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Alastair shivered. Lark felt as though she had freed him from a spell. He stretched his arms overhead, then sank down into the grass with a sigh. Lark sat beside him, smoothing out the skirts of her dress. Alastair regarded her for a moment. His mouth tilted into a shy smile.

“You’re so grown-up.” Then he dragged a hand through his hair and started to laugh at himself. “Of course, you’ve grown up.”

Lark shook her head at him, though she couldn’t help but laugh, too. “I haven’t been away for that long. Maybe you thought I would be frozen in time, like a beetle in amber?”

“Perhaps not a beetle. I don’t think they wear ribbons in their hair.”

Still laughing, Lark plucked at the end of the ribbon that drapedover her shoulder. She had taken to pinning back her hair with a barrette in the same way Damson did, and tonight she had painted her lips with a stain the color of strawberries.

She pressed her lips together, feeling the texture of the rouge. Alastair had also changed in the time she’d been away. She examined him through the veil of her lashes, noting the changes. Shoulders: broader; voice: deeper.

There was something else about him, too, harder to pinpoint. In the shadows beneath his eyes, the taut correctness of his posture. He looked battle-scarred, though he was still as flawlessly lovely as a Caedmonish portrait.

She thought of the way he had stiffened at the sight of Marcus appearing from the house. Hesitantly, she asked, “Is everything all right between you and your father?”

Alastair lifted one shoulder in a laconic shrug. “I’m overdue a lecture aboutproper conductfrom him, and I want to avoid it as long as possible.”

Lark gave Alastair a sympathetic look. “Henry’s favorite thing is to give me lectures. They’re so long and boring I always end up promising to be as well-behaved as a deity, just to make him stop.”

Alastair made a noncommittal sound, his mouth drawn into a line. He tipped back his head and sighed out a slow breath against the night. Above, the sky was pinpricked with endless stars, bright as lanterns. Quiet drew out between them, and to Lark it felt heavy with all the things neither of them was able to say.

She cast around for a change of subject. “I finally sawThe Dusk of the Gods.”

“Only once?” Alastair teased, though his voice still held a stilted note. Then, more seriously, he asked, “Was it just like you’d imagined?”

Lark smiled, wistful as she remembered that first day in the gallery. Though she had returned there many times throughout the semester, her first visit to Caedmon’s mural was special.

“It wasbeautiful. I can’t believe I was actually there, standing in the same place Ottavio Caedmon once did.” She felt awed by it, even now. “There’s a curation program offered by the gallery. They only take two students each year, but I’m going to apply.”

“I can’t think of anyone better suited,” said Alastair. His hand was on the ground, close to hers. Slowly, he edged nearer, then linked his smallest finger with hers.

Lark swallowed down a gasp. They were barely touching, but her whole body had began to hum. She felt like the sound of static when a gramophone record finished playing, all shiver and hiss. Everything turned slow, like the air was drizzled with honey.

She reached to him, laid a tremulous hand on his cheek. His skin was just as warm as she remembered. He let out a shuddering breath when she touched him, and his eyes sank closed. He leaned against her palm. Then, achingly slow, he turned to press his mouth to her wrist. Her pulse leapt, she made a stuttering, helpless sound.

“Alastair,” she breathed, and she was on her knees, creeping forward, her other hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Her head bowed; their foreheads pressed. He threaded his fingers into her hair, touching the knot of her ribbon.

His thumb stroked against her nape. Her lips parted. She thought of kissing him, how her lipstick would leave a bright stain on his mouth, like she had claimed him. It sent a thrill of desire through her, carving sharply down her spine.

But before she could move, a voice rang out from near the bonfire.“Alastair!”

They jolted apart. Lark turned to where a tall figure stood, outlined against the flames. It was Marcus. He called for his son again, and Lark and Alastair quickly got back to their feet. Lark brushed wisps of grass from her skirts; Alastair tugged a hand restlessly through his hair.

In silence, they walked back to the bonfire. Lark slowed to allow Alastair to go ahead, but even with the careful distance between them,she could still feel the heat of his breath against her cheek, the gentle pull of his fingers against her ribbon.

As they rejoined the crowd, Lark ducked her head beneath the force of Marcus’s icy look. Falteringly, she began to explain, “I wanted to tell Alastair about my lessons at school, so we went to where it was quieter, to talk.”

He ignored her, glaring down at his son. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you. It’s time to leave.”

At the fire, people had begun to cast their offerings. Henry was reciting the prayer of honor to Therion, his voice a rich baritone as it rose above the crackle of the flames. He placed the swan wreath into the bonfire and it caught alight with a scatter of sparks.

Marcus glanced at the sound, and while he was distracted, Lark reached for Alastair. Their hands clasped for the briefest moment, then they quickly drew apart as Marcus turned back to them. His brows drew swiftly into a frown as he noticed the wreath on Alastair’s hair.

“Take that ridiculous thing off your head,” he ordered. When Alastair didn’t move, Marcus snatched the wreath away, tossing it to the ground.

Lark watched them leave with an ache rising in her chest, flowers strewn at her feet. She wished she had the power to unspool time, to pluck Alastair away from his father and take him back to that moment in the field. To stay hidden beneath the night sky, before everything changed.

CHAPTER SIXNow