He made a show of being offended. “You’ve got an awful memory. Didn’t I demonstrate my abilities in that courtyard for you?”
I remembered it then—Patrick whirling about in the dust, children giggling behind their hands. “You looked insane.”
“As I recall, you were claiming that Crafters didn’t like music ordancing.” He looked about us pointedly. “You can eat those words now, if you like.”
I rolled my eyes. Smiled.
For a while we simply turned in our own small, warm space until my head grew heavy and the music grew indistinct. After a time, I found my head had come to rest against his shoulder, though I didn’t remember putting it there. I felt restful, pleasingly drunk—on what, I could not say.
“You’re too beautiful to be real,” he said suddenly, softly. With my ear pressed to his chest, I could feel the words, too. “There’s your compliment.” His fingers traced a very careful line then, slowly up my spine and back down, and in their wake, they left a trail of fire.
And I thought, in that moment, of the same picture drawn over and over until every single line was precise, and yet I still hadn’t rendered a perfect replica of him. “I drew pictures of you,” I told him, giving him this one small piece of myself. “In school.”
He didn’t speak. Just pulled me round and round in a small orbit.
I swallowed. “I was scared to forget you.”
The sound of his heart beating made me think of caves under leagues of sea. “I never had a hope in the world of forgetting you, Scurry girl.”
And I wondered what had made me so unforgettable. Was it the secret we’d unraveled together, or was it the inner workings of fate?
How to stop a rising tide, the rapidly expanding cell of a storm?
If I’d known it then, in that barn, I might have reduced that night to the whims of wine and music.
I might not have tilted my face to his and seen firsthand the sureness burgeoning in all that blue.
He shook his head. “I’d hoped you were hideous.”
I smiled. “And I’d hoped you weren’t an arse.”
“Well,” he muttered, eyes lowering to my mouth. “We don’t always get what we want.” And then he kissed me.
Or perhaps I pressed my lips to his first. I was balanced on my toesafter all, reaching, reaching, and then his mouth and mine touched, and it was whisper-soft and intoxicating. Unstoppable.
I blazed to life.
The song changed, became rapid and throbbing again, and the moment evaporated. Spell broken.
I descended back onto the soles of my feet, releasing his neck, but his arm remained wrapped around my back.
You’re a fool, I thought.
“I…” he stumbled, swearing beneath his breath. It was odd to see him falter. “I’m sorry,” he managed. I gathered he had little practice with apologies.
I tried not to sound breathless. “Are you?”
“Not even a bit,” he said. “Nevertheless, it was… impolite.”
“And everything you’ve done so far has been beyond reproach?”
“I hope not.” He grimaced. “Sounds dull.”
I tried not to smile. Truly, I did.
“Walk with me,” he said then, eyes still glinting. “You’ve tortured me enough.”
But he didn’t look like a tortured man. He looked and laughed exactly like the boy of twelve I remembered. He took my hand and pulled me through the rivulets of people. By the tapped barrels along the wall, I spied Tess Colson watching her son with a curious expression. She marked his course with a smile far gentler than I thought her capable.
