That catches her. She blinks, tilts her head, and says softly, “You cook.”
“When I have to.”
“Did she teach you?”
“She taught me a great many things,” I say, keeping my tone even. “That recipe is one of the few I didn’t forget.”
The words land heavier than I expect, and before I can try to stop myself, I remember the way her hands looked dusted in flour, strong from work yet patient enough to roll dough thin and even.
She used to hum while she worked, not a song with words, just a tune that kept time with the scrape of the spoon or the rhythm of the knife. When I was young, she taught me how to make cookies on winter nights when the wind sounded too much like voices outside the walls.
I can still feel her guiding my hand on the wooden spoon, telling me not to rush the mixing, that care mattered more than speed, that anything worth sharing was worth doing properly. I have not baked a cookie in decades, but the smell of butter and sugar sometimes comes back when I least expect it, like a ghost that refuses to stay buried.
Her mouth quirks, but it’s not mockery. “Well, you did her proud tonight. It was exactly what I needed.”
I nod once, not trusting myself to say more. My mother’s shadow is not a thing I offer lightly, and I don’t know why I gave it to Clara of all people. But I don’t regret it. Not yet.
She tucks herself tighter into the quilt, her lashes lowering. “You’re still a tyrant,” she murmurs. “But at least you make good stew.”
The fire cracks, and she drifts closer to sleep, her words trailing off into something that doesn’t quite form. I stay where I am, steady and still, tending the flames when they need it. It’s what I know. I have always been good at keeping fires alive, whether they were in engines or hearths or my own chest when everything else wanted to snuff them out.
Midnight comes without a clock. I know the hour by the way the storm finds its rhythm, how the snow slams heavy against the shutters, how the timbers stop creaking and simply endure. Clara is asleep now, breathing deep and even, the blanket pulled high against her chin. The sharpness has left her features, leaving behind a softness that unsettles me more than any glare ever could. She looks younger like this. Not fragile, not weak, just… untouched by the weight she insists on carrying when she’s awake.
A strand of hair slips across her cheek, catching the glow of the fire. My hand moves before I can order it not to. I don’t reach fast, don’t reach with hunger, only with the simple impulse to brush it away. But my fingers stop just shy of her skin. I hover there, still as stone, and I remind myself of every lesson carved into me by harder winters than this. Comfort is not permission. Peace is not permanent. If I touch her now, I won’t be able to call it nothing later.
She stirs, sighs, and says my name. Not sharp, not laced with fury, just soft. Soft enough to feel like it belongs in another life. My chest tightens, my hand curls into a fist, and I set it back on the stone before the temptation ruins me.
I bank the fire again, the coals glowing red and patient. I lean back against the hearth, watching her shoulders rise and fall. And I realize, not for the first time tonight, that I am not afraidof the blizzard outside these walls. I am afraid of the quiet in this room, and what it does to me. She makes me feel something that looks too much like peace. And peace is a danger I was never taught to survive.
CHAPTER 9
CLARA
The fire doesn’t die with drama. It doesn’t roar or snap or spit one last shower of sparks like it’s trying to go out in style. It just fades, steady and stubborn, until the logs collapse inward and the glow becomes nothing more than red veins in the dark.
I sit up on the rug, pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, and try not to curse at the useless heap of ash that’s supposed to be keeping me alive. My breath fogs in front of my face, and the draft sneaks in around the window seams like it’s mocking me for believing this lodge could fight a blizzard on anything more than borrowed time.
Across the hearth, Dralgor stirs. He pushes himself up on one elbow, the shadows turning his face into something carved and serious. He doesn’t speak right away, and of course he doesn’t panic. He just studies the embers like he’s calculating their last ounce of worth, and when he finally looks at me, his voice is steady as steel.
“It won’t hold until morning.”
“No kidding,” I mutter, rubbing my hands together hard enough to make them sting. “We’re already losing ground.”
I try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out brittle. My toes are numb, my nose is cold, and the only thing keeping me from shaking is sheer stubbornness. I glance at the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth. It’s gone. Every last log burned down to nothing while the storm outside kept pounding the walls. I want to cry, but I’m too angry to waste the water.
I push to my feet, wrapping the blanket like armor. “I’ll check the shed. Maybe there’s more.”
He’s already standing before I take two steps, a wall of shadow and frost, his hand closing around my arm. “You won’t open that door. The drift’s over four feet, and the wind would take you off the porch before you made it to the shed.”
I jerk my arm free, glaring up at him even though he’s right. “So what’s your solution, then? Just sit here and wait to freeze?”
“I’ll manage,” he says simply. “You, on the other hand?—”
“I’m not made of glass, Veyr.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just watches me with that unreadable stare of his, like he’s weighing choices I can’t see. The silence stretches, the storm howls, and the cold sinks deeper into my bones until I can’t ignore the truth sitting between us.
The fire’s gone. The couch is too far from the chimney to hold heat. The only thing left with enough warmth to outlast the night is the bed upstairs. My grandmother’s bed.
