Page 45 of A Spell of Heart & Havoc

I sat back, blowing gently on the ink and waiting for it to dry. There. That should buy us some time at least. And if it came down to it, the guild could pull a simple night heist with my help, take the Wistrallos’ precious art and get what we could for it on the black market, and grab Lady Iris’s stash for good measure. Dove and the staff would wake up the next morning, with bare walls but unharmed, and everyone could move on with their lives. Zephyra’s eyes wouldn’t be on them anymore. The lord and lady would hopefully learn their lesson and store their future acquisitions in a proper vault or gallery rather than so gaudily clustering their wealth in the front hallway just for the sake of showing off. And Dove would be protected from Zephyra’s attention.

Protected? Is that what I’m trying to do—protect her?

I thought back to earlier, when Dove started to confess something to me. The truth of their suddenly revived fortune sat on the tip of her tongue, I could see it. She said something about magic she possessed—how it was her that saved them. She was the answer I’d been searching the manor for, clearly.

And in a moment of blind panic, I’d kissed her to cut off whatever she’d been about to say. I hadn’t wanted to know. If I did, some part of me was terrified I’d have to tell the guildmaster. I wouldn’t be able to resist, when Zephyra was able to give me what I’d wanted for so long.

So I’d kissed her. And then did so much more.

The memory of her underneath me, in my arms, was strong, almost overwhelmingly powerful. I could still smell her on my fingers. I’d been pulled deep, deep under, and oddly, I didn’t feel the usual urge to drag myself away. The thought of her half-lidded gaze as I touched her, the hesitancy in her voice as she asked me to dinner—goddess, I wanted to be back with her already.

Whatever magic she had, it wasn’t anything harmful. Dove may be a bit self-centered, and stubborn, and—okay, yes, kind of stuck-up and classist at times—but she wasn’t someone who would hurt others to get what she wanted. That much I was sure of.

And I had my own secrets too. We didn’t need to share everything in order to start trusting each other. At least a little.

I rolled the slip of parchment up tightly and approached the slitling. One piercing eye sized me up again, unnervingly intelligent, before sticking its leg out. I held my breath and tucked the message back into the pouch. Backing away a few careful steps, I waited. The slitling ducked down to make sure the message was secure, then eyed me again and shook out its wings suddenly. I jumped, stumbling backward. It let out a small, sharp caw, then tapped its beak together rapidly. Was this fucking bird laughing at me?? This is a new low.

Then it hopped on the windowsill and soared out without a backward glance.

Quickly shutting the window behind the slitling, I latched it as tight as I could. Then double-checked that it was secure. That thing gave me the creeps.

I took a deep, heavy breath and slowly let it out. Nerves jangled queasily as it fully hit me that I’d lied to the guildmaster. Or, at least, told a half-truth. I had to hope this worked—Zephyra wouldn’t take kindly to betrayal of any kind.

The next several days passed in a lovely, if slightly anxious, fashion. I woke before the sun, did my exercises and stretches while I tried not to think about Zephyra, the slitling, and the future.

Then I washed, dressed—Dove had helpfully supplied a couple extra sets of clothes from the manor’s stores—and went next door for breakfast. Petra usually joined us, but it was always better when she didn’t. I got the sense that she was watching Dove and me together lately, trying to figure out what was going on between us. We were careful to not touch with her around, acting as normal as possible. Dove said Petra had no idea, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the maid knew more than she let on to her friend.

After a while, Petra left to do her chores, and Dove and I lazed about for longer, talking and touching a bit. We’d moved slowly since that first night together. I got the sense that she wanted to take some time, and I felt the same. Things had gotten very intense, very fast between us, and we both needed a while to process and figure out what was happening. Get to know each other not as mutually despised bodyguard and lady, but as ourselves.

That didn’t mean, however, that we couldn’t be close, intimate. We spent hours talking, exchanging soft touches and kisses, walking the grounds, racing our horses. Or visited with Choia and the rest of the staff, chatting as I helped with their tasks. We continued doing her art lessons with the orphans at the priory, Dove growing more confident and comfortable with each visit. And in the afternoons, she liked to paint in her studio, so I’d grab a book or three from the library and relax with her as she worked.

On one particularly memorable such afternoon, I was halfway through a saucy pirate mystery novel, reclining on a chaise in the studio, when Dove let out an exasperated huff and threw her brush on the ground. Arms crossed, she stood glaring at the large, half-empty canvas on her easel.

“Everything okay over there?” I said.

Dove sighed and spun around. She had a swipe of crimson paint on her chin, as well as a deeply frustrated look on her face. I hated seeing her distressed.

“Yes. No… I just can’t get this right.” She gritted her teeth, throwing a hand back at the easel. I tucked in a bookmark to hold my place and crossed over to her, plucking up the abandoned brush along the way. Spinning it in my fingers like I would a dagger, I came to observe the painting by her side. It was filled with jagged, slashing swipes of color in heavy purples, reds, and grays.

“It’s about my parents,” she said.

I cut a look to her. “Subtle,” I said wryly, making Dove snort.

“It’s not—I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right. Maybe I’m blocked today or something.” With a sigh, she fiddled with one of her earrings.

I looked over the painting again. It didn’t move me in the way Dove’s pieces normally did. Instead of her usual power, vivacity, energy, it just felt… flat. With a weighted sense of foreboding. I could see what she meant.

“Well, I’m no art expert, by a long shot, but maybe it’s not working because—I don’t know, maybe it’s not the right subject? The right inspiration. I mean, are you enjoying painting this?”

Dove hummed. “I thought it would be cathartic. You’re right though. It’s not exactly doing me any good.”

I handed her the brush. “Could be better to focus on something with a bit more… life? Something real, that fills you up. That’s bursting to come out of that beautiful brain and onto the canvas.” Impulsively, I kissed her cheek. She looked up at me in surprise, then smiled almost shyly.

“Thank you. I think I know just the thing,” she said, and swapped in a fresh canvas on the easel. “Now you go back to your book. I have to concentrate!”

I just shook my head and settled back on the chaise, watching her work more than I read. Trying to ignore the odd, blazing pride that wriggled up at seeing her create a new, gorgeous piece of art. Knowing that I’d helped her do it, a little, and she’d let me. She kept letting me in like this, bit by bit as our time together went by, and I kept stepping closer.

Every day felt like this now—bright, and warm, and full of Dove. I also began taking slow solo walks in the manor’s beautiful gardens, enjoying the weirdly decadent feeling of smelling the mid-autumn flowers and rubbing leaves between my fingers. The grounds here had so much potential, and I found myself imagining how the overgrown gardens could look with proper maintenance and care. They had Hanc do some weeding and trimming when he could, but Dove said they couldn’t afford a full gardening staff again yet. And then she did a hilarious impression of a time when Hanc bumbled through a spiderweb and then somehow fell fully into the algae-green pond.