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Of course she does.
“We can separate without destabilization,” she says.
“Good to know. I was worried I’d have to carry you around all day for medical reasons.”
Her eyes lift. “You would enjoy that too much.”
“I would complain constantly.”
“That was not a denial.”
“No, it was strategy.”
A sound from the passage outside the chamber cuts through the fragile warmth between us.
Both of us freeze.
The ward-lamp flickers, and I turn slightly, putting myself between Isolde and the door before I think better of it. She sees the movement and touches my sleeve once, a warning or reassurance, I am not sure which.
Footsteps descend beyond the maintenance gate.
Not guards moving with urgency. Not a demon’s wrong-footed glide. These are human steps, careful and uneven, accompanied by the faint scrape of a bucket handle against stone.
Isolde exhales quietly. “Mira’s ash runner.”
“Bren?”
“Yes.”
“He is coming here?”
“He knows the upper arcade. Not this chamber.”
A low voice grumbles beyond the gate. “If I die carrying secret notes for clever girls, I want it known I objected in principle.”
Isolde closes her eyes briefly. “That is Bren.”
I step away from the door, though the hunger stirs at the idea of anyone nearing her. It quiets when Isolde gives me one level look.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
“You are bristling.”
“I am bristling politely.”
“That is not a category.”
“It is now.”
She crosses to the gate and pulls it open far enough to peer out. “Bren.”
The old man nearly drops the bucket. “Sweet bleeding roots, girl. Don’t hiss from dark holes unless you want a shovel to the face.”
“I need the message.”
“I need a stronger drink and fewer nobles.”
“One of those may be arranged.”
