My hand flies to my mouth as I stare at it. The leather is smooth again, the binding whole, the pages aligned perfectly, as though his furious hands had never touched it at all. There is not a tear in sight. Not even a crease.
Beside it, glinting faintly in the morning light, lies an ornate brass key looped with a pale blue ribbon. My breath catches as I reach for it, fingers trembling while the ribbon slides silkily over my skin. A key to the library. It has to be.
A tiny, traitorous smile tugs at my lips, one I immediately try, and fail, to smother. Instead, I flip open the book, skimming the pages, tracing the words like greeting an old friend. The familiar scent of ink and parchment rises, and excitement pools warm in my chest.
He mended it. He returned it. He left it for me.
I do not know what that means, but I know what it is not. It is not anger, and it is not indifference.
This is a peace offering. The best a male like Luceran Frostwyn can manage.
And it is enough.
I dress for the day. Armored against the cold. Armored against… whatever this day brings.
As I descend the stairs, I try to steady my thoughts. I do not know what to expect when I see him. Do I smile? Do we speak? Should I pretend the book and key never appeared?
By the time I reach the bottom step, I remind myself, as sternly as I can, that neither gift is a token of friendship. We are not friends. I am his servant; he is my lord. He did not offer peace, onlypermission.
Atilia is probably right. I let my imagination wander far, far too easily.
All this means is that I no longer have to fear his wrath echoing down the halls every time I breathe.
A gentle wind slips through the open windows of the entrance hall, billowing the long curtains. I turn toward the kitchen to begin his breakfast, but a familiar high-pitched squeak pulls my attention back.
The sprites hover in the open doorway, jittering impatiently. Their almond-shaped heads bob sharply toward the courtyard.
I frown and approach them.
When I reach the threshold, the carriage is waiting at the base of the steps, horses stamping clouds of steam into the morning air. One sprite zips downward to unlatch the door, the other lowers the ladder with ceremonial flourish. They both gesture frantically for me to climb inside.
I blink. Did I lose track of my duties? The days have blurred together. Perhaps itistime to return to the mines to complete my accounts, and maybe it’s for the best to slip away before I risk any awkward encounters after yesterday’s spectacularly emotional apology.
I close the door behind me, descend the stairs, and climb into the carriage. The sprites snap the reins, and with a jolt, we’re off, over the bridge, through the swirling snow, into Brunemar’s endless ivory expanse.
Soon the towering arches of the Aurevault rise through the mist. Snow falls in thick, uninterrupted sheets, and miners trudge in single-file patterns through knee-deep drifts.
The carriage shudders to a stop, but it isn’t a sprite who opens the door.
It’s Pax.
Helmet tucked under his arm, black curls tumbling in perfect dark waves, a smile bright enough to melt ice.
He bows playfully. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” His grin softens, and something almost like relief flickers across his face. “Why have you been away so long?”
I keep my expression composed.
“I’ve been busy at Castle Frostwyn,” I say as I rise in the carriage, smoothing my coat. I glance down, expecting the sprites to lower the step.
They don’t.
Pax notices too. He steps forward, arms lifting as though he means to help me down, like I’m some helpless maiden in a bard’s tale.
I fix him with a flat stare. “That won’t be necessary.”
Right on cue, the sprites blitz down from the driver’s perch, slamming into Pax’s side with enough force to shove him a full pace back. He stumbles, laughing under his breath, while the sprites lower the step with obvious pride.
I step down onto the crunchy snow, brushing past Pax before he can recover his charm.
