It filled her with an inexplicable sadness. Thanks to her quick temper, Wren had never exactly been tactful. Her feelings were often so intense, so sudden, they were alien to her. How could she respond to him properly? How could she express this feeling that welled up when she hardly understood it herself? No one had prepared her for this. He was her nation’s greatest enemy, and he had saved her life. On the surface of her muddled feelings about Hal Cavendish, however, was something simple and something true. Something impossible.

Before she could think it through, she was opening her mouth. “It’s as you said. You’re worth more than what you can do. I don’t care about that Goddess-forsaken magic of yours. I care about you.”

Hal stared at her as if she’d struck him across the face. Her cheeks heated uncomfortably. “You care about me.”

“Yes.” She wanted to lie down and die of humiliation, but she managed to stand up straighter. “What of it?”

Hal glanced away. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“When have I ever pretended to be wise?”

Slowly, the wounded shock on his face melted into an emotion she couldn’t quite place. “Then heal my eyes if you can. I need to ensure you’re…”

Her heart fluttered in anticipation. “I’m what?”

“You’re … sufficiently covered,” he offered. “So our mission remains uncompromised.”

“Oh. Of course.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, wincing at the disappointment in her voice. “Your magic is a last resort. Only if I fail, and only if we’re attacked.”

“Only as a last resort,” he agreed.

She cleared her throat when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Well, then. We should do it now.”

Hal nodded. She was still leaning against the door, painfully aware of the scant inches between them. “Where would you like me?”

Right now? Far, far away. She waved a hand in the direction of an armchair. “Sit. Get comfortable.”

He picked his way across the room, frustratingly slow, and chose an armchair by the window. As she came closer, every creak of the floorboards reminded her of this painfully significant silence. Or maybe the thickening of the air was only in her imagination.

Moonlight traced his features, and with his eyes half-closed, he was unreadable. Wren settled on the windowsill beside him. They’d been exactly here only last week. Him, struggling to button his shirt. Her, struggling to figure him out. Shoving aside the memory, Wren reached forward and rested her too-cold fingers against his temples. “Ready?”

“Yes.”