words.

this is the first chapter of sword of fyer.

below it, also find “treehouse”, a short story.

copyright 2008 ©

original work by ac gaughen

contact me at acgaughen@gmail.com

Chapter One

I felt a sharp pain stab deep into my stomach. I wasn’t home. I was in a mountain valley, a land of ice with high craggy peaks all around me, snow falling everywhere; there was a torch burning somewhere and a man looming before me. He was holding a sword in his hand, wet with blood. I screamed--I tried to grab my wounded stomach, I tried to twist away, but I couldn’t move.

Gabryela, my father’s voice whispered. Gabryela.

“Papa?” I wailed. The man raised his arm and I trembled as I realized he had my father’s sword.

Gabryela, the sword!

The sword crashed down. I think I screamed, but I couldn’t tell what was real.

My body separated from itself and flew above, and I looked down below me. It wasn’t me the man had stabbed. It was my father, and his eyes lay vacant and unseeing. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I was vomiting, like my whole chest was heaving, caving, hollowing out. I felt the burn of flames all around me. I could see fire, hear it, taste it in my mouth. I screamed and screamed until my throat burned, trying to fight the heat.

My vision changed again, and I was staring into a pair of bright blue eyes, surrounded by a young face that I recognized but couldn’t place. “Let it come, Gabryela,” he said to me. “I’m with you. Let it come.” His eyes were cold to my fire, calming the terrible grip of the flames. I held my breath, confused but trying to obey him, and before I could exhale my body wrenched with sudden agony, and the exhale became a scream.

I jerked up with a hard gasp. My red hair flew around my face and for a second I thought it was still fire and a scream slipped from my mouth.

“Gabby?”

My father opened the door, worry plain on his face, and I tried to take a deep breath. My heart was beating hard and I was shaking a little. He was right in front of me. He was still alive. So why was I still afraid?

“Are you alright?”

I nodded.

“You yelled,” he said.

I nodded, trying to suck in a deep breath. “Is it dawn yet?” I asked, looking toward the windows.

“Almost. Did you have another dream, Gabby?”

I shook my head, feeling my cheeks blush. I was never a very good liar. “No. I just woke up and my hair was all around my head.”

His mouth twitched a little in a smile. “Oh. Good. Well you might as well get up. We can go practice.”

I nodded, and he closed the door. I wished suddenly that he hadn’t believed my lie. I wished he made me tell him everything.

I pressed my hand to my heart, trying to calm the harsh beat. With a sigh I pushed my legs off the side off the bed; this wasn’t the first time I had such vivid dreams. My father was always very interested in them—I think he believed me to be some sort of visionary. They came very sporadically, and when they did, they were violent.

My hand went to my side, and I wasn’t surprised to feel swollen ridges of bruises where, in the dream, I had been cut.

Concentrate.

I was losing ground quickly, each clang of the heavy sword on mine forcing me backward, my arm aching with every blow met. Each breath scorched my lungs and my palms were sweating, making the sword slip in my grasp. All I could hear was the roar of my blood in my ears.

I took an extra step back before he forced me to it, gaining that extra second to steady my stance and collect myself. This time, when he came at me like a sledgehammer, I was ready. I met his blow from above, locking his sword for a moment, long enough for me to slip to the side and release so he stumbled. Now he was a second late, and I came at him with all the speed I possessed. I flew at him, darted around him, let the sweat run off my face as he grew slower.

I stopped my wild dance abruptly, steadying my stance again, falling forward into a perfect lunge, my sword outstretched beneath his chin. Triumph pulsed hot through my veins. “Drop the sword,” I commanded.

He stepped back and hit my sword away with a force I couldn’t counter. I stumbled a little, trying to steady my stance. He bashed my sword again, and I fell.

He stepped on my wrist to force the sword out. I gritted my teeth against a yelp and scissor-kicked his legs with the strength that anger lent me, bringing him down as well. I sprang up and pressed my sword against his windpipe, staying clear of his arms and legs.

“Drop it,” I repeated.

With a ragged gasp, he obeyed, shoving it away from him. I kicked it up and caught it, stepping back from him.

“You know that hurt when you stepped on my wrist,” I told him with a scowl.

He shrugged as he stood. “These lessons aren’t about coddling you, Gabby.” He took his sword back, sliding it into the sheath on his back. “Now, practice your forms. I have some work to finish at the forge, but I want you out here til sundown.”

I frowned. “Papa—”

“I nearly beat you, Gabryela. That’s still not good enough.”

“Not good enough? For who?”

“For me, Gabryela. I am your teacher and your father; it isn’t good enough for me.”

“I beat you, didn’t I? Who can’t I beat, if I can beat you?” I crossed my arms.

“There are plenty out there that I can’t beat, Gabby.”

“Who?” I scoffed. “And it might be an issue if we ever left Paelin, but we haven’t in months.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Why are you so eager to leave, my girl?”

I looked away, reasons running through my head that I didn’t want the humiliation of saying out loud. “It isn’t as if I’d be missed,” I grumbled. “I just don’t understand why we train so much.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “I rather thought you considered yourself a warrior, Gabby.”

“A warrior needs some sort of enemy, Papa.”

He smirked a little. “So we need to find you an enemy?”

“No. I’m merely pointing out that a warrior needs something to fight against; do you not remember teaching me that fighting just for fighting’s sake is dishonorable?”

The smirk vanished. “That is not advice to make sport of.”

“So what would you have me fight? The trees that grow too close to our home? The squirrels? Maybe on a very fortunate day I could find a bear.”

“Maybe you should be more concerned with fighting the river, my girl.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Finish your forms, Gabby, then come home. After that you can continue arguing if you wish.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. I hated when he treated me like such a child.

He sighed again, removing his sheath from his back. “When you go in, take care of my sword as well as your own.”

I nodded, beginning to practice the routine as I watched him walk from the clearing. When I couldn’t see him any more, I stopped, throwing my sword down. Not good enough. I beat him, didn’t I? And he was the best swordsman I’d ever seen.

I began my favorite part of the forms, the most rigorous and demanding. My father insisted that, since I was smaller than a man, I had to be faster and more mobile to make up for it. So every day I had to do back flips, front flips, and high jumps. I had to drop flat on the ground and spring back up, then somersaults, and jumping like a frog and landing into a somersault. It took nearly an hour to complete, and by the end of it I was lying in the grass, breathing hard. There was barely any wind, and the air was dry and stifling.

It wasn’t dusk yet, but I pulled myself up, taking his sword and going through the forest to the stream. I stopped when I first hit it, drinking deeply, washing my face and rinsing water through my hair. I stood wearily, following the stream.

I saw the clearing ahead of me where the town met the river. The houses were constructed tight to each other, forming a circle around the livestock pens and the fire pit. When the weather allowed it, night fires were lit there and the village sat around the fire, talking and laughing, basking in each others company. I looked down stream, just making out where the forge was, standing on the edge of a shelf before one side of the stream rolled away, creating a substantial drop from one bank to the other. We lived outside of the tight circle, close enough that we called Paelin our home, but always obviously separated.

If I went home now, my father would know that I stopped practicing early, so I ducked through the trees and cut into the town. It was harvest season, and the next day was a market day, so many men were out in the fields half a mile from the town. The younger people were still in the town. I hung back as two boys rushed past me, stripping off their clothing as they went to jump in the stream. Their laughter was loud and giddy, and the sound paralyzed me a little.

I shook my head. I had no business in the town. I never belonged there and lately I had been avoiding it more and more.

I looked around the town, wondering where I could waste time. I could go see Roark; he was always kind to me, and generally had time to talk since his wife died. I could go to the bakers and get a sweetroll, I had a few coins in my purse, tied to my belt.

With that purpose in mind, I crossed the town center. I ran along the side of the livestock pen, where only the pigs remained for the day, and above their snorting I heard voices, and I hung back, recognizing them.

“Oh, stop,” a girl protested half-heartedly.

“Stop what?” the boy said innocently. “I’m telling the truth. Every word.”

“My father won’t be happy if he returns and sees us.”

“And what would he see? We’re just having a conversation. Everyone can see.”

The girl giggled, and I rolled my eyes. They were standing against one side of the livestock pen. Could I avoid them if I circled wide enough?

I tried just that, walking quietly toward the houses, but as soon as I came into his range of vision, I heard Gareth call, “Oh, Cella, look who was visiting with the pigs.”

I ignored him as Cella giggled. “Well it isn’t much of a surprise, you know. My mother says she might as well be an animal.”

At this I turned, my hair swinging out behind me in what I hoped was a commanding move. Cella bound her hair up and it wasn’t nearly as impressive as my long red tresses. “If I were an animal, Cella, I wouldn’t be a pig, waiting for slaughter.” I paused, and she didn’t move. I smiled wickedly. “I’d be a wolf. And at night, I would hunt for blood.”

She gasped, horrified, and Gareth gave me a scowl. “Cella, she is only joking. Besides, she isn’t anything other than a fool’s daughter.”

My eyes narrowed. “And what right do you have to call my father a fool? He’s traveled over the whole country and back again. He can take a lump of cold metal and shape it into the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. Where have you been, Gareth? What can you do?”

“Beautiful things? What, like a sword?” he asked, nodding to the two on my person. “What good did they ever bring? My father helps feed this town. He’s taught me to seed, to reap, to harvest. Did metal ever feed a child? Metal can’t do anything but kill.”

“Don’t be stupid. Your father uses a metal rake to till the earth, a metal scythe to cut the grain. He couldn’t be anything without my metal.”

“Your father’s metal. What have you ever done, Gabby?”

“Yes,” said Cella, catching on. “And what will you ever do? No man will touch you, much less marry you. You’ll have no sons. Nothing to offer the world,” she told me with a false smile. She slid her palm up Gareth’s chest to his shoulder, and the motion drew Gareth’s indivisible attention back to her.

“Take a deep breath, Cella, because what I’m about to tell you might be disturbing.” She looked to Gareth, her breath catching, and I smiled. “If a woman’s greatest pride is producing sons, that makes her daughters useless. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re a daughter, yes?”

She looked furious and confused at the same time, and Gareth scowled at me.

I gave him a little smirk, and headed off to the baker’s, hearing Cella whine, “Well you don’t think I’m worthless, do you?” I chuckled.

Anna had a larger home than most of the others; her large ovens and wide shelves where she set her goods to cool were in the front part of the house, her home on the back of that. I stepped in without knocking, and saw she was sweating trying to pull a large loaf out of the back of the bricked ovens. She was a tiny woman, barely tottering to the height of my shoulder and thinner than a willow switch, and she always surprised me with how much she could accomplish.

I ran over, pulling the cloths from her hands and taking the bread out myself.

“There,” she said, pointing to free space on the shelves. I placed it gently down, the growing heat of the bread in my hands not bothering me. I suppose growing up around a forge gave me a certain comfort with heat.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling the cloth from my hands. “Haven’t seen you around for a fair while.”

“Do you have any rolls?”

“Of course I do. I am a baker, aren’t I?” There were two bright spots of color on her cheeks and I was never sure if they were from the heat or from exertion. She raised an eyebrow, and I handed her a coin.

She nodded, going to the shelves. “My daughters don’t have to pay for their own sweets. You know just yesterday that nice Gareth bought my Lilia two sweetrolls.”

“You would charge your own daughters for rolls if he hadn’t bought her any?” I teased.

Her eyes narrowed. “You miss the point, young Gabryela.”

I bit into the roll. “You want me to buy your daughters treats?”

The spots grew brighter. “Unless you or that father of yours has forgotten, you are not a young man!” she hissed. “Exactly the problem if you ask me. You would do quite well to wear a skirt, or bind that wild hair of yours. It’s hardly your fault,” she continued with a sigh, and the bread became harder to swallow. I looked away. “Your father should have married again. Given you a mother. It’s his fault, really, that you’re such a blessed mess.”

I forced a smile, ducking out of the door. “Thank you, Anna!”

I glanced around the town, taking another bite of the roll. It was almost worth her sermons to eat her baking. I caught sight of Gareth leaning in to Cella—most definitely not one of Anna’s daughters—and turned abruptly, deciding to cut through the forest to the forge.

The bruises on my side were aching as I slowly picked my way along the forest floor. Trees grew tall like pins stuck in the ground, their arms reaching out to touch me as I passed. It was a fairly new forest still. Old Thom’s mother, until she passed last year, was the oldest woman in Paelin, and she spoke of when she was a girl, the whole forest had burned, and a new one sprang up in its place. When the town moaned to hear of it, she shook her old head slowly, catching a pinecone in her old fingers. She threw it on the fire, and we all watched, rapt, as the bristles of the pinecone popped open one by one. She told us the only way a new forest could grow was in the wake of fire.

Smoke piped out the forge at the end of the building closest to the river. I skirted carefully around the forge, going instead to the kitchen, retrieving oil and a cloth. I gave my sword, an iron practice sword, a quick rub of oil and sheathed it.

My father’s sword I treated better, gently cleaning it, listening to it whisper and hum beneath my hands as I ran the cloth over the filigree work, straining to hear it through the rhythmic beat of my father’s hammer. It was the finest craftsmanship I’d ever seen. He could make more like it, I knew, but had made only maybe eight others that I could remember.

When I was finished, I put it in its sheath and hung it on the wall. I crossed my arms as I looked at it. My father wouldn’t tell me much of his life before I was born, but he was a master swordsman. I always imagined he had learned that in some dashing, adventurous fashion, like traveling the world over and fighting every good fight he could find. My father was a hero, I was sure of it. And that sword had helped him become one.

With a sigh I turned away from the sword. I could fight better than he could but it didn’t make me a hero. Or a heroine.

That night was a night of celebration for Paelin. Paelin was a village that relied almost exclusively on its lush fields to feed and trade, and that night the new moon was rising, her belly wide and full, a good sign. The harvest moon had risen and the next day the scythes would be out and the reaping would begin. The night before harvest was a sacred night, a night dedicated to the highest power—the Firebird.

I never worked the harvest. The townspeople used girls to do the threshing and winnowing of the grain, but my father never allowed it, another line drawn between the town and our forge.

As night fell, they built a huge bonfire in the firepit, the largest they would build all year. The youngest children played games of daring, toeing close and running away from the fire. I watched them, standing back, still close enough to feel the warmth of the fire but far enough to be left alone. I had never been afraid of fire; it was my father’s trade and a daily occurrence. It was always more seductive to me than dangerous. It was changing and ethereal and wild; I saw its power, but I never felt its wrath.

The whole town congregated around the fire, boasting that it would be the best harvest of their lifetimes. They did every year, and every year their concerns seemed so petty to me, so small. I hung back as I always did, away from the dancing circles, the loud songs, the promise of the future that never included me.

Once the fire was roaring, my least favorite part began. A chicken was brought forth, a chubby gold yellow one, a prime stock. Its legs shot out frantically, and its neck bobbed and darted erratically. It was afraid. It should be.

The people hushed as Thom, the unofficial leader of the fieldhands, held up the panicked chicken. “A great harvest lies before us!” he declared. “And our new firebird will see to it.”

With that he threw the chicken on the fire, and the cheers of the people drowned out the chicken’s shrieks. Its weak wings flapped as it caught fire, rising to the top of the fire and just leaping above. In that brief second the chicken was the revered fire bird, entirely alight, wings outstretched.

My father and I walked back to the forge, my skin suddenly cold away from the fire. We were silent, walking side by side. The forest was strangely quiet.

I opened the door to the forge, sliding into the hot, close warmth. The coals were still glowing in the bed of the fire, and I moved over to it.

“Ugh!”

I whipped around, seeing my father fall to the ground.

“Papa!” I shrieked. I skidded to my knees beside him, rolling him over. “Papa? Papa?” I asked, shaking him.

His eyes opened, revealing bright gold irises where his blue ones usually were. He began muttering in some language I didn’t understand. “Papa?” I repeated.

He blinked, his eyes flashing back to blue. He looked at me briefly, then stood.

“What happened? Are you alright? Maybe you shouldn’t be standing, just rest a bit,” I said, standing as well, touching his arm.

“I’m fine.” He paused for a moment, shook his head like he was clearing it. He took a deep breath and went to his workbench, opening a drawer and withdrawing a sheathed sword. He lay it across his arm with the hilt extended to me.

He nodded once.

I reached for the sword, confused. The leather wrapping the hilt was soft and the pommel swept over my hand like a dark brass flame.

I picked it up. It lifted easily, strangely light, and as I pulled it up, I heard its whisper. It had the sweetest voice I’d heard yet.

It was glorious in every respect. It had two deep grooves running its length, perfect taper down to a paper-thin, razor sharp tip. Etched onto the flame pommel was a flying firebird, its body consumed by a detailed blaze, its wings flanked by strange markings. It was a curious image for a sword.

I cut through the air with it, savoring the whisper, the hum, feeling its music sweep over me.

“Happy birthday, Gabryela.”

I stopped at once. “What? My birthday’s not til tomorrow.”

“I know. I won’t be here; I wanted you to have it now.”

“Won’t be here?” I couldn’t remember a single day in my life my father hadn’t been with me; on his rare travels, I went with him.

“I have to go. I won’t be gone long.”

“So I’ll come with you.” I smiled. “Is that another present? Where are we going, Defent? Sylversi? We haven’t been to Vollas in ages.”

“No. You will not come with me, Gabryela. You have to stay here.”

Rejection caught in my throat. “I’m coming with you, Papa.” The dream I had last night flashed through my mind. “Papa, don’t go. Please. You can’t go.”

He met my eyes, then looked away from me. “No.” His voice was firmer. “I cannot have you with me tonight. I should be back by tomorrow evening at the latest.” He hesitated. “If anything happens, go to Owen d’Marchien. He’ll be able to help you.” He came closer to me, pulling my neck so he could kiss my forehead.

I jerked away from him. “What’s going to happen? Papa, where are you going?”

“I can’t tell you, my girl.”

“Papa, I had a dream—”

He cut me off, meeting my eyes. Where there was usually such bright affection, there was only darkness and worry. I lost my voice. “If anything happens, find Owen.”

“Who is he?”

“An old friend.”

“I’ve never met him. How could you have a friend I don’t know about?”

“There is so much you don’t know.”

I pulled away from him. Terror was squeezing my chest. “So much? I thought we didn’t hide anything from each other.”

He sighed. “I love you, Gabby.”

“Papa, please!”

But he just shook his head, and turned away. He went and took his sword from the wall, hefting its weight before securing it in his sword belt.

“Papa,” I said. “Please be careful.”

He met my eyes and nodded once. My stomach hollowed out.

The door closed behind him, and I stayed there, standing still, watching the embers in the coals die until they were lightless gray ash.

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treehouse

The accumulation of two years of leaves crunched beneath her feet as she walked out into her backyard. It was wide, spacious, and totally fenced; a big selling point these days. Half the backyard was covered in ivy. It had grown rampant in the past few years.

She stopped beside her daughter. Lucy was standing with one arm crossed over her chest, the hand tucked into an armpit, the other hand braced to hold a large cup of steaming tea. It was tilted at a precarious angle, but she held it steady.

“Sweetheart? What are you doing out here?” her mother asked.

“What happened to the tree house?”

Her mother looked at it. It used to be a magnificent tree house, two stories tall with sturdy ladders and railings—the top platform was high up, and when Lucy was a girl it had seemed that lying on your back, your nose would just graze the stars. Now there was a great knife in it, an uprooted tree. The tree was wrapped with lines of ivy, as if the plant had lassoed the old tree and brought it crashing down with devastating precision.

The top floor had cracked around the tree, and the whole thing had collapsed so that the bottom, once four feet from the ground, had landed onto the earth like a fallen child. Part of the siding had torn off, revealing rotten wood. The whole thing had been rotted, and Lucy hadn’t even known it.

“That’s one of the most obvious problems,” her mother said. “No one will buy it with that eyesore out back. The rest needs a little cleaning—rake the leaves, replant the herb garden with flowers maybe. HGTv says flowers really pop. Curb appeal.”

“It’s the backyard, Mum,” Lucy said. “No curb.”

“Still. It isn’t as if we have a pool. So many people have a pool.”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll need to hire someone to take the treehouse down, though. Properly.”

“I suppose. I don’t think we’d be much use with an axe.”

Lucy nodded, and sipped her tea. “I’d forgotten it was even back here. Isn’t that strange?”

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go inside or your tea will get cold. We’ll make a list.”

Lucy looked longer at the treehouse as her mother turned away, but her eyes closed and she turned her back on it.

“Lucy? They’re here. Will you show them outback?”

“Sure, Mum,” Lucy called, going through the house. Four young men stood in the paved driveway, holding a variety of intimidating tools.

The tallest smiled. “Lucy? What are you doing home?”

Lucy smiled too. She shifted her weight onto her forward foot, unsure how she should greet him. Handshake? Hug? Kiss on the cheek? She rocked back, opting out entirely. “Hey, Matt. Oh, yeah, just temporary. While Mum’s moving out and all.”

He nodded. “It’s good to see you. You look great.”

Lucy smiled tightly, crossing her arms as his eyes brushed over her. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and ratty jeans—she was positive she didn’t look great. He, however, looked better than she ever remembered. “You too. So what’s this you’re doing now? I thought you were in med school.”

He grinned, hefting the axe on his shoulder, perfectly aware of the effect it had on his arm muscles. “I am. Third year. But your mother called my mother, how was I supposed to say no? You know these guys are useless without me.” He slapped his nearest brother’s back, and they all jeered in return for the comment.

Lucy flushed. She twisted to the side, biting the inside of her cheek. “Well come on, I’ll show you back to the treehouse.”

He didn’t comment. She was almost positive he knew where the treehouse was, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe it was better that he didn’t say anything. But maybe he didn’t remember.

They got to work without saying anything more, and Lucy stayed for a moment, awkwardly watching them as they began to chop and saw, peeling the treehouse away from its wooden anchors. Then she caught Matt’s eyes on her with a little squint to them, and she muttered something about leaving them to it and walked in through the porch door. She left the door open behind her.

Her mother left to go grocery shopping, and Lucy found herself hovering over the sink, compelled to watch as they dissected the treehouse. She remembered it being built. She remembered sitting crosslegged with their long dead lab, a puppy then, teething a stick in her lap. Her father and her older cousins hauled in a pile of nondescript wood, and they turned it into a palace. It grew out of nothing. Stairs formed, and then a large platform with dainty railing all around it. A wide ladder led up to the top level, and the day they finished building it her father had tied a tarp across half of the space. They had a picnic under the tarp and then she lay on her back, watching the stars. Her castle, they said, and her father hung a sign off the railing with twine that said ‘Lucy’ in pink chalk.

And now it was being steadily dismantled. It wasn’t hard to do. The wood was soft and rotten, and every now and again she’d hear one of the Goodman boys exclaim as they found a colony of termites. They took pleasure in the breaking of it. Even Matt. Matt looked satisfied with every heavy swing of the axe. She could hear the cracks of the wood even from inside the kitchen, and each one made her jump.

It was almost noontime when her mother came home, and Lucy flushed as she turned from the window before her mother saw her. She hurried over to the refrigerator, opening it as her mother set down bundles of food.

“How’s it going here?” her mother asked.

“Good. I think they’re doing a good job.”

Lucy was drawn back to the windows over the sink, and she leaned over the edge, looking out. Her mother came beside her.

“Sure you want to move?” Lucy asked.

Her mother’s arm brushed against Lucy’s. “It’s time, sweetheart. All of us need to move on.”

She moved away from Lucy, going to the groceries.

“I bought lunch. You want to call them in?”

Lucy bit the inside of her cheek. “You’re right near the door, you might as well.”

Her mother turned, opening the screen door. “Boys! Lunch is ready, if you’re hungry!”

Lucy crossed her arms, leaning against the countertop as they all abandoned their tools. The twins, the two youngest, raced each other in, Matt and his other brother slowly following. Matt was the last inside the door, and Lucy didn’t look up, unsure whether she wanted him to look at her or didn’t want him to look at her.

The boys all sat and began unwrapping sandwiches, and her mother handed one to Lucy. “I’ll eat outside,” Lucy said quickly.

Her mother nodded, and Lucy kept her eyes away as she slid past Matt, going out the screen door to the patio set. She heard Matt say something, and a second later the door opened with a squeal, and slammed closed behind him. He paused for a second, and she looked up at him. “Mind?” he asked, going down the steps and pointing to the chair beside her.

“No,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich as he sat down. He smelled strongly of sweat, and his skin was shiny.

He took a big bite, chewing, and then leaned back. “So what’s going on? Last I heard you and Mulroney were living together, and now you’re back at your moms? I could have even sworn my mum said you were engaged.”

Lucy looked at her finger. There wasn’t even a tan line. Six months of wearing it and there was no proof. “Yeah. I was. It didn’t really work out.” She looked up at the house she grew up in. “Obviously.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “That’s a little heavy for a catch-up conversation, don’t you think?”

He shrugged back at her with the grin she’d found so endearing since they were kids. “No.” Another big bite.

“A lot of things, I guess. He broke it off,” she admitted.

Matt swallowed his bite with difficulty. He’d assumed it had been the other way around. “Sorry.”

She lifted one shoulder, as if to say it didn’t matter. Of course it did, but she couldn’t say that.

“Did he say why?”

She took a bite of her sandwich, using the time as she chewed. She swallowed. “He said he was waiting for me to trust him completely, and he finally realized it wasn’t going to happen.” She smiled falsely. “Sucks, huh?”

Matt bit, chewed, and swallowed, thinking. She did the same, after a moment. “Yeah. That sucks,” he finally replied.

She nodded, taking another bite.

“How’s your dad these days?”

“Loving Arizona. With Linda.”

“Don’t see much of him then?”

“He calls.”

Matt nodded.

“What about you? How’s med school?”

“It’s good. Hard, but good. Not too much more to go, then I can start getting my hands on real medicine.”

“Your mom is going to be thrilled to have something more to brag about.”

Matt beamed. “She’s been bragging?”

Lucy smiled. “Dean’s list every semester for you. Jerry has a 4.0 at Villanova, Mark and Tim are starting forwards on the basketball team. We get all the gossip here.”

He shrugged with a smile. “You know mothers.”

Lucy chuckled. “You know our mothers.”

He nodded, going back to his sandwich. She followed his lead. They were quiet as they finished, and Matt leaned back in his chair, looking at her as she crumpled the paper wrapper up. She took a corner of his and began rolling, slowly drawing it towards her as she crumpled. He looked toward the kitchen as he heard chairs scraping.

“Guess I better get back to work.”

She smiled briefly. “Yeah. I’ll go throw these out.”

He stood as she stood, looking down at her as she moved away to the side. She held the door open as the three boys tumbled out, letting herself in once they passed.

Her mother had various tasks for her to do, boxing this and straightening that. The personality of her childhood home was boxed up and taken away so that a showroom remained. When she got the chance, she left her chores and went up stairs to her old room.

The bed was still there, but the bureau and bookshelves and little bedtable had gone with her to her apartment with her fiancée. Even the rug was gone; it was old, and the dog had peed on it a lot when she’d gotten old. No one had cleaned it because no one went in Lucy’s room and thought to look there for urine. The hardwood floors looked bare and sparse without it, the bed looked out of place. The walls had been painted but the windows still had the pink bunnies on gingham swags from her very first days. She had a few boxes that she had tossed on the floor when she had moved in; most of her stuff she’d thrown in storage, not wanting to deal with any of it.

She sat on the floor crosslegged. This wasn’t her room. This place was unfamiliar and strange, tiny scraps of a life she once led against a whitewashed wall.

It was dusk when the boys packed up their tools. The younger ones had to go, so Matt stayed and came inside and spoke to Lucy’s mother while she wrote a check. Lucy came down the stairs, coming into the kitchen to the sounds of them laughing together.

“Hey, Luce. Come see,” Matt called, angling his head toward the back yard. She nodded, and he held the screen door open as she walked out. They walked to spot where it used to be, and Matt picked something up off the garden wall. He handed it to her.

It was a flat piece of thin wood with a loop of twine on it. It was darkened and damp, and Lucy ran her fingers over it, feeling the soft pulp of the wood. She scratched it with a fingernail, and the wood gave way.

“I found it underneath the main platform. Thought you might want to see it.”

Lucy’s voice was choked back. The chalk bearing her name had washed away, and the wood, like the rest of it, was rotted through. She had felt such elation the day that sign had been put on the finished product. Her father had built her a castle. It was perfect and so was he. But the chalk had washed away and the wood had rotted through; why hadn’t she known then that chalk would fade and wood would crumble? Why hadn’t she realized her palace was nothing but a dilapidated mess underneath?

“It looks weird back here now that its gone. Really open. I told your mom I’d come back and clear out a lot of the ivy next weekend; some of it’s picturesque, but I bet buyers would want to see how big this yard is.”

“Yeah. That would be good. She’ll find a good buyer; some new family is going to love this house.”

He nodded. “In the meantime, you should come by my apartment for dinner some night. My girlfriend would love to meet you, and we could catch up properly.”

She blushed, and gave a shaky smile. “Sure.”

He smiled. “Alright. I’ll call you.”

She nodded, and he took the last of the tools and went out the gate to the driveway. She looked at the sign in her hands. Some family would love this house, with its charm and its false promises. Some new family would come and build their treehouse here, and watch as time and apathy ruined it. Then they’d move, too, and the cycle would start again.