12. Aslan
TWELVE
ASLAN
She falls asleep fast. Faster than I expected, given the night—girls’ night at Anouk’s, apparently, judging by the state of her when I collected her from the apothecary and walked her home through streets gone quiet with mist.
I hear her breathing even out from the couch below her room. Twelve feet and a staircase between us, and it might as well be nothing. I can hear everything. The shift of blankets. The soft sound she makes that isn’t quite a snore and would offend her deeply if I ever mentioned it.
I don’t sleep.
I tell myself it’s the assignment. Vigilance. The Preservers haven’t made a move in days, which in my experience means they’re close to making one.
That’s half true. The other half is that I like listening to her sleep more than I’ve liked anything in five years, and I’m not in a hurry to close my eyes on it.
My phone stays dark. No word from Elio, no word from Caius, just the ordinary sounds of a shop full of crystals humming to themselves in the dark like they’re keeping their own kind of watch.
Shadow’s bowl sits untouched by the door—force of habit, some part of her still setting it out even though he can’t use it yet. I refill it anyway before I settle back onto the couch. Small vigilance. The kind that doesn’t show up in any report.
Somewhere near dawn I let myself close my eyes, just for a moment, and dream—actually dream, the first time in longer than I want to examine—of a version of this that doesn’t end when the Preservers are dealt with.
A version where I’m still on this couch, or better, upstairs, for reasons that have nothing to do with duty.
Her phone buzzes at seven. Mine follows a half-second later.
Elio. Which means the quiet is over.