The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Both

It was nearing supper time when Able made his way down the back stairs into the shop with all the dignity his aching legs could muster. He would go up to the Bear Star to hear if there was news, but first, he would reward Lark for his kindness and patience by at least answering any questions he had.

Hatling was at the front counter chatting with two elderly ladies...about the events in Kettlebrook. This nearly cost Able his new-found serenity as he considered how to hobble across the back of the shop without drawing attention. But none of them said anything, and he found Lark alone in the workroom standing over the table with his back to the door.

Lark seemed a woman again. His powder-blue dress hung to his ankles and his black curls were mostly loose, just the top tied around back with a ribbon. The way he leaned over the table with his hip jutting to one side even made his bottom look round, which perplexed Able as he knew rather more than he'd like that it was not.

More perplexing was that the sight of it stirred his loins, and he flushed right to his ears remembering how he had fallen asleep on that broad back the night before. He moved to back out of the room but unwittingly kicked an empty box in the process.

Lark turned around. "Ah, you're up! Did you get any sleep?" His deep brown eyes lacked their usual shine; they were sunken and a bit bloodshot. His smile, however, was as bright as ever.

"Uh..." Able grimaced at the box then stepped over it and fully into the room. "I did, yes. You clearly didn't, though. Was something the matter?"

"Does it show?" Lark winced, then left the table for a mirror in the corner, where he peered at his face in concern. "I had thought I'd done a fair job of covering it."

"Covering it? Why would you bother with...covering it?"

Lark's reflection raised an eyebrow. "I like to look pretty."

Who says something like that, and what are you supposed to say in response? "Lark, look, I've been holding off asking..." Able trailed off and needed his hand to prop up his ever-heavier forehead. He'd just gone over one precipice last night. Why on earth was he standing on the edge of a second?

"Asking?" Lark raised his eyebrows. "Asking what?"

"Just..." Well, better to be forthright when it was only going to keep bothering him anyway? "Just what is the deal with the dresses and the makeup? Just...why?"

"I like them?" Lark looked at Able more out the side of his eye, again thinking this something that should be apparent.

"But..." Able threw his arms up. Over we go, then. "Sometimes you're like a woman, and other times like a man, and then sometimes—oh, only god knows! Which is it? Which are you trying to be?"

"Have you ever asked yourself if that even really matters?"

"What?" sputtered Able. "Of course it matters!"

"So, you haven't." Lark nodded as if having expected this confirmation.

"But it matters! People mistake you for a woman!"

Lark only shrugged. "People also mistake me for a man."

"Wait, aren't you?" Heart-in-throat, Able strained to orient himself in this free-fall. He looked up Lark's chest, then down Lark's arms, trying to see again what he had seen before—what he was so certain he had felt under his hands yesterday.

But Lark turned away as if to hide. "Not today," he said softly, looking at the ground then bit his lip. Like an embarrassed woman, sorry to cause anyone an inconvenience with her broad shoulders.