I dip my head and hurry toward the case.
The first key. He must keep it on him. Always. If I slipped it from his pocket, what might it mean? A chance to end this insanity once and for all? Freedom for Arch, or ruin for me? Yet the image of that key lingers.
The racket of the Astral Society carries faintly through the walls, but the house itself is hushed. I slip into the room with a pitcher of water in my hands.
Arch stands beside the bed, fingertips touching the glass as he peers through the curtains. “You’re hosting quite a shindig.” He turns toward me, the sunlight catching along the lines of hisfeatures—broad shoulders, strong jaw. All of him shaped like he was built to step out of the light.
“Largest of the year,” I say. “And how are you feeling?”
“Strong,” he says, seemingly mesmerized by the activity outside.
I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “I’m glad to hear it. May I see how your wounds are healing, Mr. Archer?”
He nods slightly with a curious smirk, calloused hand rising to the top button of his shirt.
“You’re awful formal this morning.”
The comment makes me acutely aware of my own stiffness—the way I hold myself, rigid and upright, as if a single slip might betray my thoughts. Maybe it is the realization that any daydream I have entertained about Arch is just that: a fantasy. A futile mirage conjured by Satan.
Still, my hands struggle to remain steady as I help him. I loosen the bandage wrapped around his side, peel it away slowly, watching his face for any flicker of pain. He doesn’t flinch, just offers the same tenderness that makes me lose my train of thought.
I dip a clean cloth in the basin and press it gently to the wound. He breathes in sharply through his nose, but says nothing.
There’s salve in my apron pocket—phenol and lanolin. I set the cloth aside and fish it out as I examine him. The swelling has eased. The angry, raw edges have softened. Dipping two fingers into the ointment, I spread it over the gash in careful, circular strokes. It bites the back of my throat with its tang of burnt wood and medicine.
Surveying the expanse of him—broad chest, narrow hips, muscles carved like stone—I pause at the line of hair below his navel, that subtle trail disappearing beneath the low waistband of his trousers. A path no decent woman ought to follow. And yetmy thoughts slip there all the same, warmth rising in my cheeks before I force my attention elsewhere.
“I’d tip you for your fine nursing skills, but I think that husband of yours took all my money.”
A soft, surprised sound escapes my lips—too quick to stop. It catches me off guard, light and sincere in a way I hadn’t meant to reveal.
He smiles. Not his usual smirk or flash of teeth. This one comes slower, unguarded, unsettling in its softness. A hint of warmth ghosts across his features, and he holds me there with it. For a heartbeat, it feels like we’ve spoken without a word.
“You know my name ain’t William Archer,” he says softly.
“I didn’t think it was.”
He angles his face away, almost bashful, a quiet huff of a laugh escaping him. When he faces me again, his features are disarmingly earnest.
“It’s Archibald Randolph. But my friends call me Kodiak.”
“Kodiak?” I echo, glancing back up. An exhilarating shiver chases down my spine.
“Like the bear,” he says. “Big, mean bastard from up north. Biggest there is, far as I know.”
The bear.
Ursa Major.
The constellation I traced, whispering to it beneath the stars. The protector in the sky. The guardian. A wish I almost forgot I made.
And now, here he is.
Could it be real?
Could the stars truly send someone?
“Kodiak,” I say again. The name feels different now. Sacred.
