Between the Hours Press
But the scent of the bread brought up a soft ache of hunger in Faizra's stomach, and the simplicity of it felt like a blessing from Hulali. There was nothing more dangerous than an injury that left you too nauseous to eat. Sometimes hunger was all you had, but it was enough. Hunger kept you moving, and moving kept you alive. Hunger gave you purpose and purpose gave you strength; lose your hunger and you lost everything.
Perhaps it was the smell, or perhaps it was the feeling of something crawling on the back of her neck. Faizra didn’t move, keeping her gaze on the books, but it wasn’t as much of a shock as it could have been when a throat cleared softly behind her. She held still for a moment, utterly still, then turned slowly to look at the man sitting at the table behind her.
She watched him in silence, taking his measure in the light of morning, mind unclouded by weakness. Tall, broad-shouldered for someone with a field like his. Faizra had felt them before, the ones strong like his had been, and mostly they were scrawny little things. She didn’t underestimate them though; Faizra knew better than to make a mistake like that. But the not-imbala sitting at his table, face drawn and tired, somehow smiling and wary all at once – Faizra wasn’t sure what to make of him and his contradictions.
But, she reasoned, he’d had plenty of chances to do her harm. If there was something else he wanted – Faizra couldn’t think of what – but that he hadn’t taken it must mean it was something he couldn’t take by force. Her eyes flickered towards the books he’d said were full of magic, then back to him even as he looked away from her.
Faizra nodded at the comment about her clothing, shrugging thin shoulders. Her gaze half-dropped to what she was wearing – that must have been his sister’s as well – and she ran her tongue along the back of her teeth at the mention of bread, feeling as well as hearing the growling in her stomach. All the same, her gaze followed his thumb towards the door; all the time he spoke, nothing had moved but her eyes, and just the faint nodding of her head.
“Ioyas Esef pez Roh,” Faizra said, voice hoarse and aching in her throat still. She’d swallowed too much blood and too little else. Maybe she had screamed; she didn’t remember it, but her throat ached as if she had. “I remember.”
Faizra was quiet again, weighing her options. She was more comfortable across the room from him, and she didn’t make any effort to close the distance. It didn’t escape her notice that he hadn’t mentioned the knife either. Faizra remembered that too, all too well, wobbling on the stairs trying to threaten him, the terrified little boy with his doetoed field inching around hers staring at her in horror.
Faizra’s gaze lowered from Ioyas’s, and guilt squirmed alongside hunger in her stomach. “Epa’ma,” she mumbled, tugging at the shawl he’d given her, adjusting it. “… f’r – scarin' him,” she glanced off to the side towards the bedroom she’d left, the boy’s room, then back to the not-imbala sitting with his kofi.
Kofi and bread, bandages, fresh herbs for her wounds. Faizra felt a hard throbbing ache somewhere in her chest, tearing her apart. Better not, she told herself. Better not. But the hunger was raw in her stomach, and her side hurt, throbbing a little more with each passing moment, and Faizra meant to live.
“Wouldn’t – mind some bread,” Faizra swallowed hard and looked up at Ioyas again. “F’yer offerin’.” What pride did she have left anyway, she wondered, after bleeding all over the man’s doorstep and nearly coming at him with her knife when he’d meant her no harm, at least no harm as she could fathom. The danger here wasn’t so obvious; that she knew. “Domea,” she added.
Faizra still didn’t close the distance between them. She swallowed, again, chest rising and falling a little faster, gaze locked on Ioyas for a long moment. Then, slowly, even more slowly than she’d turned to face him, Faizra turned away, putting her back towards him, and made her way to the books he’d mentioned – just a few steps. Her skin crawled, but she didn’t look back, long fingers easing one of the books off his shelf with surprising delicacy, holding it loosely in her hands and carefully opening it. She couldn’t read more than a wick’s monite anyway, and she wasn’t sure her eyes had the strength to focus, but she kept her back to the not-imbala, hoping he’d understand.