“We should not fight,” I say.
“Must I cuff you?” His tone remains maddeningly gentle, as though asking whether I have eaten.
I flinch. “No.”
“Will you talk to me?”
“Are you still angry?”
“Livid.”
I do not believe him; his eyes are too kind.
Lander waits while I finish work, seated at a study table and pretending to read a local-history pamphlet. Each time I glance up, those celadon-green eyes are on me.
When my colleagues notice, they all but shove me out.
“Go,” my supervisor hisses with a salacious grin. “If you don’t, I will. He’s gorgeous.”
I mutter something incoherent, grab my bag, and let myself be shepherded from the building.
We wind up in a small café overlooking the water. From the outside it resembles a converted beach hut. Inside, the décor is pure seaside: sky-blue walls with white trim, rows of buckets and spades filled with postcards and shells, battered surfboards propped in corners, model lighthouses on every sill, and grinning fish—painted, carved, or disguised as salt-and-pepper shakers—at every table.
Our table is a scarred slab of timber, knife marks and old ring stains ghosting the surface. I sit, fingers drumming beneath the edge while he fetches drinks. He returnswith a pot of tea for me and a coffee for himself, adding sugar with deliberate care.
I wait, at least grateful I am not in anti-magic cuffs.
He taps the mug, studying me. “Your expressions are improving.”
“I have been practising,” I mumble. “How long did it take to find me?”
“A few weeks.” He leans back, those too-observant eyes taking in the plait over my shoulder, the teal dress, the comfy on-your-feet-all-day trainers.
“How is Snack Thief—um, Arthur?” I ask.
“He’s around. He’s missed you.”
“I have missed him too,” I say softly.
What I do not say is that I have missed Lander as well.
He looks tired—shadows bruise the hollows beneath his eyes—but I keep that observation to myself; mentioning it would be rude. I resist the urge to brush my thumb over the stubble shading his strong jaw. Even unshaven, he is absurdly handsome, and I mentally apologise to Father for admiring the way those wisps of hair frame his face.
“I am so sorry.” The apology rushes out. “You probably do not understand, and I may have ruined everything, but I had to do it. The spell was dangerous.”
He sighs. “Harper, what you did made our team look incompetent. I wasn’t angry because of what you did; I was angry because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.” His gaze pins me. “There was time to talk. If you’d spoken to me, I would’ve helped. Instead, you worked behind our backs—and then youran. You ran from us. Fromme.”
The little fish-shaped sugar bowl suddenlybecomes fascinating. I do not say sorry again; the word feels worn out.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I whisper. “I was… frightened.”
“You were frightened of me,” he says quietly.
I nod. “Yes.”
He exhales—half laugh, half groan—and offers a small, rueful smile. “You’re powerful and pretty scary yourself, you know.”
“I know.”
