5. 4 #3
She slipped into the nightgown Ada had laid out, the fabric cool against her skin, and drifted toward the arched window. The sky beyond was a blur of cloud and darkness. No constellations, no guiding shapes. But she lifted her gaze anyway. He would hear her, even unseen.
Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees. The stone’s cold bite seeped through the thin cloth, grounding her. One deep breath steadied her trembling hands as she folded them together.
“Auren,” she whispered, eyes searching the dark sky as though it might answer.
“I’ve heard the stories—The Great Stag who forged The Old Ones’ alliance among the gods.
They say you rule passion, leadership … peace.
” The word caught in her throat. She drew in a shaky breath.
“I could use some of that. Peace. Guidance, while Meryth is silent. I’m”—a soft, broken laugh escaped her—“I’m lost without it. ”
Tears pricked, but she blinked them back, staring up at the faint shimmer of starlight as if it might steady her. For a long moment, she simply kneeled there. Breathing, hoping.
At last, she rose, the sigh leaving her like a small surrender. “That’s all, I think,” she whispered. “Oh, and if you see Meryth, tell her I said hi.”
She padded over to the large, plush bed, carefully easing in next to Ada.
Ada stirred with a sleepy hum. “Mabel … sorry, I must’ve drifted off. I’ll go.”
“Stay,” Mabel said, the word gentle, almost fragile. She didn’t lift her eyes.
Ada blinked fully awake, concern flickering behind her gaze. “Are you alright?”
There was a beat of silence before Mabel responded. “Just my father being cruel as always,” she whispered, the truth barely audible.
Ada didn’t press further. She simply nodded, kicked off her shoes, and slipped closer beneath the covers. Her hand found Mabel’s hair, smoothing it softly, as she had done since Mabel was a child—no words, just presence. Familiar. Steady.
Ada stayed close, her presence grounding. She watched as Mabel’s breathing began to slow, the tension gradually unwinding from her shoulders. With each gentle stroke of her fingers through Mabel’s hair, the worries of the day softened, fading into candlelight and silence.
Mabel’s eyes fluttered closed. Ada kept her gaze on her friend, listening to the steady rhythm of sleep take hold.
She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stayed beside her, protecting the peace that had finally found its way in.
Night folded quietly around them, its hush deep. Ada felt the pull of sleep begin to settle into her bones. With a soft sigh, she eased closer, her arm instinctively draping over Mabel in a gesture threaded with protection and love.
They slept like that—two figures tangled in comfort and sisterhood—until morning cracked gently through the arched windows. Pale light spilled across the floor, creeping over blankets and tangled curls.
Mabel stirred first, blinking against the soft rays. Her skin was flushed, breath heavy from the dream that had forced her from sleep. She stretched beneath the covers, and turned her gaze to Ada still nestled beside her, mouth slightly parted in sleep.
A smile spread across Mabel’s face, grateful. In a world where so much felt delicate and uncertain, Ada’s presence was a steady kind of magic.
Mabel rose with care, mindful of Ada’s rhythmic breathing beside her. She peeled back the blankets and slipped free, her feet meeting the cold stone with a soft thud. The chill climbed her spine, but she welcomed it. It felt honest, a contrast to the darkness she’d carried in her dreams.
She crossed the room on silent steps, the hem of her nightgown trailing against stone. At the window, she pressed her palms to the panes and eased them open. The morning air rushed in, crisp and silver-edged, brushing her cheeks and stirring her curls.
She stood there for a moment, letting it wake her fully, reminding her she was here, still unfolding.
But the morning air did little to cool the flush rising in her chest.
Mabel’s thoughts twisted, reluctant and fierce, toward the dreams that had invaded her sleep without permission. Her skin still remembered them—feverish, vulgar—ghosts of touches she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t wanted. Not really.
Skin against skin, hot and undignified.
Breath mingling, lips covering hers and more against her skin.
Hands everywhere. Hair, hips …
Lance.
Her jaw tightened as she stared through the window, breath steaming faintly against the chill. Rage flared behind her ribs—at her mind, at the betrayal of her own subconscious. How could it conjure such shameless imagery? That man’s mouth on her skin, her name curling on his tongue like sin.
It was wrong. It was maddening.
“I asked for peace,” she grumbled toward the sky, shaking her head as her grip tightened on the sill.
But beneath the anger, something lingered. A sting of pleasure, the barest flicker that refused to die. And it made her pulse leap, traitorous and alive, before she could shove the memory down.
Her hand lifted, slowly, tracing along her arm as his hands had. Her eyes felled closed. A shiver ran down her spine. It was as though her body remembered his touch, even if he’d never laid a finger on her.
Maybe it was wrong. But it was only a dream.