Reduced to Dust by Gabrielle Arrowsmith

Author:Gabrielle Arrowsmith [Arrowsmith, Gabrielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CTP Publishing

Chapter Nineteen

My boot sinks into a vole run along the path strewn between the headstones in Sheridan’s cemetery. The afternoon air is crisp and there is a light dusting of snow on the ground, but Crewe’s hand is warm around mine. When I stop at the autumn rose headstone, he laces his arms through mine, which hang at my sides, and clasps them around my lower abdomen. I rest my arms atop of his, covering his folded hands with mine.

Studying the hand-chiseled dates below the precise, engraved cross, the meaning behind why Crewe brought me here deepens. “October thirteenth. It’s Cy’s birthday.”

“He would have been twenty today. Two decades, and he’d have let me know it at least that many times.” I can sense Crewe’s reminiscent smile in the words said over my shoulder. “I’m really glad I could be here today, thanks to you.” His warm lips lightly touch the bend of my jawbone near my ear.

A shiver runs along my neck. I turn into it, but not enough to break our embrace. “You know, I don’t even know your birthday,” I realize.

“Funny isn’t it? How much you can know and not know about a person at the same time?” Crewe cozies up to my shoulder and nestles his clean-shaven cheek against mine. “I know about your profound daddy issues,” he says with a bit of humor, “your mom’s alleged suicide, and your deepest political grievances, but I haven’t the slightest idea what your favorite food or color is.”

“Well, I was eight when I became the acting head of the household, so Evvie and I ate a lot of peanut butter toast and sandwiches.” I chuckle. Still wearing a smile, I continue, “But before that, my grandma used to make these pork loin pasties.” I remember the tantalizing scent of sweet dough and fresh vegetables baking that filled my grandma’s apartment. But even more than the appetite-wetting smell and savory taste, I remember the company. That’s surely what made the dish my favorite.

“Color?” Crewe asks.

“It always has and always will be green,” I answer definitively.

Crewe unlaces his hands from mine to spin me around to face him. He takes my hands in his again, his lips curled in a curious kind of merriment. “Do explain,” he elicits.

I shrug, prompting him to raise an eyebrow that beckons for an explanation. “Life in Miles was gray, you know?” Crewe acknowledges this by nodding empathetically and tenderly rubbing his thumbs across the tops of my hands. “I was numb living inside. At first, I liked green because of the programs I watched about the forests that were just outside my reach.” The trees and other plants were a variety of vibrant greens. They were full of life themselves, but they also housed lively animals, many of which were never seen inside the county. “When I escaped and was surrounded by the summer greens for the first time, that color was solidified as my favorite.”

Crewe’s expression is all too serious for a conversation about my favorite color.

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