And it did. Not because I was hungry. But because anything that gave me another hour beside her—another hour to try and make sense of the impossible thing unfolding between us—felt like the only thing I knew how to want anymore.
12
QUINN
By the time we returned to Branrir’s home above the bookshop, the sun had dipped low behind the rooftops, spilling amber shadows through the tarnished windows. The apartment smelled of ink and chamomile—warm, lived-in—a page softened by the turning of many hands.
We climbed the spiral staircase, and Thistle dropped her bundles near a leaning side table with a groan, declaring that she required something stronger than tea. Vesper leaped from her shoulder and stretched himself onto a cushion. Behind us, Mav kicked the door shut with his heel and set the last of the provisions aside. His gaze swept the room quickly, practiced and precise, as though mapping the points of egress even here.
The others moved through the space with an ease I envied, their gestures light and practiced, the rhythm of familiarity humming between them. How strange that a place could feel borrowed and familiar at once. This was not home. I knew better than to let myself believe otherwise. Yet both Thistle and Branrir’s living spaces were the closest thing to home I had touched ina very long time. A lonely tower tucked against the mountains certainly had never held the warmth to qualify.
I cradled the paper-wrapped parcel of my new clothes to my chest and slipped into the same bedroom in which I had changed earlier. Carefully, I unwrapped one of my new dresses, periwinkle and simple in its design, but distinctly more modern than the one in which I had awoken. Returning to the main space, Mav’s eyes fell to me, and he smiled. The sight sent a flash of heat spiraling through my core.
“Do you find the new dress pleasing?” I asked, twisting to show off more of the material.
Something mischievous twinkled in Mav’s eyes. “Tremendously so.”
“Well,” Thistle said suddenly, spinning once on her heel and setting her hands upon her hips. “I think we have earned a pint—or perhaps three, if Branrir behaves himself.”
Branrir gave a long-suffering sigh that could not disguise the faint curl of his smile. “You meanIhave earned one, for permitting this invasion of my private sanctum?”
“You adore it,” she quipped, already snatching her cloak from the peg by the door.
Mav held the door for Thistle and me, and we strode into the lavender-tinged evening. My new boots creaked softly as Mav and I walked side by side. The others drifted ahead. Thistle mocked Branrir’s taste in rations while Vesper complained loudly about a great number of things. The streets narrowed, then widened, until the mingled scents of hops, roasting meat, and smoke spilled into the air. The establishment to which Branrir was leading us stood at the bend of a cobbled lane, the golden-lit windows blurred by the warmth of bodies within. We had scarcely reached the entrance when the murmur of voices and music rushed out to greet us.
Inside, the alehouse breathed with life. A bard near thehearth coaxed a mournful tune from a fiddle while someone shouted for another round. The air was thick with laughter, heavy with the heat of bodies. Lanterns dangled from blackened beams overhead. Branrir led us to a table near the front corner. Thistle claimed her chair with a sweep of her boot, while Vesper leaped to the tabletop in one effortless bound, tail flicking at a startled patron.
A round of ale arrived before we had the opportunity to ask—Branrir must have nodded to someone. Foam spilled over the rims of the heavy tankards. Mav passed one to me, and our fingers brushed. A ghost of skin against skin. My fingers stilled. His did too. For a breath too long, neither of us moved. His hand was warm and calloused; steady in a way mine was not. And yet, somehow, familiar—as though I had known the shape of it long before I truly did. I felt the tether between us stretch taut in the silence, stirring with a question I did not have the courage to ask.
I glanced up.
Mav pulled his hand back quickly, as if my touch had burned. His gaze darted to me, then away, his expression half-shuttered, uncertain. It was as if he were not sure whether to apologize or pretend it had never happened.
My heart gave a hard, traitorous thud.
I should not have been thinking about the way his thumb had brushed my cheek earlier, gentle and unhurried.
“Just ink,”he had said.
But it had not felt likejustanything.
The touch lingered, echoing against my skin long after he had gone. In three centuries of spells and silence, I could not recall the last time someone touched me in such a manner. Not the entitled grip of ownership and demand, but with caring. A chill of fear tumbled down my spine. Some foolish, lonely part of me wanted him to do it again.
Thistle leaned back in her chair and glanced toward Branrir, lips curling. “Alright, old man. Let’s map this mess.”
He reached into his satchel, pulling free a rolled parchment, its edges curled and soft from years of use. As he flattened it across the rough-hewn table, I leaned forward, studying the shapes.
“Before we chart our course to the capital,” Branrir began. “Forgive my curiosity, milady, but…where do you sleep during each century of rest?”
The question was innocent enough, yet it landed heavily on my shoulders.
“My father is—was—a Tremor.” I traced a finger along the inked ridges. “When Twilights were declared enemies of the realm, he built a tower of stone, nestled against the mountains at the edge of the forest. He said it would keep me safe.”
Thistle tilted her head. “Shouldn’t someone have stumbled upon it by now?”
I shook my head. “The tower is warded to conceal it from view. Even those who pass within a few paces of it would see nothing but forest and rock.”
Vesper gave a derisive flick of his tail. “Amazing what humans will overlook when it doesn’t concern or benefit them.”
