Chapter 123 — "Two Years"

The training hall at Kestral at five in the morning looked the same as it had on Day 10.

Seraphina had stopped noticing that a long time ago. What she noticed now was different. The angle of the instructor’s weight before he moved. The tell in the left shoulder of the student across from her who always telegraphed before committing. The way cold air shifted when someone was about to do something fast.

She registered all of it simultaneously. Filed none of it. Just knew.

That was the difference between year one and year two. Year one she had been collecting. Year two she had stopped, because there was nothing left in this hall that needed collecting.

She moved. The student across from her moved. She was already somewhere else by the time he arrived where she had been.

He stopped. Regarded the empty space.

"You did it again."

"Yes."

"How."

"Your shoulder."

He examined his shoulder. Held it out slightly, like it had betrayed him personally.

She didn’t mention it would take months to fix. He’d figure that out.

The instructor watched from the side. Said nothing. Which was the highest available praise at Kestral.

Mira was waiting outside the hall after. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed. The posture of someone who had been waiting long enough to have developed opinions about the wait.

"You’re late."

"Session ran."

"It always runs when you’re in it."

"People keep wanting to understand what happened."

"Do you explain."

"Sometimes."

"The shoulder thing."

"He’ll be better for knowing."

Mira studied her. At two years of Seraphina standing in front of her, having become something harder to look at directly than it used to be. Not because she was frightening. Because she was precise now in a way that had nothing to do with trying.

"Eren’s already at the market."

"He went without us."

"He said he had preliminary research to do."

"About what."

"He didn’t specify."

Seraphina glanced at the training hall door. At the morning. At the market three streets from Kestral that had become their Saturday thing since month four of year one.

"Preliminary research."

"Yes."

"That means he found something he wants to buy and needs time to construct a justification."

Mira’s expression shifted. Confirmation rather than surprise.

"What is it this time."

"Unknown."

"Last time it was the rope."

"Before that the unusual hat."

"Before that the fruit he couldn’t name."

"That fruit was suspicious."

"Tax would have stolen it."

Not quite a smile crossed Mira’s face. The Mira version of one.

"He would have eaten it first."

"Then stolen more."

"Obviously."

Seraphina said the word without thinking. Mira caught it. Said nothing.

Some words carried people with them. Both of them knew that. Neither needed to say it.

They walked toward the market.

Eren was at a stall selling things that had no clear category. Not food. Not tools. Not fabric. Just things. The specific collection of a person who had gathered objects based on interest rather than utility.

He was holding something small, examining it with the concentration he usually reserved for soup ambition and corridor light temperature.

He looked up when they arrived.

"You’re here."

"Obviously," Seraphina said.

"I did preliminary research."

"We know."

"It was thorough."

"What did you find."

He held up the object. A small wooden box, painted, the paint worn in specific places from being held.

"It plays music."

"That’s a music box."

"Yes."

"You did preliminary research on a music box."

"I needed to understand the market."

"The market for music boxes."

"The market generally."

"Eren."

"It plays something specific."

"What."

He opened it. A small sound came out. Delicate. Old. Something composed a very long time ago by someone who understood that small sounds sometimes carried more than large ones.

The market continued around them. People moving. Stalls operating. The cold doing what the cold did. And the music box playing its small old song in Eren’s hands.

Seraphina listened.

At the sound. At the market. At Eren watching her listen.

"You like it," he said.

"It’s fine."

"You stopped walking."

"I was looking at the stall."

"You were listening."

"Eren."

"You always go still when something gets you."

She regarded the stall. The various objects with no clear category. The music box.

"How much."

Eren’s expression did the thing. The full genuine one — the one that arrived when something went exactly as anticipated and he found that deeply satisfying.

"For you," he said. "Free."

She stared at him.

"You already bought it."

"Preliminary research."

"You bought it before we arrived."

"I needed to confirm the sound quality."

"EREN."

"The acoustics in the market are different from—"

"You bought it for me."

He held it out.

She gazed at it. At the worn paint. At the places where someone’s hands had rested over years. At the small old song still finishing inside it.

She took it.

Mira regarded the stall. Then Seraphina. Then Eren. Then the music box.

"That’s the third thing this month," she said. To nobody specifically. To everybody.

Eren kept his attention on the stall.

"I find things."

"For her specifically."

"I find things generally."

"The embroidery thread last week."

"Thread has many uses."

"In the exact colors of her current project."

"Coincidence."

"Eren."

"Mira."

Seraphina was studying the music box. At the worn paint. At the places. At nothing.

Something had arrived that she wasn’t going to examine in a market in Varen on a Saturday morning.

She put it in her bag.

"What else did you research."

Eren turned back to the stall. The various objects.

"There’s a soup situation two stalls down."

"What kind of situation."

"It’s trying too hard."

Mira glanced at Seraphina. Seraphina returned the glance. Two years of this. Both equally unable to explain why they found it endearing and equally unwilling to admit it.

They followed him to the soup situation.

The stall was operated by a woman who had strong opinions about broth and expressed them through the specific intensity with which she stirred things.

Eren stood in front of it. Contemplating the soup. With the expression.

The woman regarded him.

"You want some."

"What is it trying to be."

The woman stared.

"The soup," Eren clarified. "What’s its ambition."

She looked at the pot. Then at Eren. Then at Seraphina and Mira standing slightly behind him with the expressions of people who had been here before.

"It’s broth."

"But what does it want to be."

"It wants to be eaten."

Eren considered this.

"That’s the most honest answer I’ve heard about soup in two years."

The woman held his gaze for a long moment. Then turned to Seraphina.

"Is he always like this."

"Yes."

"Does it get better."

"No."

"More specific," Mira added.

The woman regarded her soup. Then Eren again.

"You want some or not."

"Yes."

"Then sit down."

They sat. The market around them. The cold. The soup woman with her opinions about broth. The music box in Seraphina’s bag, its small old song already finished, just the memory of it now.

She rested her hand on the bag. At the shape of the box through the fabric. At the worn paint she couldn’t feel through the material but knew was there.

Eren noticed her hand on the bag. Said nothing. Which from Eren meant something different than Kael’s silence. Kael’s carried weight. Eren’s carried awareness.

She withdrew her hand. Regarded the soup.

"It’s trying too hard."

Eren studied his bowl.

"Yes."

"Unlike the one on Day 21."

"Which was uncertain."

"Which was honest about being uncertain."

"This one is performing confidence."

"Badly."

Mira looked between them. At two years of this specific dynamic assembled in front of her. At the soup performing confidence badly. At Seraphina’s hand that had been on the bag and wasn’t anymore.

She ate her soup. Filed everything. The way Mira did everything — practically, without announcement.

A boy from the eastern training track stopped at their table. Tall. The build of someone who had been here longer than two years.

He regarded Seraphina with the expression that had started appearing around month eight of year one and hadn’t stopped since.

"Valois."

"Mm."

"The morning session."

"Yes."

"You made Hendricks look at his own shoulder for ten minutes."

"He needed to understand the tell."

"He’s been training here for three years."

"His shoulder has been doing that for three years, then."

The boy shifted his attention from Eren to Mira to the soup and back to Seraphina.

"The instructor wants to move you to advanced track."

She kept her gaze on her bowl.

"When."

"Next month."

"Fine."

He nodded. Walked away.

Eren watched him go. Then turned to Seraphina.

"Advanced track."

"Yes."

"Next month."

"Yes."

"That’s."

"Eren."

"I’m just saying."

"You’re doing the thing."

"What thing."

"Where you pretend not to be impressed."

"I’m not pretending."

"You bought me a music box before I arrived."

"That was preliminary—"

"EREN."

He returned to his soup.

"The soup is performing."

"I know."

"Badly."

"I know."

"Unlike you."

She met his gaze. At the expression. At the genuine warmth underneath the goofy surface that had been there since Day 21 and had never once been performed.

Something moved through her face. She looked down.

"Eat your soup."

"It doesn’t deserve to be eaten."

"Eren."

"It’s not being honest."

"EAT THE SOUP."

He ate the soup. With the expression of someone making a moral compromise.

Mira observed this. Then, very quietly:

"I’m writing to Daren about this."

Seraphina turned to her.

"You write to Daren."

"Since month three."

"Of year one."

"Yes."

"You never told me."

"You never asked."

"What do you write about."

Mira kept her attention on her soup.

"Things."

"What things."

"Various."

Seraphina stared. At the word. At her own word coming back to her from Mira’s mouth after two years of absorbing it.

"Mira."

"Hm."

"What things specifically."

"Things that would make you uncomfortable if I listed them."

"List them."

"No."

"MIRA."

"Eat your soup."

"It’s performing."

"So are you."

Seraphina regarded her bowl. The market. The cold. Two years sitting around the table with her.

All of it.

Eren was watching her again. With the awareness that was different from weight.

"Seraphina."

"Hm."

"You went still again."

She fixed her attention on the soup.

"I’m eating."

"You’re thinking."

"People eat and think simultaneously."

"You specifically go still when something gets you."

"Nothing got me."

"The music box."

"Is a music box."

"The worn paint."

She held his gaze. At the expression. At the warmth. At someone who had been paying attention since Day 21 and had never once used what he noticed against her.

"Eren."

"Hm."

"Thank you."

He looked at his soup.

"For the preliminary research."

"Obviously," she said. Once. To the soup. Meaning everything else.

He said nothing. Which from Eren meant he heard it.

Mira regarded the market. The cold. The stall where the music box had been, now in a bag.

She composed a letter to Daren in her head already. Various things. Specific things. Things that would make Seraphina uncomfortable.

Obviously.