Another snort, but Nico barely heard it because he was already out of the stables. Legs heavy and eyes bleary, he made it to his workshop and shrugged out of his confining layers—unwound his cravat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves—and hovered over his worktable.
The silver hummed in him, wanting a shape, and his fingers wanted… ah, yes, the silver wires. Heating them with his fingers, he twisted them, crafting a long coil, two strands going round and round and round one another. The fibers separate but joining. Soldering only with the heat of his fingertips glowing white-hot. Too much twist, and their separateness would dissolve. Didn’t want that.
There. Now… He wiggled his fingers over the tools on the table. What a mess. Where was the damn mandrel? He found it, slid his fingertips down its tapered end until he found the width that felt… right. Like holding her hand, like a digit taking up the perfect amount of space in his pocket. Wrap the coiled wiresaround the mandrel at that perfect spot. Fingers glowing, silver melting just the right amount, joining, cooling. Bound.
Perhaps he was just a tool, a machine to be used for industrial production. But silversmithing without his tools always felt like magic, like reaching out for something greater than the self and finding it… in the self. Yet also in the world, the earth, the snow-filled sky. Finding it in another’s chest, in the beating of another’s heart.
He set the ring to the side to cool, then found two more wires and set to work forming the soul once more. Set to work forging a promise.
7
A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT
Jane wandered across her spartan bedchamber to the window that looked out over the back gardens and placed a hand on the glass. It fogged immediately. Small white flakes drifted lazily through the night sky. It would be a white Christmas.
Usually a joyful occasion.
Too many sorrows beat at her fortifications this year, though.
Two days until Christmas Eve. No. One. She’d heard the clock strike midnight some time ago. Christmas Eve was tomorrow, and the guards remained, Nico was missing, and soon the children would be without a home. So would she.
And she was entirely powerless to change a damn thing about any of it. She’d been holding back tears an entire lifetime, but tonight they seemed close as old friends. They waited on the edge of her eyelids to drop. She held them back. But for how long?
And why should she? Why not cry? Why not let herself absolutely dissolve into a puddle of misery? No matter what she did, it was always the same—passed around and passed over, ignored and forgotten, unwanted and… unable.
Oh God.
There it went—a single terrible tear, coasting its way down her cheek. She wiped it away with a curse. Too late. Its comrades came so quickly—a highly trained and covert force that had overwhelmed her before she could act.
Here, too, she was powerless.
She crumpled onto the bed and allowed herself to cry.
The clock began to chime in the hallway. Again and again, and she barely noticed it, barely heard it over her weeping, her sobbing, the pounding of her fist on the bed and her soul-deep growls, the screams muffled by her pillow.
Alone. Always alone. A single warrior on a battlefield facing down an entire army. A lone wilting wildflower in a summer field of unrelieved green. One star in a cloudy night sky. Once. Just once she wanted crack with worry and fear and have someone pick her up, put her back together. Even after her father had given her the stability of a home, she’d been too terrified to show weakness. He might kick her out. He’d know she wasn’t worth the trouble.
Not worth the trouble to Sir Nicholas, either.
Nico.
She wept harder.
The chimes stopped, and she wept in silence.
Until the edge of her mattress dipped and a large warm hand settled against her nape.
She flew upright with a gasp. “Nico.” The name more like a sob.
It broke his face in two.
But somehow it began to heal the spider-webbing of cracks running through her. When she’d most needed someone… here he was. It didn’t matter that he’d refused to marry her twice. It didn’t matter that he was intent on throwing himself into danger. The only thing that mattered were his strong arms reaching out to her.
She melted into them. She allowed herself to shake there and wet the shoulder of his wool coat. She clutched her hands in the open edges of it and wailed into the cavern of that coat against his solid chest.
“Shh,” he mumbled against her ear, curving his big body around her. “Good God, remind me never to make wishes, yes? They come true, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.”
She felt the gentlest kisses against the top of her head, and she wailed harder, shaping one undecipherable word. “Riiidiicu”—she hiccupped—“luuuus.” What did he mean by wishes coming true? Hers never did. What rot, what nonsense. He was always teasing and grinning, and suddenly her despair sharpened into anger.
