Kytto didn’t look impressed. His gaze roamed her small frame. “Are you eating enough?”
“Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
Geneve nodded. “Yes.”
“Why are you so scrawny, then?”
She looked at her feet. “I don’t know.”
“I do. It’s because you’re not eating or sleeping.” The Smith stalked about his forge, pacing like a caged animal.
“It’s hard to eat or sleep. Wincuf’s Trial is tomorrow. I’m to face him in his bout of fifty.” Geneve felt the tiny size of her voice, a perfect match for her physical dimensions.
“So?”
“So, he holds glass and can cut me in half.”
“Best you not let him do that.” The Smith sniffed. “Okay, I agree, that’s not the best advice. Lacks, what’s the word…”
“Specificity,” Vertiline suggested from her perch by the stairs. Geneve hadn’t seen her come down.
Kytto jumped. Obviously he hadn’t either. “Why, Knight Chevalier Vertiline! What a surprise. Have you come here to offer more sage advice, or to get on my nerves?”
“Why settle for just one?” She stalked forward, all lithe grace. Geneve felt crude and ugly beside her. Tilly could use the Storm. Her body held the raw might of the Three. Geneve would never be so fine. “She needs a blade.”
“Plenty of blades about.”
“She needs the blade.” Vertiline stuck out her chin. “You know the one.”
Kytto snorted. “Don’t be daft.”
“You’ll never use it.”
“I might.”
“How long have we known each other?” Vertiline’s armor gleamed, scattering the illumination of the light globes.
“A few years,” Kytto said, in a way Geneve found unsatisfying and evasive.
“Fifteen years, Kytto. Have I ever asked you for anything?”
The Smith sighed, then looked at Geneve. “Here’s how the conversation’s going to go. She’ll say she’s never asked for anything—”
“I haven’t.”
“And I’ll remind her about that one time—”
“I didn’t ask.”
“And eventually we’ll bicker like two FOPs without teeth—”
“FOPs?”
“Fucking Old Person.” Kytto didn’t turn to Vertiline. “Keep up. Once we’ve whined at each other, I’ll keep my sword.”
“You will not.”
“You’re right.” He stood. “I’ll get it.” Kytto trudged off, swearing under his breath, except louder than it might require.
Geneve, eyes round, watched him go. “What was the one time?”
Vertiline looked her up and down, as if noticing her for the first time. Her eyes tracked Geneve’s small shoulders, down her frame, and landed at her feet. Geneve felt measured, and perhaps, equal to the answer. “I said he should kiss me. Didn’t ask. Told. Big difference.”
“And he didn’t give you a kiss?”
“He said it wasn’t his to give.” Tilly shook her head. “I will never understand that man.”
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