Chapter 8 Quinn
QUINN
Only the occasional pop of a stubborn ember troubled the hush, scattering sparks across the dimming hearth. From the kitchen, Mav and Thistle’s voices drifted in low, unhurried tones. Perhaps they spoke of provisions. Perhaps of me.
It was not my place to ask.
I sat with my legs folded under me on a lopsided settee. The fabric beneath my fingertips was coarse and sun-faded, patterned with a dozen careful thread repairs. Someone, Thistle I presumed, had loved it enough to keep mending it, even as time urged it toward surrender.
The room felt lived in, the sort of place that had outlasted seasons and wars, outlived lovers and grief. This chamber and I had much in common. It was rare to feel at home in a place newly discovered; rarer still to feel held by a mutual resilience.
A soft creak from the floor drew my gaze downward. Vesper, the sleek black cat, padded into the room and sprang lightly onto an armchair, his spine unfurling in a sinuous arch before he settled.
“Cold night,” he observed, wrapping his tail about his legs.
My mouth parted unbidden. Creatures with the faculty of speech were not unheard of, but this feline was the first I had personally encountered. The smooth voice issuing from his whiskered mouth remained a source of surprise. Ashamed of my rudeness, I closed my lips and inclined my head toward him.
“Quite.” I set my teacup down upon a wobbling, lace-draped table. “My apologies for not introducing myself earlier. I am—”
“Lady Quinnève Liogenoriggia.” He turned luminous green eyes upon me. “I heard. And you already know I’m Vesper.”
A courteous smile found my lips. “If I may, how long have you and Thistle been familiars?”
“Thirty years or so.”
“Forgive me.” My brows knit. “Is that not a rather generous lifespan for a…cat?”
His tail whipped back and forth in what I presumed to be amusement. “I’m no ordinary cat.”
He offered nothing further for a time, attention fixed upon the fire.
“I used to burn,” he said at last. “Not like this.” His paw waved lazily toward the dying flames. “Proper burning. Celestial.”
“How do you mean?”
“I was a star,” he said, whiskers lifting in a sad, private smile. “I hung in the firmament for millennia…until I fell.”
It may have been foolishness on my part, but I was inclined to take him at his word. A peculiar depth lived in those bright eyes. They were far too luminescent for this world; everything else dulled in comparison.
“I believe you,” I said, scarcely above a breath. “You look as though you remember.”
The affirmation earned me pause, a slow blink, and a grin.
“Most don’t,” he said. “But I suspect you and I share this fate—being believed less often than we deserve.” He lowered his head to his forepaws. “Do you remember?”
I drew my knees closer. “Memory is a fickle mistress. There are faces and hours I would willingly forget that haunt me. Others I would ransom any sum to recollect, yet they fade.”
“What do you wish you remembered?”
“In truth?” I glanced aside, shying from the sharpness of his gaze.
“My mother’s face. Her perfume warmed by her skin.
The timbre of my father’s laugh. The rich sweetness of the dewberry pie my grandmother baked during the winter solstice.
The feeling of being…home. Of having one to begin with.
” A thread had escaped the cushion; I twined it absently.
“Perhaps it is childish to long for such things.”
Vesper shook his head. “It’s not. If I learned anything in my thousands of years watching from the heavens, it’s that life is an accumulation of small, meaningful things.”
Silence settled. The fire cracked faintly, as though reluctant to be forgotten.
“Does Mav know?” Vesper asked, licking one paw with studied indolence.
“Know what?”
Those bright eyes fastened upon mine. “That you’re a Twilight.”
Icy terror spilled through my limbs. My heart stumbled. “I…how did you—”
“Relax, I’m not going to say anything to Thistle, though she’ll probably figure it out. And I can smell it on you.”
A sigh escaped my lips. “Thank you for your discretion. I promise you I am no threat to anyone.”
A crackling laugh. “I didn’t think you were. But you did tell him, right? There’s no way that affable idiot would figure it out otherwise, and he should know that he’s aiding and abetting a criminal.”
Choosing to ignore the barb delivered at Mav’s expense, I nodded. “He knows. And my only crime was being born with a certain gift.” My brows creased. “You said you could smell it on me. Magic gifts have scents?”
“Obviously. It’s stronger for higher-order magical gifts.”
“Indulge me.”
He appeared put-upon, but obliged with a huff.
“Tether smells like a forge—molten metal. Tempest is the air after rain. Tremor is stone on a hot day. Time is cedar and citrus. Twilight is my favorite: lavender, vanilla, and sun-warmed linen.” He stood, arching his back in a stretch.
“I’d recognize it anywhere. I knew the moment you walked through the door. I haven’t smelled a Twilight in ages.”
I supposed there were far worse scents one could be associated with. Curiosity got the better of me, and the question spilled out before I could rein it in. “Do you know if Mav is gifted?”
A wicked grin curved Vesper’s mouth. “Ah, he’s embarrassed to talk about that, but I can’t tell you. He’s threatened to skin me alive on multiple occasions if I told people. I’d wager revealing that secret to the woman he fancies would not turn out well for me.”
A scoff slipped through my lips. “Mav does not fancy me,” I said, shaking my head. “He is merely stuck with me for the present.”
Vesper offered a swift series of blinks before his ears flicked toward the hall. I turned, sensing him before I saw him. Mav stood just beyond the arch, shoulder braced to the frame, arms folded loosely. He made no pretense of not watching, yet he did not enter.
“We made dinner,” he said, hazel eyes finding mine. “If you’ll join us?”
Vesper walked forward, pausing to peer up at him. “Wait, when you say we…”
Mav rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Thistle didn’t leave me unsupervised.”
The feline, seemingly satisfied by the clarification, strode past.
Thistle’s kitchen sloped left, as though weary of standing upright.
The table at its center bore one short leg compensated by several books.
Copper pans dangled from a ceiling rack, chiming with each draft from the open windows.
Bundles of drying herbs hung as nature’s chandeliers.
The scent—herb and blossom mingled with earthy, rich notes was intoxicating.
“Sit,” Thistle commanded, brandishing a wooden spoon. “Don’t make me enchant the chairs to chase you.”
Mav lifted his hands in surrender and dropped into one of the mismatched seats.
I took the place beside him. Thistle hummed to herself as she ladled a thick stew into bowls—no two alike.
Vesper leaped onto a plush chair with the entitled grace of one never denied; he curled his tail and watched with imperious eyes.
“There’d better be cream,” he said.
“There’s stew,” Thistle replied without turning.
He made an offended sound somewhere between a hiss and a grumble.
A dish of roasted squash followed the stew. Then came a basket of bread, its linen cover charmed to keep it warm. The final flourish was a pitcher of glowing cordial tinged with the silver-pink sheen of moonfruit.
My eyes swept over the spread. “Thistle, this is beautiful, but I fear you have put yourself to too much trouble.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Thistle said, pouring cordial into a collection of goblets. “Which means we survived Monday. That deserves celebration.”
I smiled at her logic. The fare was humble, yet every bite carried the manner of magic only homemade meals were capable of—nourishment layered with intention and seasoned with care.
“I have been meaning to ask,” I began between sips of the moonfruit cordial. “How did the two of you meet?”
Thistle paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Her dark eyes flitted to Mav.
He shifted in his seat. “She’s patched me up more times than I can count.”
“Which is to say,” Thistle added, “he has a gift for being stabbed in inconvenient places and finding himself at the wrong end of a fist.”
Mav gave her a look. “You say that like it’s always my fault.”
“You tried to duel a man with three blades and no sense.”
“A tactical miscalculation.”
Thistle snorted softly. “We met when we were both stationed near the Cliffs of Balforte, during one of the quieter wars.”
“I don’t think it was ever officially declared a war. If anything, it was a petty border dispute for control of the Lithen Strait.” He shook his head, tongue pressed to his front teeth. “Two years of bickering to end up with exactly the same treaty we started with.”
Thistle patted his arm. “Regardless, he was younger then, still pretending to be invincible. I was mending soldiers with Hedgework alongside a cadre of Hands.”
I nodded, sensing the shift in the air. The laughter thinned, leaving something gentler in its wake. “I am glad you were there.”
Thistle regarded me for a long, considering moment. She dipped her chin once before resuming her meal. Mav’s shoulders had relaxed. His smile was less guarded. There was a lightness to him here that I had not seen before.
“So,” Thistle said, a grin curling, “are you two bound magically and romantically? Or is that still being negotiated?”
Mav choked on a crust of bread.
I sipped my cordial without blinking.
“Too soon for that joke?” Thistle asked.
“Too late,” Mav coughed. “Damage done.”
“I merely meant—”
“You never merely mean anything,” he grumbled.
I lowered my glass, fighting a smile. Thistle’s teasing had affected Mav more than I had anticipated. Down the tether came a flutter of emotions: embarrassment and a surprising dash of something too near to longing.