“We’re going to fix that though,” he said with a quick grin. He handed Illya a skin of liquid.
“Here,” he said. Illya took it and sniffed curiously. It was pungent and burned the back of his nose. He coughed, his eyes watering. Jimmer’s brew.
He had never tried it before. His mother always got a look of disdain on her face whenever it was mentioned. A lot of people disapproved, not just because of the wildness it brought but because to make it they used fruit in the fall that they could have stored for food.
When he thought of what his mother would say, Illya scowled and took a swig. It seared his throat, and he choked. Coughing, he gasped and shook his head. Conna chuckled.
“Never tried it before?” he asked. Illya hesitated, embarrassed to admit it, but nodded. The brew burned in his chest; soon it dulled to warmth and spread out through him.
Conna regarded the skin.
“Probably a good thing,” he said then took a swig himself. They sat in silence, watching the fire for a long time. A good deal of the awkwardness Illya had been feeling had burned away with the brew; it was a loosening sort of sensation. He found that he wasn’t worried about anything. It was as if the brew had untied a knot that had been tethering him to all of his responsibilities and cares.
“Should have locked the old man up a long time ago, for all he used to do to us when he got into this stuff,” Conna said. His tone was casual; he could have been talking about the weather or how well the fish were biting. Illya stared at him, caught off guard.
“Now he’s got no one around to beat on,” Conna said and laughed, a flat sound with no joy.
“That’s something else that’s different,” Conna said, glancing to meet Illya’s stare briefly before looking away. “The old man hasn’t been able to hit on me in a while, not since I got big enough to fight back. Aaro, though, he’s still kind of a little guy. Once he started being one of your Enforcers, Pa didn’t touch him anymore either.” Conna smiled.
“He hit Aaro?” Illya asked, more to have something to say than from a need to know the answer.
“I hit Aaro too.” Conna jerked his head up and glared at him, sharp, defiant. “Had to. When he was little.” Illya kept his mouth shut, having no idea what to say to this.
“Someone had to teach him to take it and not cry. With him”—Conna nodded toward the stone house, where Jimmer was locked up—“it’s worse for a little guy if he cries. First, he is just swinging, mad at the world. Doesn’t have anything to do with you. Then you cry and he focuses in on you.” Conna took another drink. “Gets a lot worse. Better to just take it and keep your mouth shut.”
Illya was quiet. He watched Conna’s face crumple in anger.
Conna tipped the skin up again but stopped mid-drink to look at something. Illya followed his gaze and saw Sabelle coming across the circle towards them. His breath caught.
“Hi,” she said, stopping in front of them. Illya wasn’t sure who she was talking to but guessed that it wasn’t him. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since the night when her mother had dragged her away. Conna smiled at her; somehow he didn’t seem awkward in her presence at all. Illya wondered if drinking the brew every day would cure him of awkwardness forever. His head was full of a fuzzy feeling as if he was looking out from behind a blanket.
“Hey,” Conna said. He moved over for her to sit down. “You remember Illya, right?”
Sabelle looked up and smiled at Illya with adorable hesitation. Her eyes darted away and came to rest on the ground between them. Illya stared. Somehow, the brew tingling inside his head was making his eyes get caught on the shape of her chin.
“Hi,” he said, after far too long. He glanced over Conna, who was watching the interaction. Conna rolled his eyes and got up.
“I’ll see you guys later. I’m tired,” he said and walked away, still swigging the brew. Illya froze. He told his breath to come out evenly. What had just happened? Conna had left him sitting alone with Sabelle and he couldn’t begin to think of why.
The blanket that the brew had wrapped around his brain had softened all of his thoughts, making them form slowly, but he had the sense that it would protect him from making any mistakes too.
He had been thinking about something but couldn’t remember what. The only thing in his mind was the picture of Sabelle’s face. He had thought she was angry with him for locking up her father. He had also thought she liked Conna.
“It’s pretty out,” he said eventually.
“It is.” She looked up at him again from under long eyelashes. “The stars are bright.”
“They aren’t as pretty as you,” he said. Immediately, his ears started burning. He ducked his head away, feeling incredibly stupid. The brew had not protected him after all. He had made a complete fool of himself. He wondered if she was going to get up and leave. She didn’t.
He risked a glance at her and saw that, for some reason, she was smiling. They sat together, watching the fire crackling.
His tongue had become lodged in a block of stone. Even if he had been able to think of anything else to say, he couldn’t have gotten it out.
Still, she was smiling, and it felt like a bubble was inflating in his chest. He realized that he must have a giant, stupid grin on his face because he could feel his cheeks stretching.
He became vaguely aware of the growing attention of the rest of the villagers, still sitting in groups around the circle. Though there were no obvious stares, he knew they were watching.
“Um.” He cleared his throat. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
Sabelle’s eyes widened then darted back to the ground. She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. He held his breath. His head was clearing, and the old awkwardness was coming back too.
She sent a fleeting look in the direction of the cooking fires, where her mother was hovering. Illya hoped it was his imagination, but he thought that Impiri might be muttering to the pot again.
“I don’t think I can,” she said. With an apologetic smile, she got up then walked to the fires. Illya watched her go and scrubbed his hand through his hair. With nothing else to do, he got up too and headed back to his hut although it was still early.
Walking made him feel the brew much stronger. His steps wove. He was confused, unsure why she had left when it had seemed to be going well. Then he realized that she had probably come over to see Conna and had only stayed to be polite.
Illya’s heart broke a little. His ribs felt like they were squeezing in to crush it, and his head spun. He growled and slammed his fist into a tree, furious with himself for being so stupid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WHEN HE GOT back to the Enforcers’ camp, he saw that they had made a fire of their own. Conna was there, and when he saw Illya approaching, he raised his eyebrows.
Illya turned towards his hut.
“Hey Illya, come over. We’ve got a game going,” someone said. Illya looked back at them, wrinkling his forehead, wondering if they had planned a joke on him.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, kicking the doorway of his new hut and squinting through the darkness to see what they were doing.
“Come on,” Conna said. “It’s fun.”
He wanted nothing more than to hide away from the world, but he didn’t want them thinking he was a loser either. Illya went over to sit by Aaro, who scooted over to make room.
Once he had joined them in the glow of the fire, Illya started to feel a little bit better. Strangely, they seemed genuinely happy to see him. They laughed readily and joked with each other, making wild claims about their hunting prowess as they played a game of slingshot, flinging pebbles to bounce off the trees, trying to hit randomly spaced circles drawn in the dirt. Everywhere else in the village there was tension, the weight of everyone’s constant scrutiny and expectations. Here, they were just having fun.