“You’re welcome.”
I face her. Color has drained from her cheeks. Blood pearls beneath one nostril, either from effort or the strain of whatever she used to judge the basin. She wipes it away too quickly.
“You knew the center was unstable.”
“I knew enough and you are unharmed.”
“And still you let me walk to the edge.”
“I told you to stop.”
“Late.”
“Effective. You are being picky.”
The basin wind moves between us carrying water rot and the green scent of crushed reeds. She holds my gaze with that maddening mixture of defiance and exhaustion. Confirmedagain. She is choosing when to act, but now it is different. It's more like she is scared than she is just trying to prove a point.
I step back onto firmer stone and circle around her, close enough that the sleeve of my coat brushes her arm. Her pulse jumps visibly at the base of her throat. Mine answers in a manner I choose to ignore.
“From this point forward,” I say, “you remain within reach.”
She laughs once, sharp as flint. “That sounds suspiciously like kidnapping.”
“That happened days ago. This is adaptation.”
“I prefer more scenic forms of imprisonment.”
“You continue to receive excellent views.”
I get the lead rope from the nearer beast and hand it to her, shortening the line so she must walk beside me rather than ahead or behind. Practical. Efficient. Entirely unrelated to the awareness sparked whenever distance narrows between us.
Her fingers brush mine taking the rope. A mistake. The contact is brief and far too noticeable. She feels it too; the pulse at her throat betrays her before expression recovers.
“Your methods grow clingy again,” she says.
“Your evasions grow repetitive.”
We move on through the basin’s safer edge, our shoulders occasionally touching where reeds crowd the path. Each accidental contact lands with disproportionate force. I tell myself the body misreads tension as heat. I tell myself many useful things. The stronger question presses elsewhere. Why the distrust now?
She has resisted from the beginning, yet this new caution carries a sharper personal edge, as though some unseen accusation has been entered into evidence without my knowledge. I review every recent exchange and find no answer I trust.
The trail beyond the basin climbs into a grove of white-trunked trees whose bark peels in thin translucent curls. Light filters through high leaves in soft green sheets. The place should feel peaceful. Instead the silence resembles attention.
“You’ve changed your angle,” I say after a time.
“So have you.”
“I’m asking first.”
She tugs lightly on the rope between us, reminding me she holds one end. “You’ve stopped trying to command outcomes.”
“Observation.”
“You’re trying to understand me.”
The statement lands too close to truth.
“And you,” I reply, “have begun reacting to crimes I have not yet committed.”