Warm When It's Warm
The rain stopped all at once, and the wind turned cold. Emre climbed the last cloud stair with Mo beside him. Mist dripped off every step. His sleeves were wet through. Mo moved slowly, the way he always did, one flipper and then the next. Far below them, the soft floors of the kingdom steamed in the new air. Emre blew on his fingers and watched the little white puff drift away. "We're nearly there," he said, and waited for Mo.
Their sitting step was near the top, wide and round as a bed. Emre put his hand flat on it. It was cold. The rain had soaked all the way into the cloud, and the warmth had gone right out. He rubbed the step with both palms. He patted it. He breathed on it hard. The step stayed cold under his hand. "It will be warm when it's warm," Emre said. He sat down anyway, and shivered, and pulled his knees up.
Mo settled beside him and tucked his flippers in close. Emre touched the edge of one. It was cool, like a stone lifted out of a stream. Emre thought about that for a moment. Then he pulled his long wool scarf up over his head and laid it across Mo's back, round and round, under the rim of his shell, until only Mo's sleepy face showed. Emre's own neck went bare in the wind. He did not take the scarf back.
Mo shifted, slow as ever, and leaned a little toward him. Low under his shell, near the warm belly side, the whole day's sun was still being kept. Emre slid both hands in there. The warmth went up his arms like soup. Mo made a small pleased sound in his throat. Emre laughed quietly into his collar. "You keep mine, I'll keep yours," he said. The wind came over the stairs and found nothing cold left to bite.
Now there was nothing to do but wait for the step. Emre watched the last drops hanging in a row along the stair edge. One let go. Then another, further down. The mist thinned and thinned, until he could see a long gold line far off, where the clouds ended and the evening began. The line grew wider while he looked at it. "It will be warm when it's warm," Emre said. Mo blinked his heavy eyes, slowly, which meant yes.
A thread of steam lifted off the stair below them and curled like smoke. Emre counted the curls, up to nine, and lost them. On the sitting step he found a dry patch no bigger than his thumb. He left it alone. A while later it was bigger than his whole hand. Warm air was coming up through the cloud from underneath, soft and slow. Emre pressed his ear down and heard the kingdom humming far away below them.
The gold came along the stairs one step at a time. It touched Emre's boots and stayed. It touched Mo's shell and sat there like a cat. The wool scarf went warm, and Mo stretched his old neck out long and happy in it. Emre laid his palm flat on the sitting step again. It was not cold now. It was warm as a loaf lifted out of the oven, warm all the way through, from the rain and then the waiting.
Emre lay back on the round warm step with his arms spread wide. Mo came close and leaned against his side, scarf and all, heavy and slow. The sun slipped lower and turned the mist pink, then a softer pink. Emre could feel the warmth coming up through his back, and the last of the cold going out of his fingers, one finger at a time. "It will be warm when it's warm," he said, almost asleep already.
The wind stopped moving over the stairs. Mo's breathing was slow and even beside him, in and out, in and out, the way the sea does. Emre listened to it for a long time. Then he let his own breath go the same slow way, in, and out. Under the clouds, far down, the kingdom breathed too. The step held them both, warm, while the pink went quiet and the first small stars came out above them.
