looking at her with perplexity, and Lena realized that he had asked her a question.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“I asked you about your hands. Were they burned?”
“Burned?” The question caught her by surprise. “Why would you think they were burned?”
“Because you keep them covered all the time. But perhaps it’s just to protect them. You said you are a pianist.”
Not many people asked about her hands or feet directly. They stared. They whispered. They made sideways remarks: “You must be quite artistic.” Or they asked jokingly if she planned to grow into her feet the same way a puppy grew into oversized paws. Not many had the gumption to ask her a real question. It was always easier to joke than to be sincere. She admired Jimson’s directness.
“No, they’re just rather . . . long.” Her face flamed.
“But that’s good for a pianist, isn’t it?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“I didn’t grow them this way to make me more accomplished at the piano.”
Soft light flickered in the car. The brocade curtains had been drawn against the dark. They were entering a deeper dark now, the first of three tunnels blasted through rock.
“Each finger has an extra knuckle. I was born that way. That’s the only reason I’m a pianist. I thought I’d better put them to use.” She feigned a laugh as if it didn’t matter and splayed both hands on the table, exposing their full mannerist length.
Jimson didn’t laugh or make a smart comment; he seemed genuinely curious. “You were born that way?”
She nodded. “A disorder, an accident of birth.”
“They’re so thin. Do they hurt?”
“Sometimes, but not much.”
The chandelier overhead cast shadows across her gloved hands. When Jimson looked up, his blue eyes were also shadowed.
“May I see them? Without the gloves?”
Again, Lena was surprised by his directness. Coming from anyone else she would consider it rude, abrupt. What did it really matter here in this car, hurtling through the dark? The worst that could happen, the very worst, was that she would see the revulsion in his face. She’d seen it in people’s eyes many times before, but it was never something she grew used to. This time she felt reckless. What he thought wouldn’t matter. In another hour, she would never see him again.
“All right.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she deliberately rolled the black fabric of the glove down the length of her left arm. In the gaslight, her skin was moon-pale and smooth. The gloves had protected her hands not only from prying eyes but from the scorch of sun as well. Hesitating at the wrist, and then with determination, she peeled the fabric from her palm and down the length of her fingers until the pale pink skin of her hand lay bare. Only then did she look up to read his expression.
Jimson’s eyes rested on her hand. His lips were slightly parted, as they had been in sleep. His gaze was so intense, she curled her fingers.
“They all bend? Each joint, I mean.” His voice had a breathless sound.
“Of course they bend,” she snapped. “They work like normal hands.”
“It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re amazing, so long and delicate.”
Lena checked to see if he was mocking her. But his face was serious, reverential almost.
“They’re ugly. ‘Goblin phalanges,’ my nana calls them.” Why did she say that? An almost imperceptible sob escaped her lips. She had come to terms with her differences long ago. She tugged the covering back over her fingertips.
“No, they’re not. Ugly, I mean. And you don’t have to do that. It must be annoying to have to wear gloves all the time.” He leaned back against the seat and looked her full in the face.
“It is. They itch and they’re hot in the summer. But I don’t like having to explain my hands to everyone. I don’t like people staring.”
He nodded as if he understood. “I won’t mention your hands again, unless you do. Take both