Baz is rubbing the patch of real skin between my wings. I have extra bones in there. Even after Niamh cuts the wings off, I’ll still have two lumps, empty sockets. There might be some nerve damage—Dr. Wellbelove is hoping it will respond to magic.
My bedroom gets pitch black at night. I can just barely see Baz’s face, even though he’s right in front of me. Even though we’re chest to chest. My thigh is resting on his, and he’s tucked his knee up between my legs.
I’m stroking his hair. It’s still wet. He smells so good, and it isn’t just soap—it’s Baz. He smells cold and clean. Like running water. Like damp wood. He doesn’t smell like anything living, but he doesn’t smell like anything dead either. I’ll never get enough of it. My lungs won’t hold on to it—they betray me every time I exhale.
Baz scratches between my wings like he’s scratching a dog between its ears. It sends a shiver down my spine. I try to move closer. Our chins bump.
“I’m done with Smith-Richards,” I say.
“Good,” Baz says. His voice is soft.
“But what will we tell Lady Ruth?”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
I nod. I’ll worry about it tomorrow. All of it: Smith. Jamie. Me. The thing Baz isn’t telling me.
The bed feels good. Feels clean. “I like these sheets.”
“Me, too.” Baz scratches my back. “Good job, Snow.”
“I like finding you here,” I say. Very quietly.
I can hear him breathing. “I could always be here,” he says. Very, very quietly.
I nod my head again. Our noses bump. Baz works his left hand under my neck, pressing and holding me there. I want to kiss him—but I don’t want to barrel through this moment. I think this might be a moment. And I don’t want to knock over whatever it is we’re building. Here in the dark.
“Baz . . .”
“Hmm.”
“Is this what people do?”
“What do you mean, Snow?”
“I’m not sure . . .”
He tightens his grip on the back of my neck. His fingers are cold. My fingers are cold, too, in his wet hair. I bring my other hand up to his throat; it’s cool. There’s no warm place on him. If I dip my tongue into his mouth, it’ll be cold there, too. If I want Baz warm, I have to do it myself.
I’ll do it myself.
I kiss him, and he hums again.
I kiss his mouth open. Cool, cool.
“Mmm,” he mmms.
I can still see him, even when I can’t, even with my eyes closed—I know his face too well.
Is this what people do? Get as close as they can and then push closer? Burn each other’s faces into their eyelids? Let each other into every gap? And then what? Then just tomorrow, and more?
I want something.
I don’t know what I want.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to take.
“Snow . . .” Baz’s voice is soft.
