“They want you to rest before your magical test,” he says quietly, just for her.
“Then we rest.” She raises the cover in invitation. Hiram is careful when he joins her. The breaths that follow are measured by the beatof their hearts. Foreheads touching, eyes drinking each other in, Veda moves first, brushing her lips against his, then seeking more. He gently cups her nape and deepens the kiss, the scratch of his hair against her skin sending sparks down her spine. Hiram tastes like survival, revival, and something purely him that carefully unravels the tightness in her chest. After she kisses the piece of his hand she can reach, they touch only for the desire of contact.
Movement catches her eye.
“Didyoubring my lantern here?”
Hiram offers a weary smile. “Antaris didn’t want you to have bad dreams.”
The last visitor Veda expects is the one sitting next to her when she wakes.
Simran’s saree is burnt orange and trimmed with ornate gold designs. Beautiful and sharp, like her. Deep in concentration, she crochets something sock shaped. It’s not perfect, Veda can see the flaws, but her expression offers no place for commentary.
“I thought you would sleep until I finished.” Simran’s eyes cut to Veda. “Unfortunately, I am not quite as dexterous as I once was.”
“That’s not for me, is it?”
Veda earns a look cold enough to freeze magic. “And if it is?”
“I’ll be surprised by the latest development in ... whatever this is. Why are you here?”
“Three weeks ago, my son told me to be his mother for once in my life in this very room, and I’m doing just that.” Simran sets her project on her lap, resting the hook and sock atop the ball of yarn. “I have never cared for you, Miss Thorne. I believe the feeling is mutual.”
“It is.”
“But it seems we are, for better or worse, entwined.” She rises, moves to the windows, and opens them one by one, letting light floodthe room. When she returns to Veda’s bedside, she reaches out and gently touches the end of her braid. “I have always believed that hair is an extension of the self. There is a certain intimacy in caring for it.”
Veda says nothing.
“When I taught my son to braid, I will admit, I did so because I had no daughters, and I did not care for anyone touching my hair. Braiding is an act of love, care, and creativity. Hiram has not braided my hair since he was a boy begging for my attention, but I still recognize his work, even in a simple French braid.”
Suddenly self-aware, Veda pulls back from her touch. “He must’ve braided it again while I was unconscious.”
Simran tilts her head. “Again? How many times?”
Veda is too tired to lie. “This makes three.”
Observation turns into an assessment. “I have underestimated you. I believed your sole role was to encourage Antaris to speak. You fought like he wasyours. I did not realize that would extend to my son. Let it be known, I do not approve of you—”
“Well, it’s a good thing your opinion doesn’t matter.” Veda stops herself. “Not that I’m in any position to be seeking approval.”
A frustrated breath escapes. “You did not allow me to finish. As I was saying, I do not approve,however, I am willing to try. The socks were meant as a gift.”
“Perhaps you should focus that effort on Hiram and Antaris. Not me.”
“I intend to. I was told to be his mother, for once in my life, and this is why I am here. I need to step outside of my own expectations of him and begin to see what he values. And that is you. He has coordinated everything, paid for the best care for you, and insisted not only that you have the room with the best light but also that no one brings cut flowers because potted plants—”
“Are more sustainable, can improve the air quality, and reduce stress.” Realization of how deeply he not only listens to her but knows her disarms Veda. “I—”
“Hiram is a creature of habit. He faces a decision and makes his choice. He waits, yes, but he rarely changes his mind.”
The patient man.
“I am proof of this,” Simran says grimly.
“And where does that leave you?” Veda asks quietly.
“Fighting to change his mind about me.”
