Page 74

Dressed and ready for a mission, I headed toward the fire pit terrace. Dawn spread over the woodland, a syrupy light drizzling through the trees. Below, the creek babbled over stones. Everywhere: wood foundations, extensions, and suspensions.

A draft kicked up with the elevation. Climbing onto the terrace, I smelled mist and ground spices.

Aire sat upon a bench, wearing the same deep blue shirt and dark gray hose from supper. He’d rolled the sleeves up his forearms, his veins straining as he wiped a cloth over one of his swords.

He bent his head to the task. “There is cinnamon tea.”

It was official. Our cease-fire was over. Back to where we started.

Sort of. We’d discovered that we actually liked being around each other, that we could do so without bickering, that we could share stories. It had been easy talking to him, easy to listen. Friendly vibes told me that he felt the same.

The problem was, I’d discovered his touch. And he’d discovered my liking his touch.

Aire could sense lots of things. He couldn’t have missed the pump of my acorn heart. He hadn’t wanted to dupe me into getting the wrong idea.

I hadn’t. I wouldn’t.

Just the way his voice changed when he’d spoken of his wife—he was still in love with her. And whatever. That was his business, not mine.

I trotted toward a row of four mugs on the pit’s rim, two of them filled with tea. The liquid had cooled considerably, so I tipped back one of the cups and took a long swig. Aire’s head lifted, and he watched impassively.

More to the point, he watched my throat.

I gulped the whole damn thing. Finished, I slapped the mug down with a hearty gasp.

“Thirsty?” he inquired.

“Nosy?” I asked. “It’s rude to stare.”

My lecture fell on deaf ears. If anything, he stared more. Those eyes traveled over my change of clothes, from my dark skirt and white shirt, to my cape, to my feather hat.

Punk chirped down at me from a tupelo. I waved, and she cheerfully resumed chiseling the bark. I hadn’t noticed she was there.

I’d tied a low, side ponytail beneath my headpiece. Combing through it with my fingers, I asked, “Where is everyone?”

“Nicu shall sleep a while yet. I imagine our host is even less of an early-riser.”

I cast a quick glance at his sword. How much did it weigh? Who’d furnished the design?

Aire set the sword aside. I watched as he retrieved a clothed bundle from the floor, got to his feet, and approached. He held out his hands, offering it to me.

I unwrapped the contents: my axes.

I grasped them, reacquainting myself with the handles.

“They’re mine, you know,” I said. “You had no right to them.”

“You only needed to say that.”

“Since when?”

No answer. That’s when I noticed the edges had been sharpened.

“Thanks,” I said, glancing up at him.

Aire inclined his head and grinned. I swiveled away, reattaching the axes to my leg and nape, aware of his eyes on me. The grips snapped into place. I smoothed out my skirt and cape, although I didn’t need to.

“You make haste for the forest early,” he said. “And without breaking your fast.”