Soft as Spring

I was trying to persuade a dead rosebush to bloom when my senior sister walked into the practice garden with a man beside her. The rosebush had been dead since autumn. I knew that. The instructors knew that. The other students knew it well enough to stop asking why I spent my afternoons speaking gently to its bare branches. But the little brass gauge beside the pot still showed a faint green line, and I had learned not to give up on anything just because everyone else had. "Elowen," Maura called. I stood too quickly and knocked my watering can over. It clanged against the stone path. The man beside her looked down at it, then at me. He had rain-dark hair, a long gray coat, and a narrow scar crossing one eyebrow. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't see you." "I noticed," Maura replied. She smiled as she said it. Maura could make a reprimand sound like a kindness, which was one of the reasons the instructors liked her. The man's eyes remained on my face. He didn't smile, but he didn't look away, either. "Elowen, this is Elias Vale," Maura said. "He's agreed to work with you." My fingers tightened around the handle of the watering can. "Work with me on what?" "Your courtship practicum." The rosebush's dry branches shifted in the wind. I heard the faint click of the brass gauge settling back to zero. The Conservatory called the final course a courtship practicum, though the words made the younger students giggle and the older ones roll their eyes. We were taught how to form a mutually chosen accord: a promise that tied two people to a shared task, protected both of them under Conservatory law, and could be dissolved by either party. Some students formed accords for business, some for travel, and some for love. The course was supposed to teach us that a vow began with an honest question. I had spent five years failing to ask one. My score, displayed on the hall's slate board for all to see, was zero. Not a low mark. Not a mark waiting for review. Zero. "I thought you had to apply to be my partner," I said. "I did," Elias answered. His voice was low and even. "Maura explained the terms." "She explained them to you, but not to me." Maura's smile lost a fraction of its warmth. "You have been asking for a partner all year." "I have been asking when placements would be made." "That is a kind of asking." "It isn't the same kind." Elias glanced between us. "If this isn't what you want, I can leave." His offer came without impatience or embarrassment. That almost made it worse. I could feel the whole garden waiting for me to behave like a person who knew what she wanted. I could have said no. I could have asked him to come back another day. I could have asked why he had chosen me. Instead I heard myself say, "You're welcome to stay. If you still want to." "I do." Maura set a folder on the bench. "There. A beginning." She walked away before either of us could answer. For several seconds, Elias and I stood between the dead rosebush and the overflowing watering can. "I should tell you," I said, "that I don't have a good record with beginnings." "That's all right. I don't have a good record with institutions." "Is that why you came here?" "It's part of it." I wanted to ask what the other part was. The question reached my mouth and stopped there. He picked up the watering can and righted it. "You can ask me things, Elowen." "Thank you." "That wasn't an answer." The flush climbed from my throat to my ears. "I know." His mouth shifted as though he might smile, but he didn't. "Then let's start with something easier. What are we supposed to do?" I looked at the folder. The top sheet held the rules for the practicum: a series of meetings, a shared project, a final proposal for an accord. No promise was binding until both people spoke their consent before a witness. No one could be compelled to finish. I read the last line twice. "We're supposed to decide whether we want to make a vow," I said. "And if we don't?" "Then we don't." "Good." I picked up the watering can. "Would you like to help me revive a rosebush?" "Is it alive?" "I don't know." "Then yes," he said. "I'd like to find out." I poured water around its roots. Elias watched the brass gauge, not me. The needle trembled and stayed at zero. I had the strange feeling that this time, the failure belonged to both of us.