Taken by Erin Bowman

was the lie?” Emma asks.
    “The I-can’t-climb-a-tree statement. I know I don’t come across as very adventurous, but I can actually shinny up a tree trunk without much trouble.”
    Emma and I exchange doubtful looks.
    “Oh, shut it, you two. I’ll show you sometime when it’s not pitch-dark out . . . and when we haven’t had quite so much ale. Now drink up.” We do, emptying our mugs entirely. Somehow, Emma and I are terrible at this game, and Sasha, who still has half a mug left, is quite the trickster.
    We play a few more rounds, in which I learn that Emma is terrified of midwifing, that she can deal with blood and guts, but the idea of delivering a child scares her senseless, and that Sasha, despite selling herbs at the market, is a self-proclaimed failure as a cook. By the time Emma and I leave Sasha’s, our heads are spinning and the trip home seems far more difficult than it ought to.
    I walk Emma to her place, the two of us swerving about the dirt path like dry leaves on a windy day. Emma is humming to herself, spinning in graceful circles, her arms outstretched. While tipping her head back to look at the stars, she stumbles and bangs her knee against the rocks making up her front stoop.
    “Look, I’m bleeding!” she announces almost gleefully. It’s not funny that she’s hurt, but I’m smiling anyway.
    “You okay?” I ask, eyeing the smear on her knee.
    She nods. “Uh-huh. Doesn’t even hurt.” It’s amazing how ale will do that to you, wipe all the pain away and replace it with a mesmerizing dizziness.
    “Here,” I say, offering her a hand. She’s lighter than I expect, and I pull her straight into my chest without meaning to. She stands there, her hands resting over my heart, and stares up at me. Everything outside of her seems to be twisting, drifting in and out of view. Is it the ale, causing my world to spin or her? I take her hands in mine. I think of doing something, anything, but we just stand there, our fingers clutched together and our eyes locked.
    A door slams somewhere in town, and, startled, we break apart.
    “Well,” Emma says, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’ll see you tomorrow? Meet at the Clinic?”
    “Sure. If we feel well enough.”
    “Okay.” She grins at me, another smile I am unable to completely read. She looks confused and happy at the same time. And then she slips into the house, latching the door before I can even attempt to say good night.

EIGHT
    I AWAKE THE NEXT MORNING feeling groggy and weak. There’s a subtle pain pulsing behind my temples and my mouth is dry. I groan as I pull myself out of bed. I eat some bread, which nearly comes back up, and eventually give up on food and splash water on my face instead. I sit at the table, my head pressed against the grain, and close my eyes.
    Will she pretend nothing happened? Will she even remember that moment, that second when something clearly danced between us? I remember, but maybe all that magic was in my head, a trick of the alcohol. Maybe I felt something because I’m always looking for feelings. Without them, I don’t know how to act. Either way, had it not been for that slammed door, perhaps there would have been more to last night.
    Then again, maybe it’s better that there wasn’t. The details would be a blur now anyway, the lines between real and imagined lost in the shadowy corners of my hangover. I like remembering the times I spend with Emma. I like to know they are real and honest. Ale has a way of turning both such things into dazzling illusions.
    After another unsuccessful attempt to eat some bread, I change into clean clothes and head out. Except for Emma, the Clinic is empty when I arrive. She’s sitting at the back of the room, searching through tall shelves that house hundreds of scrolls.
    “Morning,” she exclaims, bright and chipper. Clearly the ale did not punish her as it did me.
    “Morning.” I slump into a chair and rub my temples. Emma hands me a revolting wad that