We rode in silence for a few moments. Then?—
“So…when you suggested a bigger bed last night…”
I groaned, the sound unbecoming of a lady, but no less authentic. “You are fully aware that was not my meaning.”
“Mm. But I’m confused, with a bigger bed, wouldn’t love have more room to blossom?”
“You are insufferable.”
“And you’re the one who managed to curse herself into a novel.”
My eyes slid to his with a heated glare. “I did not curse myself.”
“Right. Sorry.” The frown on his face eased as a glimmer of something suspiciously prideful surfaced. “Permit me a moment, though—I was right twice in one day, on guesses. Thatneverhappens. We should find a gambling hall and keep this luck going.”
A weak chuckle slipped from my lips. “Perhaps some good may come of this after all.”
The breeze cooled as we passed beneath an arch of oak boughs.
“Quinn?”
“Yes?”
“If the spell resets—if italwaysresets—why keep hoping?”
The question floated in the air as I pondered my response. “Because hope is the only thing the spell has not taken from me, and I refuse to surrender it.”
7
MAV
Thistle’s cottage was right where I remembered. It leaned into the hill as though it had grown there instead of being built, all mismatched shingles and ivy-choked stone. The roof sagged to the left. The chimney puffed lazy ribbons of smoke. The window boxes spilled lavender, rosemary, and those damned pink blossoms that always made me sneeze and deny it. Flagstones peeked out between moss, a cart rut wearing the middle of the path.
I slowed the bay and swung down. Quinn followed, her movements measured—graceful despite the stiffness that caught her halfway to the ground. She masked the wince well, though not well enough to escape my notice. She took in the cottage in one long look, as if measuring every angle.
“Can we expect friendliness?” she asked, eyes bouncing between the door and me.
“Depends on the day,” I said. “And whether you insult her tea.”
Quinn’s brow tilted by a fraction. “Understood.”
A bee nosed the mint. Water tapped a copper gutter. Imounted the steps and gave the door three quick knocks. It opened as the third was landing.
“Well, well, well,” said a low, crackling voice. “If it isn’t the world’s grumpiest ex-knight.”
Thistle filled her doorway, hands on her curved hips. She barely reached my chest, layered in patched linen and wool that smelled of rosehips and pipe smoke. Laugh-lines creased her deep brown skin, further emphasized by the inked Hedge symbols across her face. The telltale bloom between her brows, the line across the bridge of her nose, a dot beneath each eye, and a thick line of ink centered on her lower lip and extended to her chin. Her black curls danced when she looked up at me with a smirk, more silver strands weaving through her hair since the last time I’d seen her. She opened her arms, and I didn’t hesitate. I hauled her toward me, the way we always did.
“You still smell of pine, steel, and poor decisions,” she muttered against my chest.
“You still hug like you’re trying to break my ribs.”
We broke apart. Her dark gaze slid past me and caught Quinn. Interest. Calculation.
“What have we here?” Thistle smiled. “You’ve brought a beautiful woman to my door. My guess is either you’ve been uncharacteristically lucky or she’s been recently very unlucky.”
Behind me, Quinn made a sound suspiciously like a bitten-off laugh. I didn’t give Thistle the satisfaction. I glared instead. “Hilarious.”
“I am,” she said, unblinking, her full lips curved in a smirk.
