“It’s all I can do. All I can effect. My own fate.”
“Yes,” she said.Rotten luck. Evil luck.
“I know you need it, Anya.” His voice was full. “I cannot let you take it.”
Hers was empty. “No.”
“And you cannot let me.”
Though her mouth was very dry, she swallowed. “No.”
Suddenly animated, he withdrew his pen. “Your curse. Let me try. Magic is magic.”
She shook her head against her knees. “There’s only one way to break it.”
“There must be something–”
“You said your magic only works on humans.”
The air between them grew thick as her words took root. “Surely, you don’t mean–”
“Less than I was yesterday,” she said, her voice short and ragged. “More than I will be tomorrow.”
His pen fell but his voice was still adamant. “I only need the spell. That’s all. Once I’ve figured it out, then I’ll give the bird to you.”
“I only have until midsummer’s dawn,” she said.Three days. “There isn’t time.”
He nodded. He put his pen away. When he turned back to her, he was flushed. “There is tonight.”
She hadn’t heard him right. She lifted her head. “Tonight?”
“Tonight, we are in neutral territory. I propose an armistice.”
“Sy,” she said, “Ican’t.”
Time seemed to slow as he reached for her; as he brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “Only for the night.”
Her body understood before her mind did. She felt her heart pounding against her breastbone. She felt her chest tightening, her navel alight like a flame.
“Only for one night,” he said again, his fingertips spreading against her skin. This time, there was no imagining. He held her, looked at her, like something beautiful. Something necessary. No longer hopeless, though still desperately sad, and reckless.
He put his other hand on her waist.
Anya froze, utterly lost. This, this was uncharted territory. There was no map for this.
She was frozen, but she willed her tongue to move. She had to say something, something to get herself back on the right track.
What it said was frightful, and true, and absolutely humiliating.
“It would make tomorrow impossible.”
He withdrew his hands. They had not been warm, but she felt their lack like a cloudy day in spring, resisting the urge to touch where his fingers had left her cheek. She thought her skin was not as warm as it should be, either. He studied her, like a painting he might want to recreate.
She swallowed. “I’m not doing any of this by choice.”
His sand-gold hair shifted as his head tilted forward; his amber eyes absorbed her, savored her, and she felt each place they rested. Her eyes, her neck. Her lips.
“None of it?”
