The Springborn

CALDER

S abella turns away from me, her arms full of bundled cloak and shawl. As I watch her leave the kitchen, I almost wish we’d been caught alone in the dark by the innkeepers. I could bear the accusations of misbehavior. To be forced to marry her would bring me more joy and relief than shame. She would feel otherwise, no doubt. She might even hate me for a while, or at least resent the loss of her freedom to choose a husband.

With a sigh, I lower myself to the chilly floor. I sit and ache. I could blame it on my recent illness, but most of the pain resides in the region of my heart. It is yearning, pining, longing—all of those poetic things that sound grand until you’re caught up in them. Until you think you might die of wanting and waiting.

Light peeks through the window as the rooster crows again. I haul myself to my feet and put the bread and butter back in the cupboard. I will go upstairs and lie upon my bed, but there is no chance I will sleep.

I will stare at the ceiling and try to solve the great riddle of the ages: how to get someone you love to love you in return.