“Miss Izzie, are you okay?” Emmalyn’s concern is touching.
“Fine. Just demonstrating what happens when you don’t pay attention to your footwork.”
Mal’s soft laugh reaches me from across the room, and I know he saw. I know he knows exactly why I faltered.
Three hundred and fifty years old, I remind myself. An actual demon with contract complications and an uncertain future.
But my heart doesn’t seem interested in the reminder.
Class ends at three. Parents collect their children, shower me with compliments about their babies’ progress, and shoot curious glances at Mal. He handles the attention gracefully, deflecting questions about his relationship to the studio with vague charm.
“He’s helping with the showcase,” I explain to Jennifer, who seems particularly determined to categorize him.
“The one in September?”
“Yes.”
“My sister-in-law is on the planning committee. She says there are a lot of contestants this year.” Jennifer’s eyes narrow slightly. “Must be serious, whatever you two are working on.”
“Very serious,” Mal agrees, appearing at my elbow. “Isadora is an exacting taskmaster.”
“I prefer ‘demanding perfectionist.’“
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Jennifer looks between us with the expression of a woman who knows she’s missing something but can’t quite figure out what. Finally, she collects Amelia and heads out, leaving Mal and me alone in the suddenly quiet studio.
The silence stretches.
“You’re good with the children,” I say finally.
“Tiny humans are underrated.” He shrugs. “They haven’t learned to hide yet. Everything’s on the surface. Refreshing, after centuries of navigating adult deceptions.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Navigating deceptions?”
He meets my eyes. “Fewer than you might think, these past weeks.”
I want to ask what that means. I want to push, to understand exactly where the lines of his honesty fall.
“I was thinking about dinner,” I say instead.
“Always an excellent thing to think about.”
“At my place. Tonight.” My heart hammers against my ribs. “If you’re free.”
Something shifts in his expression. The playful mask slips, just for a moment, revealing the hope underneath.
“I’m free.”
“Good.” I turn away, busying myself with tidying the speakers. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“Isadora.”
His voice stops me. I turn back.
He’s standing in the middle of my studio, sunlight streaming through the windows and catching the edges of his hair. He looks human. Entirely, completely human. But I know better now.
“You’re a remarkable person.” He says it simply, without his usual dramatic flair. “I want you to know that. Whatever happens with the contract, whatever decisions you make, however this ends—you’re remarkable. And I’m grateful for every moment you’ve given me.”
