Steelhands - Jaida Jones [48]
“Uh,” Gaeth said, a look of concern creasing his brow. “Did I say something wrong? Or do I have something on my face?”
“Neither,” I said, deciding it’d probably go beyond the bounds of our precarious friendship if I tried to feel his forehead. That was for the best; I really didn’t want to touch him, anyway. Laure often remarked that I “got meaner than a horse at a shoeing” when I’d been embarrassed by something, and I supposed she wasn’t far off. The expression, while inelegant, had a certain grim flourish that left little to the imagination. Even if Gaeth himself hadn’t been the origin of my discomfort, I still couldn’t shake the awful knowledge that he had been witness to my public heartbreak. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
I’d intended to set Gaeth free down whatever street he chose in order to let him get away, but when I turned in the direction of the path I’d followed to get here, for whatever madcap reason, he chose to come along with me. I was cross with him for invading my privacy, since I’d been planning on losing myself in my jumbled thoughts, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t like Laure. He certainly wasn’t willing—nay, waiting—to jabber my ear off at a moment’s notice. In fact, I was so grateful for his silence that I didn’t even particularly mind having to slow my pace considerably in order not to get too far ahead of him in the crowd.
Perhaps he had thoughts of his own to consider, thoughts that were slowing him down.
It was colder than it’d been when I’d left the ’Versity Stretch that afternoon to follow Hal, and I blew on my hands, rubbing them together to try to coax some warmth into them. I’d been cursed with poor circulation as a child, and as a result I tended to feel the cold more than most. The chilblains were the worst, swelling my fingers and toes and cracking before they finally healed, sometime just before summer.
“Do you want my mittens?” Gaeth asked all of a sudden.
I cast a look at his coat and tried not to imagine too vividly what any mittens he might’ve owned would look like. Wearing them over my gloves would be impossible, in any case. I’d have looked quite the fool.
“I think I’ll manage,” I said carefully, modulating my tone so that Laure wouldn’t be able to ask me why I’d scared our new friend away when he was only trying to be polite.
“Nah,” Gaeth said, digging around in his pockets for something. “You’ll end up with chilblains for sure, and then won’t you be miserable. Here, I bought these for my mam, but I don’t think anyone’d be the wiser if you wore them back to the dorms. They’re new, so … you know, you don’t have to worry. About them not being clean, that is.”
I stared at them, completely bereft of any words that might have helped me to extricate myself from this situation with the proper finesse. A witty retort about women’s gloves, perhaps, or even something about chilblains, which as I knew only too well were horrid when experienced firsthand. Had he merely guessed or had Laure told him I was susceptible? The only part my mind could process—completely unhelpfully—was that the mittens were a rough, brown leather and looked as though they were lined with some kind of fur.
“Take ’em,” Gaeth said. “They probably don’t have fleas. I mean, they definitely don’t have ’em. I checked.”
“Hardly a convincing endorsement,” I muttered, but I took them nonetheless, tugging them on. The fur made them warm, though they were bulky enough to make my hands feel very clumsy.
“You should get warmer gloves, yourself,” he added. “The ones you’re wearing are nice and all, but they don’t look like they help much with the cold. What you really need is something woolly, like the ones Laure’s always wearing.”
“Ah, yes,” I sniffed. “Those.”
“Something wrong with ’em?” Gaeth asked.
I checked to see if he wasn’t making fun