Page 34 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“I don’t know,” Cas said. “Maybe we’ll all go to Nadira. Maybe they’ll like it here. Maybe we’ll find some other, kinder place.”

“I hope so,” Nore said, not fully certain which part of that she was hoping for.

They spoke of Nettlepool as they walked, and he told her about Idistran summers, his voice lilting and beautiful. He led the way to a set of steps carved into the harbor. There was a little ledge farther down, protected from the wind. They sat there, cross-legged, their backs pressed to the cold stone wall, and watched the boats rock in the harbor.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the beating of the water against the stone. Without really deciding to, Nore rested her hand, palm up, on Cas’s knee. She didn’t know if his decision was conscious when he laced his fingers through hers.

Nore looked at his face. He had a nice mouth. She liked it quite a lot, she realized with some devastation.

“Nore?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you come back to the pub?”

Nore chewed on her lip, debating on how best to answer. In the end, she settled on the truth. “I liked your smile,” she said. She was rewarded with one of his warm laughs and that smile aimed her way, like a secret he kept just for her.

“And you?’ Nore asked. “Why did you care if I came back?”

Cas turned, leaning closer. Nore’s heart tripped. He picked up the end of her braid, the red in her hair glimmering in the light of the harbor lamps. “When I was a boy, we used to have a game. The winters were so long and cold, and it would feel like spring was never coming, but every year, when things were coldest, just before the shift in seasons, the poppy finches would come back. That was the game: if you spotted one first, you were said to have good luck for the rest of the year.”

Nore swallowed hard. “It’s already summer, you know.”

But he was looking at her with something unveiled, something hungry. His thumb stroked over the tie of her braid, a leather cord looped and knotted, and he caught her eye. Nore nodded, the slightest dip of her chin. His fingers were careful but quick, untying the knot, then gentle as he unplaited her hair to fall loose against her shoulders. He hesitated, sweeping a lock of it behind her ear, his thumb lingering over her cheekbone.

“Your hair,” he said. “It’s the same color as poppy finches. When I look at you—it reminds me of luck, and it makes me think of home.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. She had not known, in her life, what it was like to be singularly desired.

“Cas,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

His smile widened just a fraction before he was leaning close.

“Yes,” he said, right before his lips met hers.

Finch—

I could be mistaken, but did you purposely leave that… very descriptive note in my coat pocket? Do you mean to make these the longest two weeks of my life?

Letter from Caspian Khari to Nore Gordon, 1627 UCE

You were not mistaken. I expect appropriate action upon my return.

Letter from Nore Gordon to Caspian Khari, 1627 UCE

eight

NORE DID NOT MEAN to sleep, but she dozed all the same. When she woke, it was because of the movement in the bed beside her.

Nore’s eyes flew open, her hand tightening on her knife. Next to her, Caspian tossed and turned, his eyes open and wide, his hands opening and closing around nothing. She rolled over, trying to restrain him with her body.

He was still far too warm. His fever had not broken.

His gaze did not linger on her face but rolled wildly about the room. That was how Nore knew with certainty that he was dreaming.