Blood and Chrysanthemums Read Free

therapy always shattered when it ran into the wall of reality. There was a border here that could not be crossed: the line between day and night, the chasm between what she was and what they were. She could not climb out of the shadows of the truth.
    Ardeth shrugged angrily, trying to push away those thoughts. She had taken up climbing in part because it was simple, because there was just you and the goal and only one way up. She needed that clarity, that directness—because nothing had been simple for her since her world had changed forever six months ago. She had to take what she could from it—the physical joy of her new body’s power, the pleasure of the illusion of risk without the reality. Wanting more would just complicate things again.
    She pushed through the front doors and took a deep breath of the cool night air, blinked up at the scattering of stars. No need to guess where
he
would be tonight; clear nights seemed rare enough that he didn’t waste them.
    “Hello again.” The voice from the shadows at her left spun her around, and she stepped back as her hands lifted in automatic defence. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry.” The climber who had given her advice on the wall was rising from a crouch by the bike rack.
    “It’s all right. I was preoccupied . . . you startled me.” He pushed a battered mountain bike into the light as she spoke. With her mind now undistracted by the necessity of conquering the overhang, she truly saw him for the first time. He was bigger than she had thought; over six feet and solid, wide jaw around wide grin, big nose, thick eyebrows over blue eyes. His hair was muddy brown, shot with lingering sun-streaks.
    “My name’s Mark, Mark Frye.” He held out his hand and she stared at it for a moment, then shook it hesitantly. His fingers were calloused and dusty with climbing chalk, but the heat of his skin felt as though it might scald her.
    “Ardeth Alexander.”
    “You new in town?”
    “A few weeks.”
    “Thought I hadn’t seen you around before.”
    “Do you climb on the wall often?”
    “Not really . . . but Banff’s a small town. Sooner or later you see most people here on the street at least once. Especially now that tourist season is almost over.”
    Ardeth frowned, realizing that he was right. Her Toronto-bred sensibility could not conceive of knowing everyone in your apartment building, let alone everyone in a town. This was a complication she had not foreseen—and another reason to be moving on.
    “Besides,” Mark continued, “I work over at Domano Sports, so I see a lot of people buying skis and things. You been climbing long?”
    “Just since I got here.”
    “You’re pretty good. Have you been out on any real climbs yet?” She shook her head. “There are some good ones outside of town. I could take you, if you’re interested.”
    Ardeth looked at him for a moment, knowing the offer could mean more than climbing, feeling the brand of his skin on her hand. She could scent his blood, beneath the sweat and chalk. For a wild moment, she imagined saying yes. To the mad risk of climbing, the madder risk of sex. To the maddest risk of all.
    “I can’t,” she said at last. “I’m allergic to the sun. I couldn’t climb in daylight. Thanks anyway . . . it was nice to meet you. . . . Goodnight.” The words tumbled out, to drown his objections. She turned away quickly and walked towards the street. He said nothing but she felt, or thought that she could, the weight of eyes on her retreating back.
    Out on the main street, she felt safer. There was still the semblance of a crowd there, though she noticed it had thinned considerably since the first nights of their arrival, a month earlier. Frye was right, the tourist season was almost over. Or at least in a lull that would last until the skiing started in December. Ardeth hitched her pack up onto her shoulder and wished she did not feel so suddenly exposed. They had never intended to stop here;