Furysong (The Aurelian Cycle, #3)

by Rosaria Munda

I lean forward, and she parts her lips. I place the shell against them and upturn it. Everything slows down after that. At some point I realize that the hand that was holding the shell has set it down to hold her nape. We are sideways, her still-wet hair tickling my face as she leans her length against me. The taste of oysters and wine is on my tongue and in her mouth. “Do you think this is the dragons?” “I don’t know. I don’t care.” It’s been an hour since either of us has strung a whole sentence together. “I didn’t make the other beds.” “I don’t want another bed.” “Another bed for me, then.” Annie lifts her head to look at me. She says, “I don’t want another bed for you.” It’s the dragons talking, it’s the wine talking, and I try to remember the words to articulate this, to remind her that we can’t have the things we want, the cardinal rule Annie and I live by, our law of gravity. But here in this house, on this night, it feels like gravity has stopped working. I can’t remember, with her mouth on my neck and her hand tracing a line down my waist, why we can’t have what we want like everyone else. Why we can’t just reach out and take it. So with the last of the wine drunk, the oysters eaten, and the fire down, I hoist Annie into my arms and carry her up the stairs to my parents’ bed.