cobblestones in a synchronized rhythm. I’d never walked with him like that. Never stood beside him or talked to him anywhere except on the Lark or in his post. People watched us as we passed, and I wondered if they could see him in me or me in him. If there was some visible echo between us that told people who we were. It felt strange. It felt good.
For the first time in my life I wasn’t hiding, and neither was he.
He stopped beneath the swinging sign of a tavern and opened the door before we both ducked inside.
The barkeep stood up from the stool where he was writing in the ledgers and tightened the straps of his apron. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Saint echoed, helping himself to a small table before the largest window. It looked out over the street, just the way he liked. “Pot of tea, please.”
I took the seat beside him, unbuttoning my jacket and setting my elbows onto the table. He said nothing, watching out the window with squinted eyes as the gold light swelled behind the glass. He wasn’t the awkward knot of tension that he’d always been.
When the barkeep set down a plate of toast, Saint picked up a knife and carefully spread it with butter.
It was an easy silence. A comfortable one. All the questions I ever wanted to ask him swirled in my head, spinning so fast that I could hardly untangle them from one another. But they never found their way to my tongue. Suddenly, it seemed, I didn’t need to ask them. Suddenly, none of it mattered.
A blue porcelain teapot landed between us and the barkeep set down two cups and saucers, taking care to straighten them so they lined up neatly. When he was satisfied, he left us with a dutiful nod.
I picked up the pot and filled Saint’s cup first. The steam from the black tea curled up before him. He was most familiar that way, concealed behind some kind of veil. Never fully in focus.
“I was afraid yesterday that you wouldn’t show.” I slid the saucer toward him.
He picked up the spoon beside his plate and stirred his tea slowly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”
“No,” I answered as I realized it.
Some part of me had known he’d come. And I wasn’t sure why, because I had no reason to trust him.
In my entire life, Saint had never told me that he loved me. He’d fed me, clothed me, and given me a home, but there were limits to how much of him belonged to me. Still, even in those years on Jeval, there was some cord that tied me to my father. That made me feel like he was mine. And that’s what I’d held onto in those minutes, watching the doors of the pier and waiting for him to walk through them.
“It took some doing, getting the logs from the harbor master,” he said as an explanation.
I remembered the streak of blood on his throat. “How’d you get it?”
“You really want to know?”
I leaned back into my chair. “Not really.”
He was quiet as he sipped his tea. The cup looked so small in his hand, the blue paint catching the light and flashing along the rim. He reached into his pocket before he set a folded parchment onto the table. “Your license.”
I stared at it for a moment, half-afraid to touch it. As if it would vanish the moment I read the words. Again, the urge to cry coiled tight in my throat.
“That night.” His voice pierced the silence, but he didn’t look up at me. “I’m not sure how I lost her.”
I straightened and the cup shook in my hand. I set it down.
“She was there one moment, and then…” He breathed. “A squall came over the ship and Isolde was just gone.”
I didn’t miss that he said her name. I didn’t miss the way it sounded on his voice. Like prayer. It threaded through my heart, the stitches pulling tight.
“I didn’t leave you on Jeval because I don’t love you.”
“Saint.” I tried to stop him.
But he ignored me. “I left you there because—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” He looked up then, the blue in his eyes rimmed in red. “I left you there because I have never loved anything in my life like I love you. Not Isolde. Not the trade. Nothing.”
The words seared, filling the tavern and wrapping around me so tight I couldn’t draw breath. They crushed me until I was taking some strange