Page 108

“Wet stone after rain. Wood smoke in winter. Fermented grain when my mother baked. Redflowers in spring.”

“Redflowers?”

“The flowers along our front path.”

“What did they look like?”

“Red.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

“Commander General Zared Maktu, poet.”

“I command soldiers. I do not name colors.”

“Were they dark red? Pinkish? Orange?”

“Red.”

I laughed.

The sound felt wrong at first.

Then good.

Zared watched me like he had discovered a rare event.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like laughter is a medical miracle.”

“It may be.”

I sobered.

“Sorry.”

“For laughing?”

“For doing it when your world—”

“No.”

The word was firm.

He leaned forward.

“Do not make grief into a law that forbids pleasure.”

I swallowed.

“That sounded practiced.”

“It is not.”