Page 201 of Beasts of Mine

“I know.” Tavian replied without arguing, his voice quieter now. “That's why I waited.” The answer made me look at him more carefully. Tavian didn't often hesitate over giving me something. Seeds, shells, fruit, leaves—he normally handed them over with the confidence of a man who had already decided they were excellent gifts and my agreement was merely confirmation.

This was different.

“You could've handed it to me then.” I told Tavian as I rolled the stone between my fingers, feeling the shallow ridge where the lighter line crossed one side.

“I could have.” Tavian agreed as his amber eyes dropped toward it. “I wanted you to have somewhere you actually wanted to keep it first.”

There was no joke waiting behind the statement. He'd found something he wanted to give me, understood that my shelf and my space weren't his to fill, and carried the ridiculous stone around until I had started using that space myself.

I walked over to the shelf and placed it beside the finished field notebook. The dark stone sat between the worn corner of the notebook and my spare memory-card case, obviously unrelated to either one and somehow completely at home there.

“There.” I told Tavian as I adjusted it once before stepping back. “Now it has a place.”

“Good.” Tavian replied as his shoulders relaxed, his attention resting on the stone for another second before returning to me. I didn't mention that he checked the shelf again before dinner. There was no need.

Sex hadn't ended any of their courtship, and neither had how comfortable we'd become with one another. They were still showing me what choosing them would look like without acting as though I'd already made the permanent choice.

The animals noticed the approaching end of my assignment before I wanted to think too hard about it.

I was sitting near the western courtyard one afternoon, cleaning fine dust from a lens after several hours photographing along the stream, when the scarlet macaw dropped onto a branch above the wall. The stone beneath me still held some warmth from the afternoon, but shadows had begun stretching across the courtyard as the sun lowered behind the trees. Frogs had already started calling from the wetter ground beyond the ruins, and the humid air smelled strongly of leaves and the river.

You leave soon, the macaw announced as it hooked its claws around the branch and stared down at me, its bright feathers puffing around its chest.

“Yes.” I answered the macaw as I continued moving the cleaning cloth carefully around the edge of the glass, checking the lens beneath the fading light.

Long leaving, the macaw complained as it leaned farther forward, opening and closing its beak once as though three months were a personal inconvenience.

“Three months.” I told the macaw as I capped the lens and set it beside me, still not certain what months meant from the perspective of a bird. The macaw clicked its beak several times before tilting its head.

You come back after long leaving? the macaw asked as it studied me, the usual loud amusement missing from its voice.

A few weeks ago, that question would've required more thought than I wanted to admit. I would've started separating work from the temple, the temple from the men, and wanting to return from promising I would.

This time the answer came easily.

“Yes. I'm coming back.” I told the macaw as I met its dark eye, no longer needing to qualify the answer for myself.

Good. Spotted ones become annoying when worried, the macaw decided as it straightened on the branch and resettled its wings.

“They're annoying when they're not worried.” I reminded the macaw as I reached for the next lens, hearing an offended sound from somewhere beyond the wall that might have been Tavian.

The macaw made a pleased clicking noise and flew away before Tavian could find out whether the insult had been directed at him.

The real countdown started during the final week.

For most of the assignment, my shot list had been something I was still adding to, correcting, and rearranging. Now almost every line had a mark beside it. The final river sequence was finished. The kingfisher reshoot had given me exactly what I'd wanted. I'd gotten the motmot again from significantly safer ground and, after reviewing the files twice, decided I wasn't risking another attempt simply because one feather could have been sharper.

The change showed everywhere at the station. The long lens that had spent most of six weeks within arm's reach was cleaned, capped, wrapped, and locked inside its hard case. Two backup batteries I'd been rotating daily were charged and packed, leaving empty spaces in the holder beside my laptop. The stack of memory-card cases near my notebook had gotten smaller as finished cards were backed up, checked, and secured. Cables I'd had spread across the worktable were coiled and labeled, and one of my duplicate drives was already sealed in the separate case that wouldn't travel with the primary copy.

Even the worktable looked different. There were open patches of wood where equipment had been sitting for weeks, revealing scratches and old water marks I'd stopped noticing because lenses, notebooks, batteries, and hard drives had covered them for most of the assignment. The room sounded different too without chargers constantly humming or case lids opening and closing every morning.

Usually, watching my workspace disappear back into cases felt satisfying. It meant I hadn't left anything unfinished. The photographs existed in several places, the client selections were prepared, my notes were organized, and all the expensive equipment I'd dragged into the field was accounted for.

This time, every time another piece of equipment went into a case, I thought about how few days I had left.

Mara was standing beside the station worktable when she finally set the departure sheet beside my laptop. The ceiling fan clicked overhead at the same uneven rhythm it had maintained since the day I arrived, barely moving enough warm air to matter. Her coffee sat near one elbow, already forgotten while she compared my case list with the transport notes.

“Transport is confirmed for Thursday morning. They want you ready before seven.” Mara told me as she tapped the departure time with one finger, her brown hair already escaping the messy bun she'd started the morning with.