“You’re good at this,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Good at what?” he asks, his tone equally soft.
“Being here,” I say. “Like this.”
His hand stills for a moment, and I feel the tension ripple through him, subtle but there. Then he exhales, and his fingers resume their motion, slower this time. “I’m learning.”
I smile, my cheek pressing into his chest. “Keep practicing. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He doesn’t laugh, but I feel the faint rumble in his chest, a silent acknowledgment. And for now, that’s enough.
CHAPTER 29
CLARA
The lodge smells like cinnamon, cedar, and fresh bread. I don’t even have to open my eyes to know it. The air hums with voices, laughter spilling in from the common room, boots stomping snow off at the door, children squealing as they race each other to the hearth. The sound of it all is so thick and warm that for a split second, still tucked under quilts, I forget that once upon a time the only thing this place held was silence and ghosts.
I roll out of bed, tugging on my thick wool sweater, and tie my hair up as I pad down the hall. The wood floors creak, but not in the lonely way they used to; now it feels like the building is alive, like it’s stretching under the weight of so many feet.
In the dining room, every table is full. Travelers in bright scarves and worn mittens clutch mugs of steaming cocoa, their cheeks flushed from skiing, from sledding, from being alive out there in the wild ridge air. Lanterns glow overhead, enchanted to never smoke, and the windows are already fogged from the heat of so many bodies pressed close together.
Dee is behind the counter, harried as ever, waving a pencil like it’s a conductor’s baton. “Two more for the loft. Yes, the green quilts, not the plaid, don’t argue with me, I knowthe difference. Pippa, stop turning the marshmallows into snowflakes, I can’t keep fishing them out.”
Pippa ignores her entirely, swooping low with a bowl of sugar that sparkles brighter than it should. She’s tiny but she’s become the unofficial master of ambiance, charming every lantern and dusting everything with just enough glittering frost to make it look like a fairytale.
I lean against the doorframe, smiling like a fool. “This place used to groan when the wind shifted,” I say loud enough for Dee to hear. “Now it groans because you’re running it like a battlefield.”
Dee shoots me a look sharp enough to cut through a blizzard. “Better a battlefield than a graveyard.” Then she softens, just a little. “Don’t just stand there grinning, Clara, grab a tray.”
I do. Because this is what mornings look like now: work and chaos and too much cocoa powder on the counter. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
By midday, the common room empties out as guests scatter to the ridge trails, bundled into sleds and skis. I step out onto the porch, breath steaming in the cold, and watch the snow swirl. It’s the heavy kind, fat flakes tumbling slow, sticking in my hair and eyelashes. Once, it would have made me shiver with dread. Now, with the lodge humming behind me, it feels like a blessing.
The sound of boots crunching draws my attention, and there he is, striding up the path from the woodpile like he owns the mountain. Dralgor’s arms are full of firewood, his coat dusted with snow, his face set in that calm, stoic line that never fools me anymore. I see the way his eyes search for me first, always.
“You’re tracking half the ridge into my clean floors,” I call, smirking.
“They’re our floors,” he answers, voice low and even, but I hear the faintest edge of a smile under it. He sets the wood downby the door, straightens, and brushes his hands clean. “And they’re stronger than they were. They can bear it.”
“Like us, then.”
That earns me one of his rare, real smiles. The kind that starts small and ends with his eyes crinkling, like he doesn’t know how to stop it. My stomach flips just as hard as it did the first time.
In the afternoon, tourists filter back, cheeks pink, boots wet, their laughter shaking the rafters. I move through it all with a tray in hand, chatting, teasing, pointing people toward board games and the fire. Dralgor moves differently, quieter, steadier. Where I dart, he anchors. Where I banter, he listens. They trust him even if they don’t know why—something about the way he carries himself, the way he stands like nothing could topple him.
Later, when the guests drift off to their rooms, I find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted with flour. The sight nearly makes me laugh because this is a man who once signed papers to move mountains, and now he’s wrestling dough like it insulted his mother.
“Cookies again?” I ask, stepping beside him.
“She would’ve liked it,” he says simply.
I know he means his mother. The one he lost, the one who taught him about hearthfires and dough, who left scars deeper than the ones on his skin. I reach out and dust flour from his forearm, and he doesn’t flinch. He only watches me, his eyes soft.
“Then she’d be proud,” I whisper.
We finish baking in silence, but it isn’t empty. It’s full, like everything else now.
That night, the town comes for the party. Farewell-to-winter was weeks ago, but Silverpine doesn’t care about calendars. They’ll celebrate anything if it means music, cider, and firelight. Musicians set up in the corner, fiddles sawing fast, drumsbeating low. The square outside glows with lanterns strung from tree to tree, snow packed down by boots dancing until the stars come out.
