Chapter 8

Lately, Cain had been sticking close to me.

He started finding reasons to talk.

He asked where I'd been for that half month I was gone.

I showed him photos and videos from the trip. I told him about the Inter-Pack Trade Fair with its handmade pins and earrings from Ironpeak Mountain fruits. I told him about the leather tooling and plant dyeing and woodcarving I'd tried. I told him about going into the forest with the local Pack to gather mushrooms along a mountain stream, and how good it felt to come back with a full basket.

"Sorry, am I talking too much?"

I wasn't usually like this. But whenever Cain asked about the trip, I couldn't seem to stop.

I didn't leave him room to get a word in.

Cain just smiled and rested his chin in his hand. "No."

"Keep talking. I'm listening."

He sat quietly while I described everything I'd seen and done. At the end he asked: "You really love traveling, don't you?"

I nodded immediately.

"I always feel more settled at home," he said. "But that's fine. I can try."

"Try what?" I asked.

Cain turned the little carved cat I'd made over and over in his hands without answering.

Lately he hadn't gone back to his studio. He'd been staying home.

One afternoon, he called me by name from the study.

"Ember."

I went to see what he wanted.

He pushed the door open and waved me inside. "Come in."

I still remembered the last time I'd entered that room — the fury on his face, the things he'd said.

I didn't move. I stayed in the doorway.

He reached out and took my sleeve, pulling me gently into the room.

"You can come in whenever you want from now on."

"No one else. Just you."

"I have something for you."

The study was large.

In addition to the desk and chair, there was a white grand piano.

Cain was in a full black suit today, tie included.

He only dressed this formally when he was going to play.

The last light of the evening came through the floor-to-ceiling windows and fell across him.

His fingers moved, and music poured out.

I don't know anything about music theory. I can't tell you about dynamics or phrasing. All I knew was that this piece was layered and full. Dense and unhurried at the same time.

I stood and listened without moving.

When he finished, he looked up at me. "Did you like it?"

I nodded and clapped. "Yes."

"It's a rough draft. Still needs work." He gestured at a thick stack of sheet music. "More revisions. It'll be better."

I liked the piece a lot. "What's it called?"

Cain thought for a moment. "Haven't decided yet."

"This piece — it's for you."

"Your birthday's in a few days. This is the gift."

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't expected a gift like this.

He cleared his throat softly and shifted topics.

"Do you know what caused my condition?"

I'd asked Gerald about it once. Gerald had told me it was the fault of a negligent caretaker when Cain was young.

But Cain shook his head. "It wasn't the caretaker. It was my parents."

"Oh?"

He went quiet. He seemed to be trying to piece together how to explain it.

His hands had started trembling slightly. Clearly just recalling it was costing him.

"It's okay," I said. "If it's too painful, you don't have to tell me."

I poured him a glass of warm water.

He gritted his teeth. "I want to say it. I want you to know."

He spent a long time building himself up. Then, very haltingly: "My father chased my mother for a long time before she agreed to bond with him. Two years in, my mother found out he had someone else."

"The first time, she was furious. He got on his knees and swore it was over."

"But there was a second time. A third. A fourth."

"I was home when I saw my father with one of them. It was awful."

"My mother took me and left. My father came after her. She gave in and went back."

"When she got home, she found out he hadn't stopped. He even brought the woman with him the night he came to ask for forgiveness. My mother was putting me to sleep in one room while my father was with the other woman next door."

"But this time my mother didn't cry and didn't fight. She went very still. Very calm."

"She asked my father to take us on a trip. A family trip. It was the first and only one we ever took."

He gripped his sleeve tight and pressed down on what was rising in him.

"That night. In a city I didn't know."

"My mother took a knife and drove it into my father's chest."