Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
I open my eyes, my mouth. Quin has tipped his head back against the wall, his lashes softly kissing his skin. Tired, exhausted, he’s also grieving—the loss of his power, the distance from his son, the sufferings of his people. I press my lips shut again.
Goodbyes come in all forms. It doesn’t have to be rushed. I owe him too much for that. Spending a few last hours together is something I ought to do. In fact, bringing up goodbyes at all seems inconsiderate. Better I pretend this is like any other time. Like it might happen again. Tomorrow.
If he’s upset when he realises . . . well, at least our last moments will have been good ones, spent comforting one another. There’ll be others who waltz into his life. He’ll triumph over his uncle and he’ll find happiness.
I pick up my bottle and swig another sharp bite of cherry liquor. After I put it down, I catch my breath, and I crawl across the space to Quin and tuck myself into his side.
He stirs and stiffens, and I rest my head under the curve of his chin, shameless despite a distant voice warning me I shouldn’t. He’s warm beneath my cheek, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his breath as his arm curls around my back. His other hand brushes my hair behind my ear, the tender touch sparking something painful in my chest.
“You’ve gone soft,” I murmur into his shirt, my voice muffled.
His fingers pause mid-stroke, then resume, slower, deliberate. “Soft for you, only.”
His tone wraps itself around my thoughts, too heavy to untangle.
“Don’t say things like that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
Because.
I don’t answer, and his hand continues its lazy path through my hair.
I murmur, “You’re not in uniform.”
“I went to the inn and bathed before coming here.”
I breathe in the scent on him. “You bathed in smoky water?”
“It’s from the crime scene. Lingers.”
“Smoke?” What’d happened?
I don’t ask the question, but my slight pause is enough for Quin to understand. He murmurs, “Valerius’s garden was also set alight. We saved most of it.”
“The killer went after both Vitalian Dimos and Eparch Valerius,” I murmur. “They must have seen how close we are to finding an antidote. Too close for their plans.” This is meant to frighten the vitalians. It’s meant to distract them, to make them hesitant.
Which means . . . the murderer visited Thinking Hall.
Why didn’t they use poison?
I sigh into Quin’s shirt. Perhaps the poison wasn’t on them? Or if it was, couldn’t be easily adjusted to bring about an instant death? And they needed Dimos and Valerius to die quickly, before they solved the puzzle. “Did Eparch Valerius say anything that might help find the killer?”
“The knock to his head was heavy and blunt. His memory is affected. He vaguely recalls seeing a very long shadow stretching over his flowers.”
I shiver and shake it off. No use thinking about this. Nothing I can do. The fate of the refugees can only be in the hands—the magical hands—of others.
My nose pushes at the flutette under Quin’s shirt; I try to blow a sharp note through the thin material and it comes out like a sigh. “The last of my magic is in there.”
“Do you want it back?”
His voice is soft, and I curl my fingers around his to stop him taking it off.
“Your gloves,” he murmurs.
I hide my hand by sliding it around his waist.
“I’ll get you new ones.” His voice turns throaty. “When I saw your cloak over Dimos’s body . . .” His fingers draw down my hair to where I’d hastily pinned the clasp to my shirt. “I’m glad.”
I don’t remember doing it. I was too lost in all that was happening; I’d moved on instinct.
Like I’m doing now, sinking into the nooks of his body. I can hear his heart. It thumps as hard as mine.
We stay like this, holding one another, until the dimness of the room becomes darkness. My breath catches. There’s something about Quin’s protective embrace, the soft weight of his gaze, that leaves me feeling . . . understood.
“What do you think we’re doing?” he asks quietly.
My breathing becomes jerky and I fight through it and squeeze Quin tighter. “You promised as long as it’s my dream, you’ll support me. I had a hard day. Keep holding me.”
His fingers still against my hair for a second, then continue their lazy stroking.
“How full was that bottle?”
I shrug. “Both full.”
He sighs, his chest rising and falling, taking me along with it.
I’m rising again when Quin’s breath stops on a sudden groan. He drops the hand at my ear to his thigh. I draw my weight off him, and he hisses, his face contorting as he tries to withstand the pain.
“Cramp?”
“‘is fine,” he gasps. “Will pass soon.”
I press a palm above his knee and at his hip and help stretch the muscle. “Stand.” I support him up with an arm around his waist. “Put a little pressure on the leg, I’ve got you.”