Mikalo's Flame by Syndra K. Shaw Read Free Book Online

done with
work and let us walk then, yes?”
    I agreed, eager to leave the office and all
its unnecessary drama behind and just get out.
    And so, with the clouds now gone and the sun
warming the persistent chill of late-winter, I left, all but
bursting onto 42nd Street through the revolving doors and fleeing
into the arms of my Mikalo.
    “Ah, I know this girl,” he said with a nod of
his head as we made our way through the crowds clogging Fifth
Avenue, these anonymous souls rushing by, skirting our path, their
scarves hanging loose and top buttons of their coats undone,
optimistically celebrating the hoped-for advent of Spring.
    And in this oversize coat I was wearing, an
almost ludicrously roomy tent of soft wool, it certainly felt as if
Spring was around the corner.
    I undid the top two buttons, grateful for the
gentle rush of cool air.
    “So, you do know Mara Byzan,” I said, turning
my focus back to our conversation.
    “Oh yes,” he agreed. “I would see her at
parties at home, in Europe. She is not so nice, I think. Not so
quiet. Not so liked. Not so polite. And she drinks a bit much.
    “Her father, he has money, though.”
    “That I know,” I said. “I’m one of their
many, many lawyers, remember?”
    He smiled.
    “Of course. And they are lucky, my Grace, to
have you with them, helping them.”
    “Why do you call me ‘my Grace’?” I suddenly
asked, stunned by my own curiosity.
    He stopped, quietly taken aback before
politely answering.
    “My father, he would call those he loved,
those friends he loved, by their second names. This is what I grew
up hearing. All the time. It is not so uncommon where I am from,
this second name as the first. It is quite nice.
    “And ‘my Grace’, it is beautiful, I think. It
is a word, a name, I enjoy.
    “This upsets you?” he then asked.
    I shook my head.
    “No, no, not at all. I was just curious.”
    We walked in silence.
    “Tell me more about Mara Byzan,” I finally
asked.
    He shrugged.
    “There is not much to tell, my ...”
    He stopped.
    “There is not much to tell, Ronan,” he then
said.
    Oh shit. Now I felt horrible. And stupid. And
like a major bitch.
    I didn’t want him to not call me “my Grace”. I was just curious. Really. And
now that he seemed likely to stop, I missed it.
    Way to screw it up, Ronan.
    I sighed.
    “I would see her sometimes with her friends,”
he continued. “Hear her sometimes. Always, actually. She is a bit
loud. I must say she is not someone I enjoyed. She barks out orders
like an angry dog, is not kind to people, not gentle, and, I do not
know, is very, very unhappy with her life.
    “Her father and my father, they were friends,
yes, but they had no business together, so it was only at a party
or a wedding when our paths, Mara and I, when our paths, they would
cross.
    “That is all I know.”
    He grew silent.
    “And there was a time when she wanted me, I
think.”
    My heart went to my throat.
    “But I did not want her, so, like a boy, I
ran home and hid.”
    Oh, thank god, I thought, breathing a sigh of
relief.
    “Thank you for sharing your thoughts, my
Mikalo,” I said, playfully bumping against him as we walked.
    “My Mikalo,” he repeated with a small
laugh.
    “What?” I teased. “You don’t like ‘my
Mikalo’? You don’t want me to call you ‘my Mikalo’? Does ‘my
Mikalo’ bother you, my Mikalo?”
    He was laughing now as we joined the crowd
crossing 57th Street and headed into Central Park.
    “You may call me whatever you wish,” he said
as he grabbed my hand and we started up a tree-lined path.
    I stopped, pulling him close.
    “And you can call me whatever you wish,” I
assured him.
    “Yes?”
    I nodded.
    “Yes.”
    We kissed.
    “I love it when you call me ‘my Grace’. And
really, Mikalo, --
    “Oh, I am no longer ‘my Mikalo’?” he teased.
“This was quick, my Grace. One moment I am your Mikalo and the next
I am a speck of dirt on the shoe.”
    “Oh, stop it,” I quickly said,