The music never ended that night, and Ghisla trilled and tripped lightly over every song, a smile on her lips, her eyes closed to take herself back, and her hand pressed to Hod’s.
“There are your parents,” Hod said, his voice awed.
“Yes, whenever we parted, we sang the same song. But that night as we sang it, they did not stand hand in hand like we usually do. They danced like they too were young and in love.”
Think of me when we part,
I’ll send you with my heart.
Keep it tucked next to yours,
’Til you return once more.
“He does love her. He holds her gently,” Hod said, as though the vision was now.
“Sometimes he held her gently. But he held her tightly too. She would complain that he kissed her too hard, but she was always smiling and swaying when he finished.”
They watched together a moment more, Ghisla humming the song that had played while her parents danced.
“I have kissed a woman,” Hod said softly.
“You have?” she gasped.
Her shock and dejection chased the happy memory away, and the connection was lost—the connection to her past and the connection to Hod.
It seemed to stun him, the return to darkness when his mind had been flooded with color and story.
“Come back, Ghisla,” he said. He turned her in his arms, his fingers searching and settling on her cheeks, his palms cupping her jaw.
She stilled, and his fingers flexed, as though he didn’t trust her not to jerk away.
When she did not, he inched toward her until his face was too near for her to make out his expression, until his forehead lay against hers. He did not try to turn her face or tilt his chin to align their lips. He simply hovered there, so close, their heads touching but their minds their own.
“Yes. I have kissed a woman. Several. In Berne. It was quite distasteful. Arwin thought it educational. They were not gentle . . . and they were not shy. I suspect the women were old and weary of men. Some did not have teeth. Some had far too many. Arwin made certain the whole experience was as unpleasant as possible.”
His breath tickled her mouth, and her stomach flipped. Imagining him with another woman—even one without teeth—was oddly, inexplicably, painful to hear. He was her Hody. He was hers. And she had expected him to be as inexperienced as she. She had thought they might learn together.
“Why are you telling me this?” she moaned.
“Because . . . I did not expect to want to do it again,” he confessed. “But I very much want to kiss you.”
“You do?” she asked.
His forehead lifted so their mouths could meet, and his lips brushed hers.
It was not unpleasant . . . not at all . . . and she forgot her pain.
For several moments, their lips fluttered and flitted as they learned how to best fit their mouths together, but fit they did, and the fluttering became a settling and a seeking. It was a new dance, one they choreographed as they moved their mouths together and apart, over and against. It was a dance Ghisla never thought she would tire of. She raised her hands to Hod’s face to hold him to her.
“I want to see you,” he whispered against her mouth.
“And I want to kiss you,” she murmured back. “I cannot sing and kiss you at the same time.”
“Then we will have to do it my way,” he said. He did not withdraw his lips, but his fingers glided over her face and down her throat. He continued across the bony ridge where her shoulders dropped onto her chest, and her body began to hum.
His kiss deepened.
“Open your mouth, Ghisla. I want to taste you.”
She pulled away slightly, uncertain. His sightless eyes were closed, and his voice was sweet. Pleading. And he pulled her mouth back to his.
If it had been anyone but Hod she would have grimaced. What an odd thing to say. What an odd thing to do. But it was Hod, and she obeyed, parting her lips against his.
His tongue was tentative, the way his hands had been, as though sensation was dependent upon it, and she opened her mouth wider, welcoming him in.
The humming within her became a quake, and his exploration became her own. Then the music changed, the movement changed, and their kiss took on a new