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Loved.

The word settles inside me. No panic follows, nor denial. Only recognition that I love her. God help me, I love her. Not because she is beautiful, though she is. Not because she is dangerous, though she is that too. I love the mind I met before I knew her face. I love the fury she carries for the forgotten, the way she stands before monsters and makes them look small. I love the softness she hides so viciously, her grief, her wit and even the stubborn chin. The way color seems to gather around her now, as though the world has realized it owes her beauty and intends to repay the debt all at once.

I am devoted to her and I am ruined by her. For once, I welcome this ruin, this ruin does not feel like death, it feels like coming home. The tango reaches its final note. Olive stands center stage, one arm lifted, chin high, chest rising beneath the lights and the audience erupts.

My hands are curled around the arms of my chair, holding myself in place as though I might otherwise walk straight onto the stage before all of Lockham and kneel at her feet. The lights dim and the applause fades. Patrons begin to rise, laughing, speaking, adjusting gloves and coats as I remain seated. Then Olive’s gaze finds mine through the dark. A small smile curves her mouth. Not the one she gives the rest of the audience.

Mine. The thought is dangerous, but I allow it anyway. She lifts one finger, beckoning me and my body obeys before my mind can advise caution. I move down the aisle after the crowd has begun spilling toward the doors. A stagehand glances at me, sees Olive waiting, and wisely pretends to notice nothing.

She stands beneath the dim stage lamps, the mirrors behind her reflecting us in pieces.

“You watched the entire show without blinking,” she says.

“I was concerned I might miss something.”

Her smile, that is the one that undoes me. She steps closer and takes my hand.

“Come up.”

“Olive.”

“Do not argue.”

“I had not yet begun to.”

“You were preparing to.” She pulls me onto the stage.

It is absurd how easily I follow. The boards creak softly beneath my shoes. From here, the empty theater looks different. Less like a room and more like a secret waiting to be told.

Olive moves behind me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Trust me.” A strip of black silk slides over my eyes as her words slide over my skin.

My body stills and the theater vanishes while darkness takes its place. For a moment, memory rises so sharply I nearly cannot breathe.

Private luncheon rooms. Her voice without a face and years of speaking to a woman I did not know I already belonged to. Olive’s fingers guide me to sit down on a wooden chair.

“Is this all right?” she asks.

The question is quiet and I swallow. “Yes.”

Her hand rests between my shoulder blades. Before I knew her face, I knew her pauses. Before I knew the color of her eyes, I knew the shape of her thoughts. I didn't know her name, but some ruined part of me had already turned toward her warmth like a starving thing. Her footsteps circle me, measured, and the stage is silent except for the whisper of her dress and my own unsteady breathing.

“You were kinder when you did not know who I was,” she says.

“No,” I state.

“No?” her question is enthused.

“I was braver.”

She pauses. I feel her in front of me now. Not touching. Close enough that the air changes.

“You were honest,” she says.

“I could afford honesty then.” My hands flex in anticipation.