by Ruby Dixon
“Of course.” I am disappointed, but I understand. Stay-see is not ready to speak of mating to me, despite the fact that we have mated in the past. I am sad. She still thinks of me as a stranger. I must get us past this. “So then we made a cave together?”
She shakes her head, and the amusement returns to her face. “Oh, not right away. I was pretty terrified of what was happening. I made you wait.”
“You did?” I am surprised.
Stay-see gives a solemn nod. “A whole day.”
I am startled. A day?
She laughs, pleasure making her eyes sparkle. “Right? I didn’t hold out for long. It was…inevitable, I guess. It felt very right to me, though. I never second-guessed a single moment. You took me aside and talked to me, just talked, like we had all the time in the world, and I thought you were the sweetest blue-skinned, horned alien I’d ever met. So I jumped you.”
It is this I wish to remember, more than the initial feeling of resonance. I want to know what it was like to see the fire in Stay-see’s eyes when she looked at me. I want to know what it felt like to touch her that first time.
She shrugs to herself, continuing, “After that moment, we were pretty inseparable. I’m sure some of it is the resonance, but…” She spreads her hands. “We just kind of got along really well. You were so funny and sweet and protective, and I loved being with you. I don’t think we’ve been apart since we resonated, except for a few extended hunting trips you had to go on.” Her lower lip quivers. “I think that’s why I took your…injury hard. I lost my mate and my best friend at the same time.”
I absorb her words. She still feels like she has lost me. It is going to take more than a conversation to convince her that I am the same person. “I will get my memories back,” I vow to her. “Just give me time.”
She nods. “It’s just hard.”
“I am trying.”
Her expression grows soft, and she reaches over to touch my bone-dust-covered hand. “I know. I’m trying, too. But I am going to try harder. I promise.”
7
STACY
We sleep apart at my suggestion. I’m not ready to have a bed-mate, not when I’m all mixed up inside. I want to get back to where we were, but I also don’t want to jump into things again and hurt both of us. I know that my rejection of him after sex the other day hurt, so I’m being more careful—with him and with myself.
If my request bothers him, he makes no sign of it. He hugs Pacy before I put him to bed, and gives me a brief smile before I retire to the back chamber of the cave. He will sleep in the front chamber to guard the entrance and watch the fire. The back cave is still warm, and sheltered from errant breezes that cut through the edges of the privacy screen, and I go to sleep easily.
When I wake up, there are three of the small bone plates waiting for me.
I touch the first one, feeling warm in my belly at the sight of it. The surface is completely smooth and polished, so pretty that you wouldn’t think it’s made of bone but instead of ivory. Each plate is slightly different in size, and I realize he’s probably spent hours at work on these while I slept. It’s…sweet.
Pashov is by the fire even now, feeding it small bits. He looks up as I enter, a pleased look on his face. “You are awake. Good. I need to go to the cache nearby and get fresh meat. Will you be all right here by yourself for a time?”
“Of course.” I’m a little disappointed he’s going to run out the door the moment I wake up, but we do need food. I pull Pacy into my lap and open my tunic to feed him to keep myself busy.
Pashov watches us for a moment, and then unfolds his long legs, getting to his feet. “I put tea on the fire,” he says, gesturing at the tripod with the hanging pouch set up over the flames. “It should be warm soon.”
“Thank you,” I tell him politely, though I’m not a big fan of the sa-khui tea flavors. It’s nice of him to try, though, and I’ll drink it just because he put in the effort. “And thank you for the plates. They’re lovely.”
He watches me with burning eyes. “Anything you wish for, Stay-see, you ask and I will bring it to you.”
His expression is so intense, so earnest, that I feel my entire body flush in response. I murmur my thanks and concentrate on feeding my baby, wishing I wasn’t being such an awkward dweeb about things. He’s seen my breasts plenty of times. He’s seen the baby nurse plenty of times. I shouldn’t be weird about it.
But of course, I’m thinking about the story I told him yesterday of our resonance, and the intense longing on his face the entire time I spoke. It makes me hyper-aware of his reactions to me, and even exposing a tiny bit of skin feels like a subtle tease. Which is stupid—breastfeeding is natural, and the way he’s looking at me isn’t sexual. It’s longing. He wants to be included in the family.
And I said I was going to try harder, and I mean that. As he leaves, I hold Pacy close and look at the three little plates that Pashov must have spent hours whittling down for me. Funny how I’ve been telling myself he can’t care for us like he used to, and then he goes and does something as small and meaningful as that.
I can do something similar, then.
Back before his accident, Pashov loved my cooking. He’s never been completely fond of plain old roasted meat, but some of the concoctions I’ve come up with he’s loved. He likes my soups, the little cakes I make from not-potato, and he especially loves the spicy little meat pies I make by combining seeds and ground up not-potato to form a type of crumbly dough. I was going to make him some of those the day of the cave-in, and the knot in my throat swells in remembrance. That time is gone, I remind myself. Look forward. Your mate is alive and healthy and wants to reconnect with you. Let it happen.
I should.
I let Pacy finish nursing. When he crawls out of my lap and heads for the basket of bones, I get up and grab a pack of the food supplies. Pashov’s mother, Kemli, is our plant expert, and she’s been in a gathering frenzy ever since the cave-in, trying to restock what we lost. As a result, I know we have a fair amount of herbs for flavoring. The herbs here on the ice planet are different than the ones at home—some are pine-needle-like and stripped from small bushes. Some are a lichen that grows on rock, and there are a few types of strong, peppery seeds in a leather pouch. I dig through the supplies in the cave and find a couple of dried roots, but no not-potato. I’m disappointed, because I really want to make the meat pies for Pashov. I want to see if food can jog his memory. Didn’t I see that in a movie once? If anything would bring his memory back, it’d be those pies.
I make a noise of frustration, staring down at the dried, twisted roots in my hand. These are good for stew, but not for the pies.
While I’m frowning down at the roots, the privacy screen is pulled back and Pashov enters. He has a snowy, frozen carcass in hand, and his mane and shoulders are covered in snow. More drifts in as he steps inside, carefully replacing the screen.
“How’s the weather?” I ask, putting the roots down.
“Warmer than yesterday,” he tells me, shaking off the snow. “But still snowing.”
“Do you think the others are all right?” I feel a little guilty that we’re the only ones who stopped on our journey.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Because it’s a blizzard,” I point out. But if he’s not worried, I guess I shouldn’t be.
“The humans will not freeze. Their mates will keep them warm.”
I don’t know how to take that comment. Is he implying that I won’t let my mate keep me warm? Is that why we stopped? Or is it an innocent remark and I’m picking it apart? Probably the latter.
Pashov removes his cloak and sets the carcass down by the stones of the fire. He gestures at the roots that Pacy’s currently trying to pull from my hands. “Are you hungry? I can thaw a chunk of this—”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “There are trail rations to eat. I actually wanted to cook you something. A surprise.”
The look of astonished pleas
ure on his face is painful to see. “You would make food…for me?”
“Of course. You loved my cooking before.” My heart aches, and I feel guilty all over again. Have I truly been this awful to be around? “I thought you might like it if I cooked something for you today.”
“Nothing would please me more.”
“Nothing?” I can’t help but tease.
The look he sends my way is playful. “Perhaps one thing would. But I enjoy cooking as well.”
I giggle. “Cooking is all you are going to get today.”
“Today,” he agrees. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
And I can’t stop laughing, because this teasing side? This is my Pashov, for sure. My heart suddenly feels lighter than it has in weeks. “I can make stew and a few other tasty bits, but I really wanted to make you meat pies. I need not-potatoes, though. Do you think you can find me one?”
“Not-potato?” He nods and grabs one of the scattered bones to use as a digging stick. “I will be back very soon with your root.”
Pashov leaves the cave, and I move to the carcass. It’s quill-beast, which has a fatty, delicate meat that will be perfect for cooking. I pull out my belt-knife and begin to skin it, thinking about all the tasty things I’ll be able to make for Pashov. Quill-beasts have a layer of blubbery fat that will go great with some shredded not-potato to make my ‘dough’ for my meat pies and…
And…wait.
I glance back at the entrance, thoughtful. The not-potatoes were discovered after the humans arrived here on the ice planet we jokingly refer to as Not-Hoth. Prior to our arrival, the roots of the pink trees were just thought to be that—roots. The sa-khui are happy to eat raw meat, but we humans like a bit of variety. I don’t remember who it was that dug up the first not-potato, but I remember how excited we were.
If Pashov can’t remember anything about the last two years, how does he know what a not-potato is? I ponder this as I work on skinning the quill-beast and cutting the meat into chunks. I’m distracted, and not only by the fact that Pacy is trying to put whatever he can grab off the carcass into his mouth. I’m thinking about Pashov and trying not to hope. Does this mean his memory is coming back?
Don’t get too excited, I warn myself. Maybe he knew what it was. His mother’s the plant expert. She might have mentioned it.
I can’t help it, though; I’m practically quivering with anticipation of his return.
Pashov re-enters the cave after what feels like forever. He’s got one of the round, bulbous roots tucked under his arm and is covered in even more snow. He looks pleased with himself and brandishes the root proudly as he moves toward me. “Your not-potato.”
I take it with reverent hands. “How did you know what I meant?”
He has his back turned to me, putting the screen back in place. When he turns around, his smile is bright but a little puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how did you know this was what I meant? If your memories are gone?” I’m trying to keep my voice even to hide how excited I am. “How did you know where to find this?”
Pashov studies me, and then his gaze focuses on the rounded turnip-like root in my hands. He rubs his forehead, his fingers moving over the broken stump of his horn. “I…am not sure.”
“Do you think you remembered something? Maybe if you concentrate you can remember more?”
He nods and closes his eyes, concentrating. I bite my lip as I watch him, eager. After a moment, though, he opens his eyes and shakes his head. “I am sorry. I do not have answers.” He rubs his forehead again.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. That little touch to his forehead worries me. I bustle to his side and take the fur cloak from his shoulders. “You sit down by the fire and relax. I’ll take care of you.”
“Let me help—” he begins.
“Nope,” I interrupt. “I’m good.” I take the not-potato from him and move to the far side of the cave. “If you want to help me, watch Pacy and make sure he doesn’t stick any organ meat into his mouth.”
“The organ meat is the best part,” Pashov says, but he sits by the fire and begins to play with his son.
I snort at that. “Says you.” I get my favorite bone cup and fill it with tea from the fire, then push it into Pashov’s hands. “Drink this.” It smells like it’s got Intisar in it, and that’s the closest thing that sa-khui have to aspirin.
He takes the cup and frowns, offering it to me. “I made this for you.”
“And yes, I had some,” I lie. I pat his shoulder again. “It would make me happy if you drank the rest.”
He nods firmly and puts the cup to his lips, drinking deep. I watch him for a worried moment to make sure that his expression doesn’t change and he’s not in pain. When I see nothing seems to be wrong, I can relax a little and go back to my task of making food.
While Pashov watches the baby, I busy myself in a whirlwind of chopping, roasting, and seasoning. I’m disappointed that he doesn’t remember anything, but at the same time, I’m hopeful. The knowledge of the not-potato had to come from somewhere. Maybe other small things will bubble up to the surface given time. All I can do is encourage them along the way…provided it doesn’t hurt his mind to do so.
I think I would rather have a happy, healthy Pashov with blanks in his mind than one that is in pain but has his memories.
The organ meat goes into the stewpot—well, stew pouch—along with a generous serving of chopped roots, a bit of not-potato, lots of peppery spices, and a couple of bones added in for brothy flavor. While that’s working, I chop up more of the not-potato and grind it using a bone as a pestle. With a bit of water and fat, it makes a doughy-like substance, and I’m going to use this for my meat pies. I watch Pashov and the baby as I work, and every time Pacy giggles at something Pashov does, my heart grows a little warmer.
Alone like this, it feels like we’re a family again. I can’t stop smiling.
Before long, the stew is bubbling and filling the cave with delicious scents. Pashov sniffs the air appreciatively and gives me an impressed look. “It smells good.”
“Of course it does,” I say, a teasing note in my voice as I pat little circles of ‘dough’ together. “I know what you like.”
He looks thoughtful as Pacy crawls into his lap and begins to tug on his long black braids. “Of course you do.” He pauses, then continues. “Will you tell me more…about us? About what happened after we resonated?”
For some reason, I feel like blushing. I roll one of the dough circles into a ball and paint it with a bit of rendered fat before flattening it. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
I look up, and our eyes meet, and it’s strangely intense and erotic. My cootie responds to him, and I feel a little flutter of excitement. Slow it down, Stacy, I remind myself. You’re not good at moving slow, but try to do it right this time. Even if I’m feeling aroused and happy right now, I can’t sleep with him again until I know for sure I’m not going to weep through it. That’s not fair to him. “Well,” I say, thinking as I work. “First, we had to have a cave of our own. You were still living with all the hunters, and I couldn’t exactly squeeze in there…”
It’s a lovely day. One of the best I’ve had in a long, long time. We stay in the little cave, happy around the fire, and just talk. We talk endlessly. I do most of the talking, telling him all about the early days after we resonated, and how strange everything was, and how he’d tried to teach me how to hunt without realizing that I was perfectly happy being a homemaker. I tell him of the first time I tried raw meat, of accidentally insulting his mother’s efforts to have a resonance feast for us, of how our little cave was set up before we lost it in the earthquake. I tell him of everything I can think of, and I make food as we talk.
The soup turns out lovely—thick and meaty and full of broth. Pashov eats two bowls of it and looks hungrily at the leftovers, and I feel a sweet ache of happiness as he steals a bite from my cup when I’m not looking. This is like
how it was before, I think. My mate dearly loves to eat, and I love to feed him. The meat pies are less successful—I don’t have some of the seed meal I normally use, and I don’t have my frying pan. I use the smallest of the little plates and end up scorching the heck out of the underside. I can’t get them hot enough to crisp the outsides, but Pashov doesn’t seem to care. He devours each one the moment it’s off the fire, his eyes shining with pleasure. He declares them his second-favorite thing he has ever tasted, but won’t tell me what the first one is.
I suspect it’s dirty.
It kind of makes me want to jump him.
But I can’t. I need to slow it down. I have to be sure that I’m totally fine with Pashov 2.0 before I jump in with him again.
It’s still a wonderful day, though, and it gives me hope for the future.
PASHOV
“Do you have more of those little pies?” I ask, licking my fingers as I finish the last of the soup. “I think they would go very well with the weather today.”
Stay-see gives me an exasperated, affectionate look. “You ate all of them before they cooled yesterday. There is not a single one left.”
“Could you make more today?”
Her laugh is sweet and happy and fills me with warmth. “I can if you take over my sewing.” She holds out the small tunic she is making for Pacy. “I have to do what I can while he’s asleep. Time is precious, you know.”
Stay-see’s words are stern, but her voice is all teasing and light. “I will get you a not-potato and sew, and you can make more of the delicious pies for me.” I rub my belly and give her my most pleading look. “And then you can tell me more stories about us.”
“All right,” she says, her expression shy. “What would you like to hear about today?”
I glance over at my small son, sleeping in a basket in the next room. His eyes are closed and he sucks on his fist, fat and happy and content. “Tell me about Pacy,” I decide.