“Better?” he asked.
She nodded and blew on her fingers. “You’re not c-c-cold at all, are you?”
“I was raised where the air is so thin you would struggle to draw breath.”
The wind picked up, howling through the abandoned camp. But he could see that she was reviving. She stretched her legs out and braced her palms against the floor.
“So you never leave Arioch,” he said. “What are your favorite places in the city?”
“Well, there’s a bar called the Wandsbach Lounge in the Old Quarter. I’m sure you’ve never been there. It’s a cypher hangout, mainly. Run by a Kven from Iskatar. I like the fake palm trees.” She thought for a moment. “There’s also a very good tea shop near the chapter house. It has sixty-seven specialty cheeses.”
“So many?”
Rowan laughed in delight. “Yes, sixty-seven! It’s on Dean’s Court. Go there if you don’t believe me.”
“I have my doubts,” Gavriel said with mock severity. “List these alleged cheeses.”
“Oh, I can’t remember them all. But here’s a few I’ve tried.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Cascaval and vorag. Stinky mancha, which is the proper name and entirely accurate. Herbed sheep’s milk kedem from Petrosaca, lovely for spreading on toast. What else? An anise and pear-flavored Solway that’s not for everyone, but if you’re adventurous, you must taste it.”
She went on for a bit more, then ran out of steam. Or cheeses, he thought in amusement.
“Well, I can’t claim to be surprised,” Gavriel remarked, “since they insist upon adding cheese to everything in Kirith.”
She studied his face in that direct way she had. The dark sweep of his wing rose up behind her head. He could feel her blonde hair tickling the alulae feathers, which were exquisitely sensitive.
“And what do you do for fun, Lord Morningstar, when you aren’t buried under paperwork?”
“Call me Gavriel. I am informal with my friends.”
Her lips parted in surprise. Then she gave him that sunny, beaming smile. “Only if you call me Cathrynne.”
His heart beat faster. “Very well. I like the astronomy tower with its brass telescopes. And the opera house because it reminds me of the Chorale. Have you ever been there?”
Her brows drew together. “The Chorale? I’ve never heard of it.”
Of course she wouldn’t. It was the glass and crystal basilica at Mount Meru where the seraphim praised the ley with their voices, but as a cypher, she might live her entire life not even speaking to an angel.
“I meant the opera house,” he said. “Everyone dresses in their finest clothing and they fill the hall. It has beautiful gilded balconies with private boxes. You can hear the sounds of the orchestra warming up in the pit, and then the lights go down and the singing begins.”
Rowan—Cathrynne—looked enchanted, and he imagined how it would be to escort her to the opera on some fine summer evening when the wisteria were in bloom and the great Eve Olivero was singing the part of the witch Ulrica.
Gavriel had the wild urge to lean closer. To enfold her entirely within his wings, close enough to feel the whisper of her breath. They were alone. No one would know. But what would she do?
Crack his skull with her cudgel, most likely.
Silence fell between them. He felt compelled to say something. By the Trinity, anything.
“I have never spent so much time with a cypher.” The words sounded stiff even to him. “You are . . . ” Intoxicating, fascinating, forbidden. “Very competent.”
She looked gratified. “Thank you, Lord . . . Gavriel.”
Their gazes met—and caught. That deep, mysterious blend of oakmoss, vetiver, and almond blossoms washed over him. He read her expression easily this time. By the Trinity, she wanted him too.
A reckless impulse seized him, one he knew was mad yet felt helpless to resist.
The ley in his blood craved her. There was no other way to describe it. He had never felt anything like it before, not in seven hundred years of life.
He leaned forward before he could stop himself, one hand catching the soft line of her jaw. Her lips were close enough to feel the slight gust of air. Cathrynne’s breath was sweet and innocent, like dew on green peaches.
