The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 5

Uncomfortable, heavy silence fills the carriage as we ride for Allendar. Under the eye of the groomed bear Cy, we keep our mouths shut. After all, it is known to be a grave offense to speak while the Baroness reads. Her tome of choice is bound in leather dyed lavender, the title on the spin obscured by alabaster hands. The silk of her dress matches the hue, and I wonder if that choice was deliberate. Then again, things rarely seem accidental or happenstance with the Baroness. I would imagine that this trip itself was simply so she had an excuse to leave the Tower for a night. Or maybe it's an elaborate scheme to get more traffic to the Tower of Lost Children so she can be rid of an extra orphan or two.

She has us dressed as nice as possible, our Showing clothes cleaned and pressed for this special occasion. For us boys, button-down shirts tucked neatly into black pants. It is the same for the girls, though long black skirts in place of the pants. This attire is usually reserved for Showing days, when prospective parents visit and peruse the Baroness's wares. Otherwise, our wardrobes are filled with more casual clothing for day-to-day wear. Although our ranks have grown by at least one per month for the last year, few leave for a new life with new parents. My theory on marketing grows stronger at the thought.

The eight of us cram along the length of either side of the carriage. The Baroness reads quietly in the opposite corner of me, a small pleasant smirk on her red painted lips. Next to her sits a twelve-year-old boy named Henock. His short hair is brushed neatly to the left, brown waves. He twiddles his thumbs in varying rhythms, and his eyes avoid the rest of the group. Wassim sits next to him; his warm sun-kissed hand intertwines with the peach of Telarria's. Hungry rum eyes watch her, a devious lustful look that spreads to his upturned mouth. She returns a bashful grin with a blush in her cheeks, evidence of colorful thoughts he sends to her. Her hair, a bold orange, is tied into a knot at the top of her crown.

On our side of the small space, Cy takes up enough room for nearly two men. His long maple brown hair speckled by little streaks of ash is tamed from the wild overgrown bush to a trimmed hedge in the shape of a well-crafted braid. His beard of similar color is straightened; as he sits, the ends settle in his lap. I have wondered more times than I can count how often he finds crumbs of old meals in that mane. Beside him, fearing his safety next to the bear, is Henock's guest: another younger boy named Quinlan. Obsidian hair hangs just past his jaw, straight and curtaining his smooth sand face. The fear in his small dark eyes also may be in part to the beauty sitting between him and me. Though her apparel is plain like the rest of ours, she is radiant. The ringlets that regularly hang around her face are tucked behind her right ear, fastened by a barrette. Made of gold (either genuine or faux, I have no way of telling the difference), and bejeweled with three jade stones on either side, I marvel at it in my silence. She only wears it on those rare Showing days, a touch of flair to help her stand out amongst all the others.

Unlike all the others, Kym closes her eyes. Dark eyebrows furrow, the corners of her lips curl down, and her hands cup together as if she has trapped a firefly. She holds the look for a long time, almost seemingly in pain, and it sends an ache through me. My hand reaches out to her slow and silent, but hovers near her enclosed fingers. Something flashes there, a small blue spark that comes and goes so quick that I question if I had seen anything at all. A trick of the low candlelight perhaps. But how? I wait for it to return, to verify its existence, but nothing but darkness waits in between her palms. My hand rests back into my lap, and Kym's face eases into its resting position. Her fingers unwind and relax, and just for a moment I expect to see that tiny light again. There are only the lines curving like dry riverbeds.

Her eyes reopen, and she glances at me out of the corner. An inquisitive eyebrow joins forces with her little grin, asking me why I'm staring. My attention goes to her hands, perfect dark digits folded in her lap. She follows me there. Her fingers spread out, palms up, and I pray for the magic. Her eyes meet mine once more. Focused, determined, serious dark orbs lock on. Confidence plays on her lips. I cannot break away from her gaze, I won't. And in a moment, in the same breath, she softens. Her hand takes hold of mine, a simple and sweet gesture. All is right in the world, and the following hour comes and goes too soon.