Page 80 of The Second Death of Locke

She pulled Kier across one of the courtyards, down through the fortress and toward the walls.

There, he lifted the gate with magic, and quietly drew a golden magelight as Grey led him toward the cliffside path.

She barely noticed the power he pulled from her now; in her mother’s journals, she came to understand what Torrin had been trying to tell her.

It was the nature of the sovereigns of Locke to not always be bound and married, but always tethered.

After all, it was Kier who maintained the shields, Kier who kept the golden magelights burning, Kier whose wards guarded her door.

There was power flowing through him constantly since the night months ago when they’d stood before Kitalma at her altar and given his freedom away.

“I suppose I don’t get to ask what this is,” he said, his arm looped through hers.

“We’re almost there,” she promised.

He sighed, looking down at her hem. “You’re going to get your dress all muddy.”

She shrugged. It was all posturing anyway; she was used to being covered in mud, and nearly everyone on the Isle had seen her in far worse shape. The finery was an active disruption from her usual state of disarray.

They rounded the hairpin turn on the path, and Grey’s stomach pulsed with anticipation. Beside her, Kier paused, drawing a quick breath.

“Grey,” he said, her name barely a sound in the dark. He stopped. She watched his face carefully as he swallowed unsteadily. She felt suddenly full of hollow anxiety, as if she could’ve made the wrong decision in giving him this.

“It’s yours,” she said.

Kier nodded, but he did not let go of her; he just moved to hold her hand and brightened the magelight. She kept a step behind him down the last bit of the path toward the ledge, protected from the worst of Locke’s winds.

The little cottage was pale bluish-gray stone, the same shade as the clapboard houses on Scaela’s shores but sturdier, nestled in with one wall built against the cliff.

Kier hesitated for just a second before he opened the door.

They stepped into the kitchen, painted pale yellow, and he gripped the back of a chair for support as he looked at it in wonder.

Grey said nothing.

He moved through the rooms: the kitchen, then the parlor, with its great fireplace and cushioned chairs and sofas.

She had selected everything with comfort in mind, writing to Laurella and Pia when she was stuck.

In their final letter before coming to Locke, Laurella had included a sketch she’d done of Lot and Kier when the pair were boys.

He held it now, his face unreadable as he took the frame from the mantel.

He studied it for a long moment, unreadable, then put it back and moved up the stairs.

He peered in at the bathing room, the two bedrooms (“For your mothers, and anyone else you want to visit,” she told him quietly) and the study, before he went up the final set of stairs.

There, on the top floor, he found a bedroom with a wide bed and a trunk, and a great window looking out at Scaela. At his home.

He sat down hard. It was lucky, she thought, that the bed was there to catch him when his knees went weak.

She sat carefully beside him on the floor, resting her head on his knee. A very Locke quiet settled over them as they stared out to sea. Even the crashing waves and the shouting wind did not seem all that loud when they were in this little haven.

“ Grey ,” Kier said quietly, his voice breaking.

She looked up to see tears on his cheeks. She pushed herself to her knees and took his face in her hands, wiping them away with her thumbs.

“Is it okay?” she asked.

He drew a breath, looking at the window over her shoulder. “It’s… I don’t think I have words,” he admitted. He brought his hands up, covering hers. “How did you do all this?”

Grey chewed her lip. “Brit and Ola,” she admitted. “I was sure they would spoil the surprise.”

Kier laughed, breathy and uneven. “Fucking materialists,” he said, looking around the space in wonder, taking in the dark beams that crossed the ceiling and the quilt on the bed. His smile quirked up; he must’ve recognized that the quilt was one his mothers had brought from home.

“No one else knows it exists,” Grey said.

He looked at her, realization dawning. “And you asked me to shield and ward this path so you and Ola could spar in peace…”

“Yes.”

“So no one else can come down here.”

“Yes,” she said, her own grin widening.

“And you warned me of loose rocks on the cliff so I wouldn’t come here alone.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see it until it was finished.”

Kier shook his head in astonishment, sitting back, taking it in. “A house,” he said.

“A cottage, really. An apology, for ruining your retirement.”

“Grey…”

She looked away then, letting her hands fall into his lap.

He put his own over hers. “I want to be clear,” she said.

“This is your house, Kier. Not mine. I will not come here unless you invite me. It is your place, and yours alone. I cannot give you your freedom back, but I can give you your space.”

He was quiet for a moment. When she looked up, she found him studying her face.

He moved his thumb to tilt her chin up, bringing his magelight closer so he could see every detail of her face.

Then he shifted, kneeling carefully in front of her.

He traced his fingers across her collarbone—she was unable to suppress her shiver—and bent to kiss her, very gently.

“Will you stay the night, if I ask it?”

“That defeats the purpose of your own house.”

He nudged his nose against hers. “What if I ask very, very nicely?”

“Yes.”

Another soft kiss, like the press of his golden light. “And we don’t have to go to your party?”

She smiled, feeling his lips curve up in response. “ Our party,” she said, her fingers moving up his sides and across his chest, skimming over the details of his coat. “I might have… already asked Imarta to give our regrets, if they didn’t see us in half an hour,” she admitted.

Kier laughed, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, Locke,” he said, moving his hands to grip her waist, his fingers digging in between the boning of her corset. “Your foresight remains astonishing, as always.”

She kissed his nose. “The nation of Locke accepts your compliments, but suggests you support your declarations with action, Commander.”

He twined his fingers through hers. “And am I not Locke, too?” he asked, the barest hint of hesitation in his voice.

“If you wish it?” she asked. She did not dare to hope.

That hesitation did not fade. “If you wish it.”

Far below, the waves crashed on the rocks, the sea rushing against the dark cliffs of the iron isle. She skimmed her fingers across his cheek, searching his face, the grin spreading across hers before she could stop it. “That you are, Locke,” she said.