I stood up, crossed to the door that connected the parlour to whatever room lay beyond and yanked it open.
Fenrik stood three feet away, caught mid-stride, looking like a cat discovered on the kitchen counter.
“Are you following me?”
“No.” Too quick. Far too quick.
“You’re in every adjacent room I enter.”
“The manor is large. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“The manor is large, and yet somehow you’re always on the other side of whichever wall I’m nearest.”
His jaw tightened. Silver flickered in his eyes, there and gone. “I have business throughout the house.”
“Business that requires you to pace in circles while I read?”
“I pace when I think.”
“So you’ve said.”
We stared at each other. The fire crackled, rain lashed the windows.
Fenrik broke first. He looked away, colour rising on his pale cheekbones, and said, “The sanctuary wards need checking,” before sweeping past me so close I caught his scent.
The door slammed behind him. The house, apparently dissatisfied with this outcome, immediately swung it back open.
I looked at the empty doorway, then looked at the ceiling. “You’re not subtle,” I informed the manor. “Not even slightly.”
The fire popped cheerfully in response.
Probably in wicked partnership with the house, Mrs. Crane had rearranged the dining room.
I noticed immediately upon entering, because the last time I’d eaten here in awkward silence, Fenrik had occupied the far end of a table long enough to land a flying carpet, while I’d huddled at the opposite extreme. We’d communicated primarily through the butler, a nervous young man named Aldric who’d ferried bread baskets back and forth.
Tonight, however, my place setting sat beside Fenrik’s chair. Not across from him, where I might have maintained some pretence of professional distance. Beside him, close enough that when he pulled out his seat, his elbow grazed my shoulder.
“Mrs. Crane,” Fenrik said, in the tone of a man who has discovered his housekeeper has committed high treason, “there appears to have been a seating error.”
“No error, sir.” Mrs. Crane emerged from the shadows near the sideboard, her expression serene as a saint’s. “The heating enchantments are failing at the far end of the table. We wouldn’t want Lady Stormgarde catching a cold. She’s been straining herself lately and the air in here is quite chilly.”
I glanced at the far end of the table, where the candles burned steady and no visible frost crept across the wood.
“How thoughtful,” I said.
“Isn’t it just.” Fenrik sat down.
The soup arrived. Some sort of root vegetable thing, rich and golden, steam curling from the surface. I reached for my spoon at the same moment Fenrik reached for the bread, and our forearms brushed.
Heat. And I wasn’t thinking about the pleasant warmth of shared proximity, but actual heat, radiating from his skin through the fine wool of his sleeve. I felt it bloom across my arm and spread upward, settling somewhere beneath my collarbone.
I pulled back. He pulled back. We both stared fixedly at our respective dishes.
“The soup,” I said, because someone had to say something, “smells lovely.”
“It’s Mrs. Crane’s secret recipe.” His voice had gone slightly hoarse. “A family tradition.”
“Mm.”
