“For good reasons, or so I told myself. But you—” He stopped, his hand half lifting as though he might reach for me, then falling back to his side. “You’re not …”
The words stumbled out, uneven. He looked away quickly.
It wasn’t like him to fumble. Not like him to look unsure of the ground beneath his feet. “All I mean is, if you try to face this book alone, it could unmake you. And if it does … I—” He broke off again, then gave the smallest shrug, seemingly fascinated by the stone floor. “I wouldn’t like to see that.”
I stared at him.
“Not a piece on a board, you said earlier. Not to you. Then what am I, Patrick?”
His head snapped up.
“You—” His hand flexed at his side, restless. “You matter. More than the book. More than I expected you would.”
The admission came out rough, awkward, not like him at all. He looked away quickly, the set of his jaw daring me to mock him for it. I wanted to seize on those words, to demand he explain, to tear them open until they gave me the truth.
“More than you expected,” I said. “That sounds dangerous.”
His laugh was short, brittle. “Dangerous, yes. For both of us.”
I took a step towards him. “Say it plainly, Patrick. For once in your life, say what you mean. What is it you want from me?”
He blinked.
“I want—” He broke off. His eyes flicked away, then backto me. “I want you alive. I want you … not to hate me. I want you to let me stand at your side without having to trick my way there.”
The words tumbled out one over another, nothing like his usual careful speech. When he realized what he’d said, his mouth tightened, as though he wished he could spool them back. It unsettled me more than his lies ever had.
I thought of all the ways he had deceived me, turned my trust into another strand in his web. I thought, too, of the times he had been there when no one else was. And now this strange, awkward honesty, as if his mask had finally dropped to reveal … what?
My pulse thudded in my ears. To trust him might be foolish. To refuse him might be fatal.
His eyes searched mine, waiting—though whether he waited for my faith or my rejection, I couldn’t tell.
“What if I say no?” I said. “What if I tell you to leave?”
No clever answer, no smirk. For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then his shoulders dropped, just slightly.
“If you tell me to leave,” he said at last, his voice low and steady, “I’ll go.”
The words startled me more than any argument would have. I’d expected persuasion, the usual knot of logic and charm, some clever trap. Not this.
My throat was tight. “Stay, then,” I said, the words rough. “But only because I can’t do this alone. Don’t mistake it for forgiveness. Not yet.”
For the first time, something eased in his face—not triumph, not even satisfaction, but a kind of quiet relief. He stepped forward, carefully, as though I might still push him away.
When he reached for the book, I didn’t move, and his fingers brushed mine. The brief touch made me catch my breath, but I loosened my grip, just slightly; just enough to let him share the weight.
And then Baldbeak’s voice brushed across my mind.
Humans and their endless mating rituals, he said.
Heat stung my face. “That’s not what this is!”
“What?” Patrick asked.
“Nothing,” I muttered. I prayed the shadows would swallow the flush in my cheeks.
Hopeless, muttered Baldbeak.
