The Name of the Wind

“That will all depend on how quickly Anker manages to pull down drinks for the lot of them.” I came to a stop at the edge of the alley that ran between the back of Anker’s tavern and the bakery next door. “If you will excuse me a moment, I have to put my lute away.”

“In an alley?” she asked.

“In my room.” Stepping lightly, I moved quickly up the side of the building. Right foot rain barrel, left foot window ledge, left hand iron drainpipe, and I swung myself onto the lip of the first story roof. I hopped across the alley to the roof of the bakery and smiled at her startled intake of breath. From there it was a short stroll upward and I hopped back across to the second story roof of Anker’s. Tripping the latch to my window, I reached through and set my lute lightly on my bed before heading back down the way I had come.

“Does Anker charge a penny every time you use his stairs?” she asked as I neared the ground.

I stepped down from the rainbarrel and brushed my hands against my pants. “I come and go at odd hours,” I explained easily as I fell into step beside her. “Am I correct in understanding that you are looking for a gentleman to walk with you tonight?”

A smile curved her lips as she looked sideways at me. “Quite.”

“That is unfortunate,” I sighed. “I am no gentleman.”

Her smile grew. “I think that you are close enough.”

“I would like to be closer.”

“Then come walking with me.”

“It would please me greatly. However ...” I slowed my walk a bit, my smile fading into a more serious expression. “What about Sovoy?”

Her mouth made a line. “He’s staked a claim on me then?”

“Well, not as such. But there are certain protocols involved....”

“A gentleman’s agreement?” she asked acidicly

“More like honor among thieves, if you will.”

She looked me in the eye. “Kvothe,” she said seriously. “Steal me.”

I bowed and made a sweeping gesture toward the world. “At your command.” We continued our walk, the moon was shining, making the houses and shops around us seem washed and pale. “How is Sovoy anyway? I haven’t seen him for a while.”

She waved a hand to dismiss the thought of him. “I haven’t either. Not for lack of trying on his part.”

My spirits rose a bit. “Really?”

She rolled her eyes. “Roses! I swear you men have all your romance from the same worn book. Flowers are a good thing, a sweet thing to give a lady.

But it is always roses, always red, and always perfect hothouse blooms when they can come by them.” She turned to face me. “When you see me do you think of roses?”

I knew enough to shake my head, smiling.

“What then? If not a rose what do you see?”

Trapped. I looked her up and down once, as if trying to decide. “Well,” I said slowly. “You’ll have to forgive us men. You see, it’s not an easy thing to pick a flower to fit a girl, if you’ll excuse my expression....”

She grimaced. “Pick a flower. Yes, I’ll excuse it this time.”

“The trouble is, when you gift a girl with flowers your choice can be construed so many different ways. A man might give you a rose because he feels you are beautiful, or because he fancies their shade or shape or softness similar to your lips. Roses are expensive, and perhaps he wishes to show through a valuable gift that you are valuable to him.”

“You make a good case for roses,” she said. “The fact remains I do not like them. Pick another flower to suit me.”

“But what suits? When a man gives you a rose what you see may not be what he intends. You may think he sees you as delicate or frail. Perhaps you dislike a suitor who considers you all sweet and nothing else. Perhaps the stem is thorned, and you assume he thinks you likely to hurt a hand too quick to touch. But if he trims the thorns you might think he has no liking for a thing that can defend itself with sharpness. There’s so many ways a thing can be interpreted,” I said. “What is a careful man to do?”

She cast a sidelong look to me. “If the man is you, I’d guess he would spin clever words and hope the question was forgotten.” She tilted her head. “It isn’t. What flower would you pick for me?”

“Very well, let me think.” I turned to look at her, then away. “Let’s run down a list. Dandelion might be good; it is bright, and there is a brightness about you. But dandelion is common, and you are not a common creature. Roses we have dealt with and discarded. Nightshade, no. Nettle ... perhaps.”

She made a face of mock outrage and showed me her tongue.

I tapped a finger to my lips as if reconsidering. “You are correct, except for your tongue it doesn’t suit you.”

She huffed and crossed her arms.

“Wild oat!” I exclaimed, startling a laugh from her. “It’s wildness suits you, but it is a small flower, and bashful. For that as well as other,” I cleared my throat, “more obvious reasons, I think we’ll pass the wild oat by.”

“Pity,” she said.