Chapter 11 Mav #2
Saints help me. I knew in that moment I would give anything to see that look again.
“What is this place?”
“A printing press,” I said. “You’ll like it, princess.”
“Still not a princess,” Quinn rebuffed, clearly expecting the smug reply already half-formed on my tongue. She stepped closer, feather-light, and watched the printer set type into a metal tray. “Letters?”
“Movable ones,” I said. “They coat them in ink and press them into the paper. Whole books can be printed in days instead of years. No scribes. No monks. Just craft and ingenuity.”
She let out a rush of breath as if she’d been holding it for a hundred years. Maybe she had.
One of the apprentices looked up at her, and his mouth fell open, likely stunned by the walking contradiction in front of him.
“Would they mind if I…” She trailed off, motioning toward the press.
The man glanced at me. I shrugged. “She won’t break anything.”
Quinn added softly, “Please.”
It was the “please” that did it—the small, reverent note in her voice transformed the shop into a chapel and the press a reliquary. Who were they to deny her this miracle of discovery?
“Sure,” he said, guiding her around the side. “Careful! Watch your hands near the gears.”
She nodded and joined him. I stood back, arms folded, trying not to look like I was staring too hard.
She watched him ink the letters, observed the whole process from tray to lever.
Then he handed her the inking roller. Her whole face lit up.
She worked the press as if it might vanish if she blinked, careful but delighted.
When the page came out clean and sharp, bearing the raised imprint of words, she looked at it like it held a secret only she could read.
And I—
I didn’t know how to explain the ache that hit my chest right then.
Because it wasn’t the press. It wasn’t the page. It was her—Quinn—smiling like she’d cracked open a new universe. Ink stained her fingers and smudged her cheekbone. She turned to me and held up the page she’d made, presenting her treasure.
“Is it not the most marvelous creation? Can they make these all the time?”
“Thousands,” I said. “Every week.”
Her smile could’ve split stone. “It is truly magic.”
I found myself smiling back. Couldn’t stop. “Told you you’d like it.”
But the truth was, I liked it far more.
You’re in trouble, Bassiano.
We stepped out of the printshop and into the hush of early evening. People bustled past as merchants closed up stalls, and children chased the fading light.
Beside me, Quinn was smiling. The kind of smile that tugged behind my ribs. A smear of ink sat below her cheekbone, stark against her pale skin.
“You, uh, have something there.”
Before I thought better of it, I reached out. My fingers held her jaw, soft and careful, and I used my thumb to sweep the smudge away. Her skin was warm, as if she’d been storing sunshine and magic beneath its surface.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Only for a second.
But that second stretched—quiet, suspended, unbearably close.
My hand still rested on her cheek. She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t shy from my touch. And Saints, I didn’t want to move.
I wanted to memorize the look on her face—peaceful, unguarded, like the whole world had gone silent and she was finally breathing without weight.
I wanted to trace every line of her expression.
I wanted—
I cleared my throat and jerked back. “Just ink,” I mumbled.
Her eyes opened slowly. She nodded, the faintest blush rising on her cheeks. “Thank you.”
I jammed my hands into my jacket pockets, like that would stop them from wanting to touch her again.
It wouldn’t.
Not even close.
Because the truth was—I liked her smile. I liked her voice. I liked the way she looked at the world like it might still surprise her, even after all this time.
And I wanted to touch her again.
Thistle’s voice cut through the quiet before I saw her. “There you are. Thought maybe you’d run off together and eloped without us.”
I turned to see her approaching, arms full of bundled supplies—bedrolls, oilskin packs, what looked suspiciously like a bag of sweet pear crisps poking from the top of one satchel.
Vesper balanced like a shadow on her shoulder, tail flicking with feline disdain.
Branrir trailed behind, juggling a long map tube under one arm and a bundle of supplies under the other.
Vesper gave me a once-over and sighed theatrically. “You’re still brooding. I was hoping a shopping trip might cure you.”
“Guess your standards are too high,” I said, adjusting the pack of Quinn’s purchases on my shoulder.
“Or your emotional growth is too slow,” the cat replied, already preening.
Beside me, Quinn exhaled a soft laugh, but she didn’t meet my eyes.
Good. Because I wasn’t sure what mine would give away if she did.
The blush from earlier lingered on her cheeks, the same way the ghost of her skin lingered on my fingertips.
I could still feel the shape of her jaw, the warmth of her face.
Still saw the way her lashes dipped low when she leaned into my hand without hesitation.
Suddenly, two weeks had never felt so short.
Branrir stepped forward, oblivious. “We’ve got enough supplies for a week on the road. Going to stash most of it back at the shop, then I suggest dinner. I passed an alehouse that doesn’t smell like boiled socks, which, frankly, is a rare find in this town.”
Thistle elbowed him. “That’s glowing praise, coming from you.”
“Accuracy is kindness,” he sniffed.
I glanced over at Quinn. She caught the look this time. Held it for a beat longer than necessary.
“Dinner sounds good,” she said.
And it did. Not because I was hungry. But because anything that gave me another hour beside her—another hour to try and make sense of the impossible thing unfolding between us—felt like the only thing I knew how to want anymore.