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Fitfully.

Nightmares whispered to Fia. In each dreamscape, when morning dawned, she found her mother’s long-lost spellbook on her lap, the velvet cover as soft and worn as she remembered, the mysterious words inside waiting to be read. But even in sleep, there was no reveling in the book’s delivery, as the torn-off hands of the unknown person who’d held it were still attached when it was so violently summoned. As the fingers twitched, blood seeped into her skirts, and Fia screamed silently, wanting to undo what she’d promised herself not to regret, until she wasn’t silent any longer.

Birdsong poured from her mouth.

But this sound was real. Breaking the gauzy barrier between slumber and wakefulness, a soft trilling had sneaked into the dream, and it came from Rin, not from Fia. It carried her from the nightmare on quick wings.

She opened her eyes to a filmy darkness—the fire in the hearth down to embers, the curtains still drawn, the remnants of the nightmare fading in the wake of Rin’s cheerful notes so close to her ear. Sometime in the night, the bird must have flown down from the frame to nest in her hair, seeking a place of comfort and familiarity. He sat on her head now, settled in the messy strands.

Good thing Fia had shut Finnick in the kitchen or she might have woken to a scatter of feathers and a forever-silent songbird instead.

Except, Fia remembered with a frantic jolt, Penbrook relied on the cat to wake him!

Fia sprang up from the chair, sending Rin flying. The small black bag still dangled from her wrist, its weight evidence that The Book of Ribs hadn’t attempted an escape. Without thinking, she let it slip from her arm, wholly consumed with another worry.

Penbrook lay on the sofa, unmoving.

In the night, he hadn’t changed position and rested there still on his side, the hand she’d once held pressed against his cheek.

Was he breathing?

Fia hurried toward him and rolled him onto his back. He tipped over easily, his hair dashed to the side. “Penbrook?”

He made no response, not even when she raised her voice and spoke his name more urgently. Not even when she pinched his hand as she’d done so many times before.

She fell to her knees, bending her head to his chest, listening for breath and heart—and nearly cried with relief when she felt it beating, slow and lazy.

“Oh, Penbrook,” she said, gently shaking his shoulders, and then more roughly when he slept on. “Please wake up.” She gave him another pinch.

I’d wake to something softer than that, he’d said to her once.

And she’d heard the teasing in his voice, and the sincerity. It was there, within everything he said, and she didn’t know why that made her so suddenly nervous.

She touched his cheek, her thumb inadvertently brushing the corner of his lip, and it was soft, and his feathery breaths were charmed sweet like her own, and she felt more nervous still.

Much softer.

“Do I have your permission?” she asked, and she knew that she did. That he’d already given it.

Fia leaned closer, the air between them honeyed and warm, and she whispered into his ear for him to wake up. Her voice had gone trembly; her head felt light at the thought of bridging the delicate distance between them. So very carefully, she placed her lips to his cheek, a chaste morning kiss.

She didn’t see how it could possibly wake him. How he could feel the gentle, barely there touch.

Yet Penbrook stirred.

With the slightest turn of his head, his mouth grazed hers, an accidental meeting that felt like it was meant to be more. His eyes blinked open, their faces so near, and his hand came to her arm, inviting her to stay in his space.

Fia let her lashes fall heavy. Let her lips press more sweetly to his, and he rose by the slightest degree, angling toward her as if they still weren’t close enough. Without his hand on her arm, she might have tipped over. Her knees were weak in the most wonderful way. Those enchanted butterflies she’d once worn in her hair, they might have been dancing in her chest. Everything within her felt aflutter.

She had never wanted to hold on to someone more tightly than him, and to be held in return, caught up in this fragile bubble—yet she pulled back with a fractured breath. If she fell any harder, she’d break when he was gone.

“Oh,” she said, touching her lips, though she’d rather have touched his again.

A flicker of uncertainty darkened his eyes, as if he didn’t know what to make of the kiss, or its abrupt ending.

Couldn’t he see her every nerve tingling beneath her skin? Fia reached for her gargoyle necklace, wondering why it was letting her feel like this—all flutter-hearted and silly.

“Fia,” he said, and she had to stop him from saying more.