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A ball of plumage took residence on the footboard, its body rising and falling with even, slumbering breaths. Punk had stayed with me. My big toe reached out and stroked a talon, mindful not to wake her.

The fireplace gaped at me with its empty mouth. A feather stem poked from the down of my pillow. Everything in its place. Everything normal. Everything a lie.

I whisked the blanket aside, swung my feet to the floor, and gripped the mattress edge. This wasn’t happening. This anxiousness squatting in my breast, this doubt nailed into my navel.

This traitorous temptation. This dishonest curiosity.

A real heart. A real girl.

My wrinkled clothes clung to my woodskin. I bolted from the bed and peeled off the shirt and skirt, then changed into my nightdress and grabbed the checkered blanket, using it as a makeshift shawl.

I recalled Aire’s arms locked around me. His calm lilt.

My boots had been removed. I snatched them and wove the lacings up my calf. I wound my hair into a chaotic bun and crept out of the house.

Damp drizzled the colony, a midnight film glazing the tree trunks. Liquid fire danced in the lanterns, globes of light speckling the community from ground level to the oaks’ crowns. From the distant stable, Aire’s steed and my mule grumbled, while Lyrik’s horse remained silent or asleep.

Ten minutes later, I waited on the swing. Ten minutes later, and five minutes after that, and one minute after that, he still hadn’t come.

Owl orbs blinked at me. The creek trickled below.

The muffled clang of steel rang from there as well.

The seat creaked as I stood. I trailed the sharp noises, glancing every so often over bridges and stair railings.

Crossing to the lowest level, I saw him.

In a glade, the late hour draped silver across the grass. From this angle, he seemed to move atop stars while spinning his swords. Above loose, low-slung hose, his shirtless torso flexed, his muscles reflecting the sky, carrying the night on his shoulders. An angelic and deadly raptor, slicing the air with blades for wings.

From one position to the next, he spun-paused-spun. He whipped-cut-whipped, the swords weightless and flying.

I’d never seen a person move that fast. I hadn’t known a person could brandish a weapon the way he did, execute the positions he did, not that I considered myself an authority.

From what I did know, men much older usually held his rank. Still, I saw why the Crown had appointed him as the First Knight of Autumn, in spite of his youth.

What stole my breath more? His bare flesh or those weapons? His movements or his precision?

Listen to me, mooning. Any second, I’d be reverse-serenading him from above.

Anxiety gave way to a deep throb. Confusion gave way to a hot rush.

Aire’s body slammed to a halt, his swords poised, his abdomen rippling. He jerked golden forelocks from his head and, with a twinge of humor, panted into the glade, “I thought you said it was rude to stare.”

When all else failed, conceal lust with humor. “How many times have I told you not to chop ghosts’ heads off?”

With a half-grin, he turned toward me. I gave a solemn wave. The lanterns splashed orange and yellow here and there.

In a single, clean motion, he whirled the swords and thrust them into the soil. “Come here.”

Hell yes. I was on the ground, in the glade, and standing beside him in seconds. I might have been traumatized by what I’d learned in the forest, but when a handsome half-nude knight offered to distract a girl like me, that girl seized the opportunity with grabby hands.

Up close, a string of sweat cut down his throat, and perspiration darkened the tips of his hair.

Stars. Forest. Naked.

It couldn’t get any more romantic for me or platonic for him. His eyes stayed on mine, not once enticed to stray, despite the nightdress.

“Discarding me for practice?” I quipped.