, your Athyr?” Her voice whines, pinched with concern.

Before I left the festival yesterday, I tried to catch some up-and-coming artists for a dance: anyone within my Athyr’s realm of approval. I couldn’t even begin an approach without meeting hostile glares and turned backs. When I left Trom on the floor, I threw courtesy into the dirt, and then trampled on it by dancing with Aodan. No one was willing to share in my disgrace. Even Aodan shouldn’t have.

I had fled home in utter defeat, with weak excuses and no prospects, entering our cavernous house with a belly full of nothing but dread. Thanks to beauty, my athyr had not returned before me. 

He is not going to forgive me for this. Not for a long time.

But not much has happened–yet. My athyr hasn’t spoken to me except to assign Trom to join me on the Barleyblossom investigation and bid me complete an unnecessary bit of grunt work–reconciling a list of texts. It’s disciplinary action, to be sure, but not what I expected. That hasn’t kept him from glaring daggers at me. I know this isn’t over; he bides his time.

“He hasn’t said anything,” I say to my mattan. A neutral enough answer.

“So he’s furious.” Her fingers relinquish the napkin, her shoulders drooping with guilt.

I finally look away, into the periwinkles glazed into the bottom of my cup. If you know, then why did you leave me with him? A hundred years and I still haven’t asked this question. Looking at the timid woman, it seems obvious enough. She’d lasted only a score more years than my brother had in that house, and those with the addition of my ars-mho-mattan. I shiver at the thought of that ancient woman, and then set my cup on the table. 

“It will blow over. Storms always do.” I don't know why I'm trying to comfort her.

“You don’t have to live there anymo–”

I rise. That offer comes every brunch, but it's far too late. “It was lovely seeing you  Mattan, but I have to follow up with an investigation. I will see you in the spring.” The future of our nation's culture rests on my shoulders, and I'm supposed to abandon it to play party games with someone else’s family? No.

I bow formally, then turn from the table. I can’t hear my mattan’s parting over the creaking of wood panels under my swift steps. The aches and groans of dry wood chase me to the threshold where I'm finally met with sunlight and stone. 

I hardly look where I'm going as I dodge between businessfolk bustling through the city’s second tier, trying to keep their lunch appointments. I hate this brunch. I pardon my way past a dozen clusters of elves loitering by shop windows. It always leaves me feeling sick inside.  A pair of broad shoulders step into my path pushing an empty cart. I leap aside, wishing I could just as easily escape the consequences of—

“Fyr-Ceann Kitaryn?” A warm, deep voice cuts over the rumble of the cart, which ceases. 

I blink in recognition at my unlikely ally, and I smile. “Aodan. What brings you to the city?”

“Delivering some very un-traditional cranberries to Ionin’s stall in the open market. What about you? Down to the second tier I mean.”

Frosts, I've wandered nearly to the open markets, lost in thought again. “Breakfast with my mattan.” I hesitate, unsure if I should continue the conversation. 

“Ah, she didn’t marry your Athyr?”

I shake my head. “She married an artist–a dancer. He’s been the subject of almost every one of her sculptures for a century. I guess it was a crush.”

“A dancer! Excellent choice.” Aodan grins a bit too broadly, and I wonder, based on his performance at the festival, if that isn't his own chosen Art. 

The conversation lags, and someone shoves his way through us. 

“Here, we shouldn’t clog the thoroughfare. I guess you’re headed back up? I need the gate up that way as well.” The wheel on Aodan’s push cart rumbles over the mountain’s stone as we start up the road.

“Yes, back to the Culture Center. Actually, it’s fortuitous I ran into you. Did my note make it to you?”

“Yeah. You should have a reply on your desk by now, I’d imagine.”

I nod and check on the clouds. They are bright white, high, and wispy. I wonder, if I could ride them, whether I could still see the city. 

“You look thoughtful.”

“Not so much, just now.” I turn to see he's studying me.

“Watch it!” someone calls, stumbling past the cart. One of us should have been watching our path.

“No, you were thinking.” He insists, waving an apology to the disgruntled businessman. “What is it?”

“No, it’s silly.”

“No such thing.” The welcoming glow of his amber eyes reinforces his words. 

I take a deep breath and allow it out. “Do you ever wish you could fly?”

Deep creases form by his mouth. “Fly, Fyr-Ceann?”

“Nevermind. I told you it's silly.”

“Hardly.” He pushes his cart faster so he can walk directly beside me. “I was just surprised that you’d hesitate to say something so… normal. Who wouldn’t want to fly? Seeing the whole world pass under you; feeling the sun on your wings.” 

He speaks with passion, and I think my heart is growing wings with how it flutters. “I think I’d like to see it in the moonlight, bathed in silver.”

He stops at a crossroads. “An idea nearly as lovely as you are.”

My cheeks warm at his words. “Are you flirting with a Fyr-Ceann?”

“That depends, is it working?” He winks at me, grin cheeky, and I can't decide if he is joking.

“You’re incorrigible.”  I pinch back a smile.

“Ooo,” his voice lilts. “Is that good?”

“No.” My smile breaks through. I can't help it.

“Disappointing,” he sighs, picking up his cart. “This is my turn. I must wish you a beautiful day, Fyr-Ceann. Unless…” he trails off, biting his tongue in mischief, “you’d like to request a ride to the top?”“

“A ride?” I laugh as he wiggles his dark, satiny eyebrows. 

He raises his barrow with one hand and gestures to the empty body with the other. “All of the classiest ladies are doing it, you know.”

I shake, trying not to laugh too loudly in the corner of the street and call attention to us. “Yawning skies! Where did you even get this idea?”

“That’s a no, then? Too bad. I saw the Ars-athyr herself borne up just last week. You could’ve had the honor.”

Something inside me breaks. I feel it shatter, falling away in pieces as I laugh with abandon. The thought of the ruler of the Everglow elves in her draping finery, seated atop a rickety wooden cart, pushed along by a disheveled worker, will be pressed forever into my mind. “Some honor.” I force myself still again, ignoring the sidelong glance of a mid-life elf. 

Aodan’s face has changed, no longer wearing a too-wide grin, but a soft and nearly… tender expression. “Then I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Yes,” I smile, hoping to see his demeanor lighten again.

He bows, and then is on his way. I turn to mine, feeling refreshed. A laugh was just what I needed. I don’t quite know why, but at the corner of the next building I look back, and I catch his eye as he looks back at me. His face has donned his handsome grin again and he waves. I've made a mistake in looking.