Lament - Мэгги Стифватер

He drove the Audi to Carytown, an endless street of shops painted every color of the rainbow and offering all sorts of odds and ends that couldn't be found elsewhere. After circling a few blocks, he found a parking spot nearly in the shade. "I know where to get an awesome French pastry, if you're hungry."

"Sounds good." I was starving; I hadn't eaten lunch in my excitement. That's because you're stupid, the voice in my head reminded me.

We got pastries from a little café, and took them outside to eat at a wrought-iron table that overlooked the street. Luke watched me in amusement as I took my layered pastry apart.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing what it's made of." I poked a sponge cake layer with a fork and tasted the cream on top of it. "So I could try and make it." Mom had taught me that. She dissected everything, read menus like novels, and then created her own magic in the kitchen.

He shook his head.

"Strange as strange?" I offered.

"I was going to say 'weird as weird.'" I was going to ask him questions--riddle him--but the pastry was so good (the cream was hazelnut) that I finished it before speaking. "Now, you talk."

Luke stood up, correcting me. "Now, we walk. I don't think there's anyone here, but I feel better walking."

I got up and he took my hand, easy and natural. I wondered if my touch gave him the same electric reaction I got from his. We began to walk down the too-bright concrete, cars whirring by us on the right, music beating from one of the clothing shops.

"Let me know if you want to go in anywhere," Luke said. As if I wanted to freakin' shop.

"Just talk. Tell me what's going on."

He watched a bicycler slowly pedal down the opposite side of the street. "Here's my secret..." He leaned over to my shoulder and said in a low voice, "I can't tell you my secrets."

It took me a moment to realize what he'd said. When I did, I ripped my hand from his and stopped in my tracks. "You brought me down here to tell me that?" A couple across the street paused in their stroll to look at us, and I lowered my voice. "I really expected better than that. At least lies."

Luke reached out a hand, but I crossed my arms. Sighing, he said, "It's true I can't tell you my secrets. But I don't know bow much I can't say. You can ask me questions, and I can see how far we get."

I frowned at him. A punk chick and her androgynous punk friend had to push past me. I ignored their snarky comments and instead squinted at Luke. "What do you mean, 'can't tell me'? Don't know how much you 'can't tell me'?"

His face begged for understanding; he shrugged helplessly.

I knew in my heart what he was dancing around, and even though I could send clover flying across the ground and move light switches, my mind still wouldn't accept it. Funny, because I'd wanted the world to be extraordinary for so long. And now that it was, I couldn't seem to believe it.

I lowered my voice. "Are you asking me to--to believe in magic?"

Luke didn't answer. He just kept his light eyes on me, his mouth sad.

"Fine, take my damn hand," I grumbled finally, sticking it out toward him. "Let's walk."

He took it immediately and we began to walk again, past an old record store and an antique shop with a suit of armor by the door, which cast a long shadow.

"Can you tell me why four-leaf clovers keep turning up?

Luke's grip tightened on mine and he looked around before answering. "They want you to be able to see Them." "Who's 'Them'?" He didn't answer. "Faeries?"

His mouth quirked, humorlessly.

I just stared, searching his face for signs of insincerity, but all I saw was my frowning expression mirrored back at me. My mind formed several questions that never reached my mouth. The one I finally said out loud was the stupidest: "I thought faeries had wings."

"Some do."

"I thought They were little friendly things that liked flowers."

"They do like flowers. They like all pretty things." Luke's eyes took in my face, wordlessly putting me in that category.

I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. "Why do They want me to see Them?"

Almost growling, he said, "Same reason They want anyone else to. To torment you. Play with you. Confuse you. Whirl you away."

My mind provided me a perfect image of Freckle Freak.

Hey, I liked that. I was calling him that from now on. I seized on other facts I'd learned. "And iron keeps Them away. And crosses. That's why Granna gave me the ring. And why you gave me your key. But--the dogs?"

"Their dogs."

"My dog?"

Luke looked at me.

I blinked. What was he saying--that I'd been watched since I was a baby? That squirrel-chasing Rye was a faerie hound? "But I could see them," I stammered. "The hounds, I mean. I didn't have any clover with me then."

Luke's voice was flat. "You're learning. Some people only need clover for a little while, until they learn from the clover how to see. I guess you're one of those."

So it was only going to get worse? The shadow in the corner of my room? Freckle Freak? No wonder Luke had kept the clover away from me when he could. I remembered something else.

"But why did Granna act so strangely around you?"

Luke's mouth worked. Though I looked at him, he didn't look back. Finally he said, "I think she mistook me for someone else."

I wasn't happy with the answer, though I couldn't quite think why. We walked in silence for a long time, until the asphalt gave way to cobblestones and the concrete to brick. Trees grew over the cobblestone road, and lovely old dark buildings crowded against the narrowing road.

Overhead, the green canopy completely blocked the late afternoon sun. Every step we took, every word we spoke, took us further into a strange and mysterious world.

"Why would They want me?" I asked, finally.

With surprising abruptness, Luke stopped and pulled me into a little alcove in the bricks--so fast that I didn't feel the thrill of the embrace until several seconds after I was in it.

He said into my ear, almost too softly to hear, "Who wouldn't?" His lips teased a maddeningly slow line down my neck and kissed my shoulder. Though his mouth was as hot as the hidden summer sun, I shivered and closed my eyes. My hands were crushed between us--I wouldn't have known what to do with them anyway. He kissed me again, farther up my neck, and I pushed him back against the wall.

My mind searched for logical thought, a rational life raft before I drowned in wanting to kiss him. I managed, "We've only met a few days ago. We don't know each other."

Luke released me. "How long does it take to know someone?"

I didn't know. "A month? A few months?" It sounded stupid to quantify it, especially when I didn't want to believe my own reasoning. But I couldn't just go kissing someone I knew nothing about--it went against everything I'd ever been told. So why was it so hard to say no?

He took my fingers, playing with them in between his own. "I'll wait." He looked so good in the half-light under the trees, his light eyes nearly glowing against his shadowed skin. It was useless.

"I don't want you to." I whispered the words, and before I'd even finished saying them, his mouth was on mine and I was melting under his lips. My hands--I don't know how I could have worried about them--gripped his T-shirt, knuckles pressed against his lanky body, and his were wrapped tightly around my back and neck, as if he had caught me as I fainted.

He finally stepped back, his hands slipping down my arms to hold my fingers. "I don't think anyone could smell as good as you. They can't have you. I want you."

I bit my lip. "I think I have to show you something. But I think you'd better take me to a church, to be safe."

In the dim evening light, the church was unoccupied, dark, smelling of incense and mystery. I dipped my fingers into the holy water and crossed myself by habit, then lead Luke down between the pews.

"What do you have to show me?" His voice was somber and small in the church, muffled by the carpet runner beneath our feet.

I didn't know how to demonstrate it, but I knew he had to know about my telekinesis. Maybe that was why the faeries wanted me. My footsteps inaudible, I led him to the front of the church.

Then an idea occurred to me, and I pulled a single yellow rosebud from one of the flower arrangements on the steps to the altar.

I turned back to Luke to find him gazing up at the crucifix hanging at the very front of the church, his eyes sad. He looked back down at me and then at the bud in my hands. He was facing me like it was a lonely wedding ceremony.

"Do you remember what you told me at the competition?" I asked.

His eyes clouded, and his voice was tight. "No."

I pressed on. "About how there are some people who can do anything?"

He spun away from me. "I was just distracting you. I didn't want you to throw up. It worked, didn't it?"

"Don't lie," I said fiercely. "You knew. I don't know how you did, but you knew. You knew I was one of those people, didn't you?"

His back still toward me, he bowed his head and held a fist to his forehead. "No. You're not. Just say you're not." The light from the candles around Mary's feet lit the side of his cheek and left the rest of his face in shadow.

"I can't say I'm not! I am. Look." I thrust the bud out toward him, cupping it in both hands. He turned, his face drawn. There was only a second's pause, and then the petals unfolded, one after another, until the bloom had grown large enough to touch each of my fingers. I stared at the velvet yellow petals cupped in my hands, and then back up at him.

Luke hugged his arms around himself. "Impressive," he said in a small voice.

I didn't understand his reaction. "But you knew I could do this, already. Why else would you have said it?"

He turned away again, shoulders hunched. "Could you give me a minute?"

I had done something wrong. I shouldn't have shown him. But he had known, hadn't he? What had I done? I retreated quickly down the aisle, pushing my way through the double doors into the narthex, where I swiped one of my eyes dry. For a long moment I stood in the dim room, looking blankly at the fliers for bake sales and Bible studies on the bulletin board.

Then I heard him shout, "Damn you! Why?"

I looked through the clear glass of the narthex doors to see if he spoke to some barely seen faerie.

But to my eyes, there was no one there but Luke and God.

We didn't talk about the rose on the drive home. For a long time, I stared out the window at the specter of the moon, hanging above the black silhouettes of the trees, while the stripes on the road whipped by me. Something about the way the moon looked, enigmatic and eternal, reminded me of how I'd felt when I made the rose blossom in my hands.

Abruptly, Luke pulled the car off onto a barely visible dirt lane by the highway. He wrenched the parking brake up and studied the glowing clock face in the dash.

"Are you angry at me?" he asked.

Surprised by the question, I looked at him. His face was green and peaked, illuminated by the lights in the dashboard, and his expression was genuinely concerned.

"Why would I be mad at you?"