That lures a soft chuckle from my chest. “Just one more wish away from it.”
He looks at me then, his gaze dragging from the toy to my face, catching on the curve of my smile. For a heartbeat, the air holds still. Slowly, helplessly, his lips betray him. They twitch more, then soften, curving upward in a shy, beautiful echo of my own amusement.
His blink fractures the moment.
A strange, twisted expression crosses his face—half resignation, half reverence—as he looks back at the wooden bird.
“You would do better to ask Her Majesty, little one,” he says quietly, extending the fractured toy toward me. His fingers brush mine as the wood changes hands, a fleeting, tingling contact. “My wife possesses an exasperating talent for mending things that, by all rights, should remain destroyed.”
I take the bird, my chest tightening. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I’m getting the sense that it’s no longer about the toy.
“I’ll do my best,” I murmur, holding his gaze.
“Clearly,” he replies, the words barely audible, before he finally stands to lean his shoulder against the wall.
I turn the bird over in my hands, aligning the jagged edges of the wing with the splintered body. It’s a clean break, thankfully. With a bit of pressure and a whispered hope, I wedge the wood back into its groove. It holds—precariously, but it holds.
“There,” I whisper, handing it back to the girl. “Fly it gently?”
“I will! Thank you, Your Majesty!” She snatches the bird with a grin that could outshine the sun and darts off toward the hallway, her footsteps thudding away into silence.
Left alone in the quiet, I brush the dust from my palms and straighten. I don’t follow her out. Instead, I turn and step closer to the wall where Vale leans, resting my back against the plaster right in front of him.
“I fixed it,” I say softy, tilting my head back to meet his gaze.
Vale stares down at me, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders hasn’t returned. “I feared you would.”
I take a half-step closer, my skirts brushing the toes of his boots. “You’re making it sound like it’s a terrible thing.”
His gaze drops then. It slides from my eyes down to the bridge of my nose, settling on my mouth. The air between us thickens, growing heavy and charged, like a storm that hasn’t quite broken. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t make a sarcastic remark, nor does he say anything hurtful. He just looks at my lips as if they’re a question he’s afraid to answer.
“It is dangerous,” he breathes, his voice dropping to a rough timbre that vibrates in the small space between us. Then, slowly—so slowly it feels like he’s fighting his own instinct to flee—he lifts a hand. His long, cool fingers shape to the side of my neck, his thumb resting gently against the line of my jaw. “Terrifying beyond your understanding.”
He lowers his head. There’s plenty of time for me to pull away, ample time for him to stop, but neither of us moves an inch in retreat. The distance evaporates until there’s no air left to breathe, only him.
His lips brush mine. It’s not a demanding kiss, nor a hungry one. It’s soft, hesitant, and devastatingly gentle. I melt into it, my hands finding purchase on the lapels of his coat, anchoring myself against the sway of the earth beneath my feet.
When he pulls back, he does so with the reluctance of a tide being called back to sea. He doesn’t go far—just an inch, maybe two—keeping his forehead rested against mine as our breath mingles in the damp air between us.
He doesn’t speak. He just breathes, a shuddering, uneven sound that rattles in his chest. His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone as his eyes open. The look in them is raw, full of a quiet, aching wonder that steals the air from my lungs.
Then, the mask slides back into place—slowly, painfully, as if it hurts him to wear it again.
He drops his hand from my face, though his fingers linger in the air for a heartbeat before falling to his side. “I will wait for you in the carriage.”
Chapter
Fourteen
Elara
Damp earth and leaves scent the air inside the greenhouse, like summer trapped under panes. Above me, the morning sun fractures on the glass, turning into dusty beams that warm my back with such intensity that I almost shiver.
Crk.A dead rose head falls to the pooled skirt of my brown linen dress.
I move to the next stem, the curved pruning knife in my palm glinting where specks of dirt didn’t settle yet on the metal.Sometimes, you have to hurt a thing to save it. Cut away the rot and pray the rest remember how to bloom.
Thorns scratch at my wrists in a protest I can respect, so I pause for a second, breathing in the humidity. It’s quiet here. Peaceful.
