The Ruens of Fairstone (Aeon of Light Book 2)

by Sethlen, Aron

  Miles crumples a piece of paper and whips it at Pard, striking him on the top of his mop-like hair. “Like staring at Selby Barrow in the library?”

  Pard gives Miles a death glare.

  “So serious, professor. Please, please, oh no! Don’t zap me.”

  “Shut up,” Pard says, shaking his head and going back to reading the Iinian Agreement of 722.

  “Seriously, though, the dance is coming up in a few weeks—are you going to ask her?”

  Pard snorts. “What do you think?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I think you should ask her, or I wouldn’t be asking you.”

  Pard sits up and slams his book shut. “After what happened in the library the other day? No way will she ever go with me, or even talk to me for that matter. I made a complete mess of myself.”

  “So what. Guys make messes of themselves all the time. Girls are used to it. You should ask her to the dance.”

  “Umm, didn’t you hear me? Because I made an idiot of myself, and she probably hates me.”

  Miles chuckles. “Hate you? Hey, professor, a little inside information here, we all make idiots of ourselves. It’s what we do best, sometimes the more the idiot the better. Just look at me.”

  Pard scans Miles’s smug but lovable face. “True, maybe you have something there. But still, I’m not a lord, or, well, you. I’m me.”

  “Can’t argue with you on that point, but still, you have a lot of great qualities she might like, you just have to show her.”

  Pard rolls his eyes. “Like being unable to talk to girls, getting into trouble, about to be kicked out of school, making a complete fool of myself, and of course the extra special bonus of shooting light out of my body, being able to talk to horses, and do whatever I did to poor Nero the cat. Yeah, right, I’m sure she’ll be real impressed with my abilities, then she’ll fetch the town’s constables on me, and they’ll lock me away for being a dangerous, wacko, menace, and Fairstone and the dance and Selby Barrow will be the least of my worries.”

  “Dang, professor, catastrophize much there?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Miles shrugs. “Well, if it’s any consolation, the horse and light thing impressed me.”

  Pard gives Miles a blank stare. “And because you’re a complete weirdo and think the light is cool, Selby Barrow will be impressed.” Pard snorts. “Right.” Pard lowers his head into his hands and mumbles incoherent words.

  “No—but still.” Miles rolls off the bed and lands gracefully on his feet. His face beams with energy. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Pard looks up, and his eyes narrow. “What? Go where?”

  Miles snatches Pard’s cloak off the post in the corner of the room and tosses it on Pard’s head. “Get dressed, let’s go.”

  Pard fumbles the cloak stuck on the top of his head as it gets tangled from him trying to remove it too fast.

  Miles, serious and now the teacher, examines what he has to work with. He stares at Pard. “Playing the klutzy, goofy card, eh? It might work with her. But I would use a different strategy if I were you. Though you never know with those girls who always hang out in the library.”

  Pard springs out of his chair and flaps his arms trying to get his knotted cloak off his head and shoulders. Pard finally rips off his bindings and stands in front of Miles, red face, out of breath, and hair twisted and sticking up in every direction except for how it’s supposed to lay. “Don’t play about. We aren’t going to the library right now—it’s too late.” He glances at his rickety old wooden clock on his desk. “It’s already eight.”

  “Yeah, so what.” Miles flicks his head toward the door. “You need a date to the dance, don’t you?”

  “The dance is three weeks after my expulsion. What if I get kicked out? Then I can’t go to the dance.”

  “But what if she says yes?”

  “But I’d be kicked out, what would she think of me?”

  “But what if she says yes?”

  “But—”

  “Oh my gosh, will you shut up. Let’s worry about her saying yes before all the other crap.”

  “But—”

  Miles unleashes his best devilish smile and creeps closer to Pard. And as if trying to tame a skittish animal, he gently slips the cloak out of Pard’s hands, opens it, and swings it over Pard’s head and shoulders. He talks in a soft, sweet voice, whispering calmly in Pard’s ear, “Get girl first, worry about the other stuff that may or may not happen later.”

  As if a lost puppy dog, Pard gazes up at Miles. “But we have to study—”

  Miles gently tugs the cloak over Pard’s shoulders then slides behind him. “Lucky for us the girl is always at the library, we can study there.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Miles nudges Pard toward the door, and Pard’s feet inch forward. “What if she says yes?”

  “Then what do I say to her?” Pard says.

  Miles opens the door and coaxes Pard into the hall then softly clicks the door shut, trying not to spook the easily startled beast. “First you say, ‘hi, I noticed you in here the last few times I was here,’ and then, lucky for us, you’ve probably read every book in the library—so you see what she is reading and say, ‘hey, I’ve read that book too, what do you think about it?’ She’ll probably start yapping away, blah, blah, blah, and then you nod attentively and give her the most genuine smile you can muster. Let her talk her little heart out, and you patiently listen, focus on her lips. And this next part is really important, so pay attention, when she’s done, agree with her.”

  Confused, Pard tilts his head to the side, and he glances at Miles as they continue to walk through the castle. “But what if I don’t agree with her?”

  “No, you’re not listening, just agree with her—don’t argue with her—that comes later.”

  “But, that would be lying.”

  Miles rolls his eyes. “Let’s assume you agree with her. If you don’t agree with her, agree with her anyway.”

  Pard, still not following along, scratches the side of his head. “So agree with her anyway?”

  Miles slaps Pard on the back and the jolt thrusts Pard forward. “Now you’re getting it, good. Now you’re in. So next, look at her somewhat serious-like, as if you’re in deep thought, and then you say in a genuine tone, ‘I never thought of it that way,’ appeal to her intellect, compliment her, they like that, make her think she impressed you, and then you’ll impress her, see?”

  “Umm—even if I did think of that?”

  “Yes, play dumb, remember, she is always smarter than you.”

  “Even if she isn’t?”

  “Yes.”

  Pard looks at his boots and scratches his head again as the words sink in. They slip out the west wing’s double oak doors and enter the courtyard.

  “Got it?” Miles says.

  “I guess so, so basically I say ‘hi’, then smile, then ask her a question, then lie, play dumb, and compliment her.”

  “Something like that, of course maybe she really will impress you and is smarter than you. But considering we are talking about you here, I am just preparing you in case she isn’t or you disagree with her.”

  “All right, then what?”

  “Then you look at her lips for a second then move up to her eyes, though not in an intimidating or creepy way, give her little playful glances, genuine and enough to let her know you like her and are interested, but not too much to make her think you’re needy or easy. Then smile as if you’ve been enlightened by her presence and brilliance, but again, not in a weird or needy way. At this point, if you’re nervous and can’t smile, I would focus on her beauty, slowly trace the outline of her face so you’re not looking at one spot too long but are still looking at her; the smile you give to her should still have the same effect since she’s probably interested in you by now, you know?”

  Pard nods. “Umm—okay.”

  “Then say, ‘my name is Pard, what’s your name?’ If you’ve made it this far and s
he’s showing you anything close to resembling a genuine smile, she’ll give you her name, then address her by her name.”

  Miles pats Pard on the back. “Now, there are three routes going forward, the good looks route, my route, and the brain or funny route, your route. Not to say you’re not good-looking, you’re just not me.”

  “All right, so what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means your route is a little trickier than mine at first, unless she thinks you’re good-looking anyway, then whatever you say going forward doesn’t matter, unless you’re really off the wall offensive and weird, and I would advise against killing any cats at this point until she knows you better.”

  Pard snorts. “Obviously.”

  “So, here is where I would go straight ahead and ask her to meet up in a few days to study or discuss books or whatever. I would give her one last smile and say it was great to meet her and I would love to stay and discuss her book more but I have to go. You know, leave her first and keep her wondering a little. Then the next time I saw her I would ask her to the dance. But the key is confidence, even if you don’t have it, you can still play the part, and always remember, she may be smarter than you—” Miles tilts his head toward Pard and looks him in the eyes, “even though she’s not—but she isn’t better than you. Don’t ever make her think she’s better or you’re done for. And last, you want to leave her with the impression that her life would be better with you in it somehow, though you don’t need her.”

  “But what if you haven’t read any of the books she’s read?”

  “Even better, then I can smile at her, and she can talk her heart’s content and educate me, which that works for a while with most of them, and we’re only talking a few weeks of meeting up anyway. Now, back to the routes—my route only works if she’s physically attracted to you, like a lot, if she’s only ‘so so’ on you, now your work is cut out for you, because now you have to impress her back, meaning a little back and forth, you know?”

  “So then what should I do?”

  “Basically you can be yourself at this point.” Miles’s eyes narrow as he scans Pard, contemplating the seeros light. “Well, in your case sort of yourself.” Miles talks with his hands. “Impress her with a story or your smarts somehow, but only impress her with your brain a little at first, not too much, remember, she is still smarter than you.”

  “Even if she isn’t?”

  “Yes.”

  “So should I leave her wondering too?”

  “Yes, but you need to come up with something witty or brilliant to say right before you ask her to see you again. It’s best to make her laugh and think ‘Huh, that was smart. He’s funny.’ Appeal to her abstract, smart side and the physical will follow.”

  “So what should I say?”

  Miles chuckles and pats Pard on the back. “That, my friend, is an art we, or I should say you, must figure out on your own. I got you in the door and told you what you have to do, but you still have to close the deal.”

  A WHIP, A SCAR, A STAR, & A GOAT

  Nervous, Pard’s hands fidget as he steps through the library’s entrance. The thick, gilded floral molding along the corners of the walls reflects his blurry face. A drop of clear water drips from Pard’s nose, and he sniffs.

  “You good?” Miles says, adding his own sniff.

  Pard shrugs. “I guess so.” Then Pard wipes his nose on his sleeve.

  Miles grips Pard’s shoulder and squeezes it tight. “This is where I leave you, my friend. I’ll wait for you right here by the front door. Scout ahead and see if Selby’s here, and if she is, be confident, be decisive, and get your girl for the dance.”

  Pard doesn’t move, rooted in place with broken breath and jittery eyes. He frantically takes in the room. His back itches from the wool rubbing up against his skin. The fireplaces all lit; and the ceiling fans, too many to count, spread the hot air like a heat wave during a smoldering August. Pard’s forehead sweats and his face turns a rosy shade of red. He wipes his clammy palms on his pants. “I thought we were going to study.”

  “We already studied enough tonight. Now it’s time for you to say hello to Selby Barrow.” And Miles gently pushes Pard forward as if releasing a once wounded animal back to the wild.

  Pard slowly shuffles forward, slightly awkward as his legs wobble. He bumps into a desk, wood striking his hip bone. Pard winces, straightens his face, then peeks back to Miles for encouragement.

  Miles raises his eyebrows, grins, and waves. Then Miles mouths, go get her.

  Pard resumes his course. Be confident, confident is the key, confident, confident, confident. He passes through a tall aisle of wildlife books that appear as though they’re about to leap off the shelves at him. He glances at the spines: The Great Lioness; The Wonders of the Hunt; The Estranged and Misunderstood Elemue; How To Get Eaten Alive, And Not. Pard wiggles his shoulders as the wool digs deeper into his sweaty skin. He gyrates his hips, uncomfortable in his clothes as they seem to have shrunk two sizes in the last few minutes. Again Pard wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, but they seem to have sprung a leak, and he can’t quite get them to stay dry. He clinches his teeth and tries to swallow, but nothing goes down his dry throat. The saliva long gone, Pard’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He stops at the end of the aisle and leans against the bookshelf. Pard tries to swallow again with the same result. He coughs, and finally a speck of moisture springs forth from a hidden crevice he didn’t realize existed. The spit quenches his parched tongue enough to complete a full swallow. Pard takes a calming breath. His jaw relaxes. “This is it.” Pard peeks around the corner; and there she is, Selby Barrow, sitting by herself, sitting up straight with a book in hand. Pard rolls back into the aisle and rests his back against the books. “Hi, smile. Question, lie dumb and compliment? Lips, eyes, trace face, playful glances and not intimidating or weird Pard. Name? Smart little brain; not weird and no cat story. Smile, not needy and confident, witty, ask, and leave wondering.” Pard lowers his head, and he lets out a discouraging sigh. “Great.”

  “Can I help you, young man?” the ancient librarian Ms. Cookle says in a scratchy voice, hunched over and peering at Pard through mini oblong spectacles with green-stained rims that appear to be as old as her.

  Startled, Pard sucks in a breath and holds it in tight.

  Ms. Cookle continues to look at Pard in waiting, three extremely long black hairs next to a few shorter white ones on her chin stare him down and twitch. The aroma of too much flowery perfume emanates off her purple homely dress. Her eyes narrow, scanning Pard’s face. “Do you need help finding a book? The cat stories are in the next aisle over.”

  Pard’s eyes dance, his brain barely registering Ms. Cookle’s presence, it’s fully locked onto Selby and the hunt. Pard gives a menacing, focused scowl as if going to war, and he flexes his stiff, sweaty hands and dramatically wipes them again on his pant leg. Pard, about to pounce, stares through the old woman. “No cat story.”

  “But you said you were needing a cat story, dear.”

  Pard shakes his head trying to dislodge Ms. Cookle’s echoing voice out of his brain. “I said no cat story. It’s go time.” And Pard rolls out of the aisle and away from the librarian and makes straight for Selby. He raises his hand, covers his mouth, and coughs, discharging Ms. Cookle, and her flowery presence completely from his body.

  Selby, distracted from the sound, tilts her book down and angles her shoulders toward Pard as he strolls toward her.

  Head held high and confident, Pard smiles at Selby but his eyes narrow with a steely focus, looking through Selby as if she’s not there. Like a Fairstone falcon stalking its prey, Pard’s eyes lock onto the two books lying in front of her. Pard stutter steps, taken aback by the title of the first book: The Basics of Reading and Writing Rue, the same book his mother showed him when he was younger. Pard stares at the title, transfixed and not paying attention to where he’s going. Pard suddenly knocks into a chair jutting out from under the table next to Sel
by’s.

  Selby flinches and sits up in her seat.

  “Shoot,” Pard says, and he regains himself. Pard’s eyes meet Selby’s. He gazes into her deep dark-blue eyes and gets lost. He’s swimming, in a lake, in an ocean, in the sky on a clear spring day.

  Selby blinks hard breaking the spell she has over Pard.

  Pard shakes his head. Hunt—snap out of it.

  Selby leans forward around her table, reaches out, and grazes Pard’s forearm. “Are you all right?”

  Pard shivers as Selby’s soft fingertips kiss his skin. The small hairs on his arm stand up. “What?” Retreat, retreat, retreat!

  “Are you all right? It looks like you hit the chair.”

  Pard swallows hard, trying to find his words. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, sorry, I have a lot on my mind.”

  “You seemed really focused. So much so you weren’t even paying attention to where you were going.” Selby giggles in a settling manner, which eases Pard’s nerves.

  Pard rubs his forehead. “Yes, well, terms are coming up next week, and this darn headache won’t go away—like I said—a lot on my mind.”

  “Seems like it, the last time I saw you in here you ran out in such a hurry I thought the library might be on fire. I actually got up to check.”

  Pard scratches his disheveled hair. “Oh, that, right, yes, I forgot I was late for something and then I remembered.”

  Selby giggles again. “I understand—that happens to me all the time too.”

  Pard eyes the Rue book and points. “So what are you reading there?”

  Selby strokes the ancient cover. “It’s a language book. I’m trying to learn it to decipher one of my father’s texts.”