Author: Jodi Meadows

None of that explained why Sam had gone to the library in the middle of the night. If that was where he’d gone. Maybe he’d forgotten who his parents were this life, and just needed to look it up. I couldn’t imagine trying to keep track.

Swimming in thoughts, I drifted into unrestful sleep, though it was my first night in a real bed in a week—and my first night ever in a bed that had been repaired in the last hundred years. I should have tried to enjoy it, but I could only think about all the strange things that had happened since arriving in Heart—and about Sam.

In the morning, getting dressed took some work. Sam must have been taller than me as a woman, and bustier. A dress that probably fallen knee-length on him came to mid-calf on me. Using a small sewing kit in the desk, I adjusted the shoulders and took in places to account for my smaller endowments.

Clean clothes and a bath had done wonders. Nevertheless, my bones felt as if they creaked when I tiptoed downstairs and started a pot of coffee.

Sam’s kitchen was big—well, small compared to the parlor—with spacious stone counters along one side, and a rosewood table on the other. Though everything still had a delicate appearance, it was probably hundreds of years old, and very sturdy.

The back door revealed several outbuildings for cavies and chickens, a small greenhouse, and storage sheds. Sunrise here was . . . different. The sky lit up first, along with the treetops, and it seemed forever before the rays slanted over the wall. More watery, less honey golden. Another something-not-quite-right about Heart.

If Sam hadn’t gasped, I wouldn’t have heard him in the kitchen doorway behind me. I spun to see him staring, like he hadn’t expected to find me still here. Or— It was hard to tell. I still couldn’t interpret his expressions well.

“What?” I pretended I’d assumed something different entirely. “Surprised I know how to make coffee? I watched you do it enough.”

That seemed to snap him out of the stupor. “Not at all.” He shuffled toward the coffeepot, rubbing his cheek. His skin was smooth now, newly shaven, and it made him appear younger. “The light caught your hair. It looked red, like flame.”

That was a weird thing for him to say, and not necessarily good or bad. Why couldn’t he just speak in ways I’d understand?

I shut the door and leaned against it while he poured coffee for both of us, adding generous spoonfuls of honey. Then he handed a mug to me as if we did this every morning.

But in reality, all our mornings—until we began the walk to Heart—had been him feeding me and helping me wash.

I’d told him about my infatuation with Dossam. With him.

I gulped down coffee, hoping if he noticed my cheeks were red, he’d assume it was my drink. All the times he helped me clean up, take care of embarrassing things—and there I’d been hoping he would kiss my forehead last night.

I thudded onto the nearest chair. Sam followed, only the length of the table between us. He kept his face down, but I could half see him watching me through dark strands of hair. When he noticed that I wasn’t fooled, he turned his gaze out the window so light poured across his skin.

I wanted to ask where he’d gone last night. Instead, my words came out, “You look pensive,” like my mouth was saving me at the last second. If he’d been sneaking, I wasn’t supposed to know.

His scowl deepened. “How can you tell?”

“You get a wrinkle. Right here.” I dragged my forefinger between my eyes. “If you keep at it, your face will stick that way.” I pressed my hands over my mouth, a traitor after all. “Guess wrinkles don’t matter to you.”

He sipped his coffee.

“And now you’re thinking too hard about how to respond to my stupidity. Have to be polite, don’t you?”

“You’re really aggressive this morning. Coffee makes you mean.” He leaned back in his chair, wood creaking as his weight shifted. “Or did I do something offensive?”

“No, I’m just annoyed.” I stood and crossed my arms. “I said something stupid, and you didn’t even react. You don’t care. You’re too calm, even when you should be mad or happy.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Too calm?”

“Yes!” I stalked around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at him; he’d only make it worse. “When something happens, you sit back and ponder it. You don’t act.”

“Eventually I do.” His tone shifted, lightened like he enjoyed taunting me. “So you don’t think you’re just impulsive?”

I halted, glared. “Impulsive?”

“You know the word, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He really thought I was stupid, didn’t he?

“It’s just,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken, “you’re so young and sometimes I forget what you do and don’t know.”

My chest hurt, like he’d hit me square against the heart.

I spun and marched toward the back door. Sam lurched to his feet and caught my wrist, my waist, and even though his grip was gentle, I didn’t have the energy to wrestle away.

“See? Impulsive.” He smiled and didn’t loosen his hold. “But I didn’t mean to push so hard.”

I bit my lip, trying to catch up. Always trying to catch up. “So you didn’t mean that?”

“Oh, I absolutely did. But not,” he added as I drew back, “the part about you knowing words. I only meant the impulsive part.”

“I’m a passionate person, that’s all.”

His mouth turned up in a sly smile.

“If I only get one life, I don’t want to waste it by hesitating.” I stepped away from him, and his hands slid off my hips. “After all, Sam, when was the last time you gave in to your passions?”

“Every time I play music or write a new melody.”

“What about the last time you did something that scared you?” I shook my head. “I mean, not rescuing drowning girls or saving them from sylph. Something else. Something actually scary.”

He wore the thinking line again, long enough to make me wonder about all the secrets he wouldn’t tell me. The secrets were his real fears, and whatever he said next would be to humor me.

“Last night,” he whispered. “When you saw everything in the parlor and I played for you.”

As if someone like him got nervous about playing music for a nosoul. “You already knew how I felt about music. What about something you didn’t know you were perfect at, or how it would be received?” I stepped close to him, so close my neck hurt from keeping his gaze, and so close I could feel heat from his body. “When was the last time you were impulsive, Sam?”

I willed him to know what I wanted, focused so hard on it that for a moment I believed he was already kissing me. I didn’t care where he’d been last night, or that he’d pulled back from kissing my forehead. If he kissed me now . . . He hadn’t told me he was Dossam until he could show me properly. This could be like that, if he felt anything for me. His expression was something I imagined mirrored mine.

For that moment, standing so close I could practically hear his heartbeat, I wanted nothing as much as I wanted him to kiss me.

The light shifted, and so did something in his eyes. Decision. One that made him lean away from me, and lower his gaze.

“Sam?” I turned away as my vision blurred. “You think too much.”

“I know.”

Chapter 11

Dance

WE STOOD IN the middle of the kitchen without speaking for what seemed like eons. The stinging in my eyes kept me staring at the coffee cups on the table, steam rising, and he probably knew it. If he’d had any decency, he’d excuse himself to use the washroom or something, give me a chance to beat my embarrassment into submission.

I’d thought— Well, with the way he’d touched my arm last night, I’d thought this was my chance to find out whether he saw me as more than a butterfly.

Maybe I already had.

The front door opened and closed, and footsteps sounded through the parlor. Quickly, I chafed my fingertips under my eyes. Stupid tears. Stupid Sam. I could still feel echoes of his hands on my hips.

“Dossam?” A melodic, feminine voice came from the parlor, and she stopped in the doorway. Tall, slim, with perfect blond hair that framed her suntanned face. An ankle-length dress clung to her curves, making me extra aware of how my dress didn’t fit me right in the bust and waist. “I’d heard you came back early, and with a friend.” Her smile glanced off me and hit Sam as she sauntered into the kitchen, synthetic silk swishing around her legs.

He hugged her and kissed her cheek like nothing had just happened. Almost happened. No, actually, nothing had happened. “Stef, this is Ana.”

She was older than us, with a delicate web of lines around her eyes and mouth from years of smiling. My cheeks burned from thinking about kissing him earlier, and the easy way he stood beside her now. They made a gorgeous pair.

“Hello,” I managed. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Sam’s best friend, creator of the SED and other electronics, and well-beloved troublemaker who spent a fair amount of time picking prison locks after the latest hijinks gone wrong. It might be wrong to hate Stef because she was a woman this time around, but seeing Sam embrace her like he wouldn’t me—

I didn’t care.

Before I could stop her, she’d wrapped her arms around me and kissed my cheek, too. “Is something wrong, dear? You’re a little red around the eyes.”

“No, nothing. Just a long night.” I retreated toward my coffee. The kitchen had suddenly shrunk. Stef’s presence filled the room, leaving no space for anyone else.

“I bet I know.” Stef glided toward the cupboard and coffeepot to help herself. “Did Sam step on your foot?”

“What?”

She winked at me. “I have stories to tell you, Ana. All the times he stepped on my feet? You’ll either get used to Sam’s gracelessness, or give up dancing altogether.”

Sam echoed my question. “What are you talking about?”

“You were teaching her how to dance, weren’t you? Isn’t that why you were both standing in the middle of the kitchen while your coffee gets cold?” She took a sip from her mug, eyebrows raised. “I assumed this had something to do with Tera and Ash’s rededication coming up.”

“Oh, that. Right.” Sam slid back into his chair with his coffee. Dark hair half covered his eyes, and he had to shake his head to clear his vision. “Just a few weeks.”

Stef gave a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Yes. Which is why you were teaching Ana to dance. But clearly you were doing a terrible job. Look at her!”

They both looked at me.

I avoided Sam’s eyes. “It’s not his fault.” It was definitely his fault, but I had to lie because I didn’t actually know what kind of dancer he was. “I couldn’t do it right. My feet and head aren’t connected.”

Stef laughed and set her coffee on the counter again. “Of course they are. You just need the right teacher. Now, what was he trying to teach you?”

As if I had the smallest clue.

“Ah, I can see Sam didn’t even bother to tell you.” She winked again and turned to him. “Darling, go play some music. We’ll figure it out.”

He took one last drink of his coffee before abandoning it. “Be careful with her hands. They’re still healing.”

She took my wrist so quickly I didn’t have time to back away; her hands were smooth and cool, unlike mine, which felt sweaty. “So they are. Don’t worry, Dossam, I’ll be careful with her.” And then, when Sam left the room, she leaned close and murmured, “Don’t let him break your heart, sweetie. He never settles.”