“I would rather you not.”

“You will not bring the law here, I hope.”

“No, sir. It is just personal.”

“Ah,” he said. “Ah.” Gently, tentatively, he squeezed my shoulder. “I will get you a blanket.”

I sat in his shop with my head in my hands and listened to the rhythm of my heart. I heard him walk up the stairs, and I knew it was inevitable that Shayat would come down. He must have told her I was not well, but she was not the type to be told much of anything, and in her infinite wisdom decided to evaluate the situation for herself. She sat next to me on the floor. “What happened?”

“I would rather you not ask.”

“It had to be something.”

“It was something. I would rather not discuss it.”

“You could, though,” she said. “Discuss it, I mean. If it would help. You don’t have to. I’m not going to make you. But if it would help, I’d listen.”

I peeked over, my hands still covering half my face. She smiled. I smiled back. I very much wanted to talk to her, just then, but how could I? It was all bound up in my gifts—gifts I ran from, had run from my entire life—and Dirva’s gifts. I couldn’t. Even if I’d decided to flout the rules, I wouldn’t have known where to begin. But her offer helped, and her smile helped more. “I would rather not. I’ll be all right.”

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

The next morning, Dirva appeared at Parvi’s shop. Parvi opened the door, and I heard him ask to see me. Parvi told him to wait. I was already out of bed and dressed when he came into the shop, already folding the blanket. “I’ll see him. Thank you. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You don’t have to see him, professor.”

“Thank you for that, too. I’ll see him.” I slipped out before Shayat woke. Dirva stood on the street, large and dark. “How did you know I was here?”

“I checked the jails first. You have a history,” he said. “If you weren’t there, you must have been here.”

“It’s Monday. It’s eight. You have…”

“I canceled it. Personal reasons. I felt we should talk. If you are willing, I think we should talk.”

I nodded. I stared down at my boots—old, beaten boots that had once belonged to Sorcha but before that had likely belonged to several others, boots that had traveled a long, long way. I tried to think of something to say.

“Ariah, I am sorry.”

I looked up. “You are?”