Jack shakes his head but at least he stops with the questions. I hope he isn’t one of those astute people, you know, the kind you can never be comfortable around because it’s like they see through everything you do? Dad says people like that have only two stations in life: at your right hand or on the sharp end of a pike.
The thing about giants dropping in on the world below is this: only a few ever go—from this cloud, only ten or fifteen, and I hear it’s the same elsewhere. I think that’s partly because it’s depressing, seeing how the world has moved on and thrived without us. That’s probably why the ones who go down terrorize small towns and villages and farms while they get our meat and produce and flat-screen TVs. It’s why they leave the occasional crop circle even though you aren’t supposed to do that anymore, just to let the world know WE ARE HERE.
As for me, I’ll never leave this cloud. I know there’s more to life than golden eggs and leather crafts. I know I’ll never surf a great wave or hike the Grand Canyon. Because as much as I want to, it’s too scary to think New, to think Different.
Jack says, “Would you mind showing me your castle? I don’t mean to be rude, but you can’t blame me for being fascinated.”
Don’t mean to be rude, says the thief. Jack wants to see what else he can steal, more like.
But I haven’t had anyone over in ages, and last time, well, let’s just say things didn’t go as planned.
So I tell Jack it’d be best if I rub the edge of my cardigan over his body so that the human scent of him can be covered by lint and ozone. The last thing we need is Dad fee-fi-fo-fum-ing it down the stairs. (The battle cry fee fi fo fum translates roughly from the old giant tongue to “fight destroy conquer expand,” but it’s suffered an unfortunate downgrade and now just means “I’m really pissed.”)
I look down at Jack, who at full height reaches the top of my knee, and there’s this awkward moment when he lifts his arms and extends them toward me and he looks so helpless and trusting . . . so human. I’m endeared to him and repelled at the same time. I wrap my fingers around him, and it could be my imagination, but I think I feel his heart thudding against one of my fingertips. I grip his warm body tighter. His ribs feel fragile against the bones of my pinkie; his butt is soft against the meat of my palm. Muscle and bone and blood and water . . .
“Ow!”
His voice is so sharp I nearly drop him. “What?”
“You were squeezing me to death.”
Squeezing me to death. A dare, a challenge. It’s only a split second, but in this moment I feel electric.
I don’t apologize, because it wouldn’t be right, a giant—and a royal one at that—apologizing to a human, but I loosen my grip and place him on my right shoulder.
Upstairs, the moonlight reflects off heavy copper pots hanging in the kitchen, shimmers off great stone walls. I walk straight through and head for the receiving room to show Jack the paintings, sculptures, and artifacts (all crafted by humans) that our family has collected for generations. I hurry past the recessed, oversized nook just outside the kitchen. In the nook’s center stands a bigger-than-life-sized bronze bull. The silver light of the moon glints off its horns. I hate the oily, charred smell in there; it clings to the walls.
“What’s that?” he says, pointing to the bull. “It’s huge. I’ve never seen an iron bull in a house.”
“It’s bronze.”
“I was expecting, I don’t know, stuffed men on the walls—human heads, maybe.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Come on, bring me closer!”
I know he isn’t going to shut up until I do, so I pad over to the bull.
“This is amazing. Can I sit on it?”
The last thing I need is Jack falling off. “Absolutely not. It’s not a toy.”
“All the wood bits and ash on the floor—nice touch.”
I pause.
“Come on, just for a second.”
I sigh and lift him off my shoulder and I get that feeling again, the urge to squeeze and squeeze. Power over life and death, here in my hand, a gift. But I just place Jack on top of the bull and watch him sidle up to the bronze animal’s neck.
“I summered in Texas once,” he says. “There was a restaurant that served peanuts by the bowl. You crack them open and toss them onto the floor. The entire floor, covered in shells.” Jack does this gymnast thing as he talks, placing his arms straight down in front of him, his palms flat against the bull’s back as he stretches out his legs. “It’s brilliant. At least, it was. There was a lawsuit.”
Next thing you know, Jack’s hand slips, and he cries out and nearly crashes to the floor. And then I hear her big mouth. I forgot all about that damned thing.
“’Tis late, ’tis late!
And who is this young man?
A human boy, a wicked thief!
Blood payment we demand!”
I rush to the ornate wood cabinet against the wall that holds some of the more magickal pieces Mom and Dad and my great-great-great-great-great-I-may-as-well-stop-now-because-you-get-the-idea-grand-parents have collected from humans over the last two thousand years or so. I already know it’s unlocked because no one would dare burgle Dad, even though Mom locks the cabinet when we’re hosting feasts because you don’t maintain a monarchy by being stupid.
I throw open the left door and reach for the topmost shelf and close my hand over the stupid harp. I know she won’t shut up now that she’s awake, so I do my best to smother her. She’s really a bust of a pearl-draped woman sculpted onto the front of a harp, but don’t let the serene face fool you—she isn’t afraid to throw you in front of a jetliner, especially when she’s screeching about you sneaking out when you’re just going to the kitchen for a snack. I press my fingers against her strings so she can’t vibrate them, and I swipe Jack up from the bull.
A boom of thunder sounds from upstairs and I know it’s Dad. I sprint for the basement and head straight to the window.
“Time to go,” I say as I shove Jack through and drop the harp after him. She’s a lot smaller than the average-sized harp so she won’t be impossible for him to lug on his own.
“Is it gold-plated?”
The harp gasps. “I am not an it, and I most certainly am not gold-plated.”
“She’s gold-plated,” I hiss. “Now get going!”
Jack hesitates. He looks up at me with this lopsided expression and I think this might be like one of those moments in a story where the guy says this awkward thing, and the girl says this sarcastic thing, and there’s a moment of silence and they just stand there until he lunges and kisses her anyway . . . You know the story?
Well, that doesn’t happen, because first of all Jack’s, like, a fourth of my size, so not only would the logistics be off, I’m just not that into him; second of all, my dad’s thundering down the basement stairs, and I can already imagine him bellowing I’m going to kill you once he gets a look at Jack. Unlike in that aforementioned made-for-TV story, Dad will mean it.
And he’ll probably eat Jack on top of everything.
So, yeah, forget about the kiss.