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She gestured toward the parlor with its burgundy sofa, the pair of overstuffed armchairs—one a deep emerald, the other a velvety marigold—and the huge fireplace with nothing but ash in the hearth. She didn’t spend much time in here anymore, and a chill hung in the air. He’d need a blanket.
“Wait here.”
She moved toward the stairs, and Penbrook followed, no better at listening than Finnick. “You’re sure you don’t mind if I stay?”
Fia stopped halfway up the staircase and turned back. Penbrook stood a step below, and though he was still taller, their faces were much nearer, and she found herself looking up into his eyes. They shimmered like water rippling at the bottom of the darkest well, rimmed with the thinnest line of blue.
“I don’t mind,” she whispered, aware of how narrow a space the stairway was, and how close that put them to each other. Fia tipped away from him by the slightest degree.
Face gone pale, Penbrook leaned against the wall. But he was still very close to her, breath soft as he said, “Thank you.”
She nodded, realizing she hadn’t even thanked him for all he’d done today. Or for the lovely butterfly he’d cast for her, now dancing between them.
“I wanted to thank you too,” she said, the words wholly inadequate.
Awkwardly, she turned away from him and toward the wall. Hidden behind the indigo flock wallpaper there was an odd little closet. It popped open under her touch.
“Going to stuff me in there?” Penbrook shuddered.
Fia grinned, everything loosening inside her. “I thought you might prefer the sofa.”
She waved her hand, and golden dust floated up from her fingertips, illuminating the small space as if she’d released a handful of fireflies.
A few spare blankets were folded on a high shelf. She reached for one woven with yarn spelled for cloud-soft dreams, then handed it to Penbrook, with the barest brush of her skin against his.
“Good night,” she said, pulling back, and with a final long look, he retreated down the stairs.
Fia remained where she was, hand to the wall, listening. To the creak of the floorboards under his feet. To the soft groaning of the sofa as he sank into it, long legs probably dangling off the edge. To the quiet shift in his breathing as he drifted to sleep.
CHAPTER 9
Fia slept very well that night—no tossing and turning. Maybe it was the chaos of the day before that had knocked her out so completely. Surely it had to be that, and not because Penbrook Madbury had stayed, sleeping one floor below.
As she dressed, the golden butterfly adorning her hair like a fancy pin, she wondered if he was still here. If she’d have to wake him, which would be tremendously awkward—or feed him. She really hoped he didn’t expect breakfast, because she doubted he’d enjoy one of those burnt leftover muffins.
After tiptoeing down the stairs, Fia peeked into the parlor only to find that he’d already risen, leaving the blanket neatly folded on the sofa. But he hadn’t yet gone. She followed the sound of his morning-low voice into the kitchen.
“Couldn’t you have let me sleep just a little longer?” he was saying… to the cat. Who was licking one orange paw and completely ignoring Penbrook.
Fia laughed against the back of her hand, and the magician turned, dark eyes soft in the frail light.
“Finnick can be a horrible pest,” she said fondly. “Was he begging for food?”
“Tirelessly. While standing on my chest.” Penbrook brushed at the fine ginger cat hairs left on his coat. “He had me believing you’ve been starving him.”
Fia glanced at the food dish, which was overflowing with kibble. “He tricked you into overfeeding him, I see.”
Offering belated thanks, the cat bumped his head against Penbrook’s leg, depositing more hair like a gift. Penbrook looked down. First at the cat, then at Fia’s toes. He frowned at her stripy stockings of crimson and mulberry.
She hadn’t given them a second thought when she’d dressed. Today, at least, she hadn’t meant to horrify Penbrook with her taste in fashion, which was admittedly more focused on comfort than design. “They’re just stockings,” she said, surprised when her voice came out light and teasing instead of defensive.
“How many pairs like that do you own?” he asked incredulously.
She wiggled her toes. “You mean these colors?”
“I mean how many pairs are striped?”
Fia smiled, because of course she’d known what he meant. “Enough that I can wear them every day if I want to.”
