The Ten Thousand Doors of January - Alix E. Harrow Page 0,78

said your name: January.

I missed dinner that night and left the next morning before dawn. You were rousted from bed to see me off, and your face through the carriage window—sleep-tousled, vaguely accusing—haunted me for months afterward. In the pain of my loss, I gave you the pain of absence.

I cannot fill that empty place now; I cannot dive backward in time and force myself to fling open the carriage door and run back to you, gather you close to me, and whisper in your ear: “We love you, we have always loved you.” I have left it too late, and you are nearly grown. But I can give you at least an accounting of the facts, long overdue.

This is why you were raised in the pine-pocked snows of Vermont rather than the stone islands of the Amarico Sea in the world of the Written. This is why your father’s eyes touch your face only rarely and lightly, as if you were a tiny sun that might blind him. This is why I am nearly six thousand miles away from you, hand cramping from the cold, alone but for the twin harpies of despair and hope hovering always by my side.

This is what happened to Yule Ian Scholar and Adelaide Lee Larson after the birth of their daughter, in the raw spring of the Written Year 6922.

It was earliest spring when Yule first noticed an expression on his wife’s face he had not seen before. It was a kind of wistfulness, a tendency to gaze out at the horizon and sigh and forget, for a moment, what she was doing. At night she twisted and chafed, as if the quilt were a burdensome weight on her body, and woke before dawn to make tea and stare again out their kitchen window toward the sea.

One night as they lay breathing together in the dark, wrapped in the green smell of spring, Yule asked, “Is there something wrong, Adelaide?”

He asked in the language of the City of Nin, and she responded in the same manner. “No. Yes. I do not be knowing.” She reverted to English. “It’s just I’m not sure I like staying all tied up to one place. I love her, I love you, I love this house and this world, but… I feel like a mad dog on a short leash, some days.” She rolled away from him. “Maybe everybody feels this way at first. Maybe it’s just the season getting to me. I always did say springtime was made for leaving.” Yule did not answer but lay awake listening to the distant sighing of the sea, thinking.

The following day he left the house early, while Ade and January were still sprawled in bed and the sky was not truly light but merely dreaming pale dreams. He was gone several hours, during which time he spoke to four people, spent the entirety of their modest savings, and signed three separate statements of debt and ownership. He returned to the stone cottage out of breath and beaming.

“How was teaching?” Ade asked. (“Ba!” January added imperiously.)

Yule plucked the baby from Ade’s arms, winked, and said, “Come with me.”

They spiraled down into the City, past the square and the university, past his mother’s tattoo shop and the shoreline fish market, out onto the sun-warmed pier. Yule led her to the very end and stopped before a shapely little boat, larger and sleeker than The Key, with hastily stitched blessings in the sail for speed and adventure and freedom. There were supplies packed in canvas bags—nets and tarps, water barrels and smoked fish, dried apples, juniper wine, rope, a bright copper compass—and a tidy covered cabin at one end with a straw mattress inside.

Ade was quiet for so long that Yule’s heart began to jitter and flutter with doubt. It is never advisable to make decisions before dawn or without consulting one’s spouse, and he had done both.

“Is this ours?” Ade asked, finally.

Yule swallowed. “Yes.”

“How did you—why?”

Yule lowered his voice and slipped his hand into hers so that their tattoos merged into a single black-inked page. “I will not be your leash, my love.” Ade looked at him then, with a soaring expression so full of love that Yule knew he had done something not merely kind but utterly vital.

(Do I regret it? Would I take it back, if I could? Tell her to resign herself to home and hearth, to give up her wandering ways? It depends which weighs more: a life,