9
MAV
Cinnamon and woodsmoke tickled my throat as I settled into a seat at the kitchen table. Thistle had whipped together something that tasted suspiciously like magic and memory—soft, warm bread brushed with honeyed herbs, stewed pears that practically melted on my tongue, and a tea that somehow managed to be both calming and mildly hallucinogenic.
I didn’t ask what was in it. Some questions were better left unanswered.
Quinn sat across from me at the table, her silver-threaded gown traded for one of Thistle’s homespun wraps. She looked too human in the morning, too soft and real. The sort of person who shouldn’t be carrying a curse older than some kingdoms.
She reached for the honey spoon, and I decided—maybe unreasonably—it was the perfect time to ruin her morning.
I leaned back in my chair, tilting it far enough to find that sweet spot between balance and stupidity. “You talk inyour sleep, you know.”
Quinn froze. One perfect drop of honey clung to the edge of the spoon. “I assure you, I do not.”
Her voice was clipped, sounding both offended and embarrassed.
I shrugged, entirely too pleased with myself. “Well…you did.”
Thistle, hunched near the hearth with a mug too large for her hands, chuckled into the rim. Vesper, perched in judgment on the windowsill, let out what could only be described as a condescending snort.
Quinn narrowed her eyes. “And what, pray tell, did I say?”
If she’d been aiming for indifference, she’d spectacularly failed.
I let the pause drag. Watched her fidget with the crust of her bread. Forcing my tone into something intentionally casual, I said, “My name.”
Quinn’s face spoke before she did. Color burst across her cheeks like a match struck beneath her skin, tinting them a deep red. She turned her face away, but could not hide the shocked parting of her lips.
“With your name on my tongue, I clearly was having a nightmare,” she retorted.
I tried, unsuccessfully, not to laugh. “Sure you were.”
Worth it. Entirely worth it.
“Do not flatter yourself,” she added, stabbing a piece of pear with her fork as if it had insulted her dignity instead of me.
“I’m merely reporting the facts,” I crooned, stretching my legs enough to brush hers beneath the table. Purely accidental, of course.
Quinn pulled her legs as far away from me as the small space allowed.
Thistle sighed and stood, rummaging through a drawer for something she clearly didn’t need. “You two are exhausting,” she mumbled. “You spar like this and call it flirting?”
“I have done no such thing,” Quinn declared.
“I’m not flirting,” I said at the exact same time.
Quinn and I looked at each other, a silent truce exchanged with a glance. Thistle muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Idiots.”
A chipped teacup hid my smirk as I took a long drink. Saints, she was adorable when flustered. Utterly undone by a single name murmured in sleep. I’d liked hearing it. Even if she’d only meant it inside the walls of some awful nightmare. Even if she’d woken with no memory of saying it.
My name.
From her lips.
In sleep.
As if she’d been thinking of me even then.
