“Truth," said a traveller, “Is a breath, a wind, a shadow, a phantom; long have I pursued it, but never have I touched the hem of its garment.”
B
oudika has never known a child, not truly. Her father did not speak with most of his family, and her mother’s family had wanted nothing to do with them after she passed away. She had no nieces, no nephews, no cousins. And her friends had been too young for children, when she had left—when she had been imprisoned and sentenced to death. So, she has never known a child. Her only frame of reference is what she remembers of herself, at this age, and what she remembers is that they are not so different—
Boudika remembers being severe. She remembers when her father first shorn her mane and she had looked in the mirror, after, at the hard lines of her face and neck. Her eyes had been too large, and too brutal—and Elliana’s eyes are too large and too haunting, as if they have already seen too much of the world.
It unsettles Boudika; but not as much as childish exuberance might have. Surprisingly, the silence between them does not feel awkward, and when the girl says, tea, please, with lavender Boudika orders it without missing a beat. A smile flits briefly across her face. “And whatever pastry you have that is most popular.”
Aren’t rainy days just perfectly splendid? Boudika wants to smile, but does not know how the girl will take the flash of her too-long teeth. So her lips only upturn at the edges. “They are beautiful,” Boudika agrees. “But rain is only rain.”
The shopkeeper hands over the tea and pastry, and Boudika leads the girl to a small corner. There is a fire burning in the fireplace, and the warmth radiates into the room. The cushions are plush and vibrantly colored, and the entire shop smells of tea and coffee and baking bread. They sit, and Boudika presents the goods but then glances out the window, fearing her own mistake.
She should have remained quiet. She should have let the girl return to the street. She should have let her disappear like the ghosts she talks to.
And what were you doing? If not in town often, why today?
“Fate,” Boudika says simply. The red mare does not elaborate.
She regards the girl quietly, for a moment. The truth is not hers to share, no matter how—even now—anger burns within her in the same way coals smolder. “Some people drift apart. I have not seen him for quite some time. I live in the sea.” She is not speaking of the man Elliana believes to be her father, but her father by blood. By the man who broke her heart.
Then:
Do you wanna know a secret?
Boudika cannot help the way she smiles. The girl is somber, curious, bright-eyed. She reminds Boudika a bit of herself, in a strange way, if the war had not taken so much from her. “Yes. Tell me.”
I have one for you, she cannot help but think. It seems too cruel, however, and she is ashamed.
