Steelhands - Jaida Jones [73]
BALFOUR
I’d started the letter at least ten times already and scrapped just as many pieces of paper since. No matter how I phrased it, the words sounded too needful—as though I somehow didn’t realize Thom had troubles of his own to deal with on his travels, and with him so far from the city, there was nothing in particular he could even do for me.
It was just my luck to find someone at last in whom I felt comfortable confiding, only to see him leave Thremedon almost immediately after we’d been introduced. If it hadn’t been so sad, it would have made an excellent joke.
Dear Thom, my current missive read, I really would appreciate your advice …
But that was too abrupt, I thought, without any mention of his health, or Rook’s health, or how they were both holding up after their unexpected and nearly fatal adventure. I crumpled the eleventh page swiftly and tossed it into the corner with the rest of them, then pinched my brow too hard with my clumsy fingers.
Since we were friends, I tried to reason with myself, a simple task like this one really shouldn’t have been so difficult. He overthought things himself, to some extent—one of the many points of personality on which we came together—but he did manage to write letters despite it, asking for help or simply wishing to hear my opinion on matters both important and trivial. His latest letter, however, had made all my little woes seem relatively insignificant, and I hadn’t known how to reply to him.
Until now—now that I needed something.
It seemed greedy to me, like some fatal flaw in my manners, but I had no one else to speak to.
Dear Thom, I tried again, holding the pen stiffly. I heard from Luvander yesterday that there is a song in the bars of lower Charlotte dedicated to my hands, but also, to my ba …
That was completely ridiculous, I told myself, and tore that one up before I tossed it, so no one going through the garbage might be able to read it.
In warmer weather, I’d confided in the statues, like the old tale of a lonely boy whispering all his problems into a hole in the ground.
The crowds around the memorial generally left at night, and I was able to lean against the sturdy foot of Jeannot or Compagnon and tell them, without feeling as though I were in some way complaining, that my wrists pained me, and that the metal was cold—although I did conclude all my confessions with an apology. It seemed rude to complain to dead men that my situation while living was troubling me, since I had the very good luck of still being alive. Apparently, though everyone believed differently, it seemed that I had no manners to speak of whatsoever when it came to dealing with my friends, former or current.
It was a thought that gave me much unrest. Adamo would’ve been quite disappointed if he’d known.
But it was too cold for that kind of trip now, especially with my hands in their current state. And anyway, the more I did it, the more foolish I felt. These men were gone, and they’d left their petty problems behind them when they left. I had no place burdening them with mine where others came with gifts, flower wreaths, and the like. Had I no real respect for the dead?
There’d also been a chance I’d have run into Adamo or Luvander while lingering at the site, and I’d wanted to avoid that at all costs—and the questions concerning my health especially. What answer should I have given them? Perhaps simply showing them what remained of me would be enough, but I couldn’t bear the idea of their pity.
I much preferred Luvander’s gossip and his jokes, as though nothing at all had changed. Uncomfortable as they might have made me, the discomfort was at least a familiar one.
Dear Thom, I began again, I wonder if you might be amused by the promise that upon your return to Thremedon, I will invite you to accompany me to lower Charlotte,