Alexander Woods's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The kettle had long gone cold by the time Alexander came back down the stairs that night. He had washed his hands three times more since morning. The lie about the foxes still sat between them like a plate no one had cleared. Henry was at the kitchen table under the low lamp, a small paper box open in front of him. Alexander stopped on the last step. He already knew what was in the box. "I went to the temple this afternoon," Henry said. He did not look up. He lifted the ring from its paper nest and set it on the wood between them. It was heavier than the others, wider, etched all the way around with a climbing vine. "They blessed it this morning. I wanted you to have another. For the hand you favor." He finally looked at Alexander then, and his eyes were tired behind the glasses. "I know it's a lot. I know. But I would rather you had one more than one less." Alexander crossed the kitchen. He sat down opposite Henry and put his right hand flat on the table. The other rings caught the lamp. He watched his own fingers as if they belonged to someone else. "Thank you," he said. He picked up the new ring. The silver was cold for a breath, then not. He slid it onto his middle finger. The burn started at once, a slow, biting heat that crawled under the skin and pooled in the knuckle. He kept his hand still. He kept his face still. "It fits," he said. Henry's shoulders came down an inch. Henry reached across and squeezed his wrist, and Alexander did not pull away, though the pressure drove the ring deeper into the burn. Upstairs, in his room, Alexander shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed. He held his hand out into the dark. The ring throbbed against the bone. He thought of Henry counting silver in the temple, choosing this one, carrying it home in a paper box. He thought of the sink that morning, and the lie, and Henry kneeling to wipe his foot. Love, he understood, was what was doing this to him. That was the worst part. Under the burn something else moved, quiet and new. It was not gratitude. It was not fear. It was a small, hard heat that matched the silver ring for ring. He did not name it. He only noticed it, and let it stay. He turned out the lamp and lay down with the hand held away from his body, the way you hold something that has bitten you and might bite again.