"That'sbeautiful." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Sing it again."
He started once more, and she came in on the melody a few beats later, their voices braided together. His precision and her warm phrasing met in the middle.
She stared at him when it ended. He stared back.
"You could teach these songs to others," he said. "The festival has never had anything like your voice bridging traditions."
She went quiet.
"A choir. Ivy would join in a heartbeat," she said. "Ruby too, probably. I could build something for a dozen voices from a dozen worlds." Her eyes were focused somewhere past the window, seeing it. "A Frostfall choir."
She was still close enough for him to count the small gold earrings climbing her ear. Close enough that when she lifted her chin to test a phrase, her throat was inches from his mouth, and the line of her jaw caught the light in a way that made his pulse do something no Mentharian training manual had equipped him for.
She picked up her coffee from the edge of the piano, and the sheet music shifted. She reached for it at the same moment he did, and their fingers met over the same line of text. Her warm thumb rested against his cold fingers.
Neither of them pulled away.
Her warmth hit him like a struck chord. His body had no defense. Her thumb rested on his skin, and his truth-sense opened on the contact and read only her.
Frost crept along the edge of the sheet music. Delicate crystals formed on the paper beneath their joined hands, spiraling outward from the point of contact in lace-fine patterns.
He did not breathe. He did not move his hand.
Then his peripheral vision caught movement.
Someone was standing on the maintenance gantry that ran above the rehearsal space ceiling. That space had been closed to non-crew since the break-in of her dressing room. But there was a figure there, standing at the rail and looking down at them through the dark.
Thorne's hand left hers, and the frost on the sheet music cracked.
"Stay here."
He was on the gantry stairs in seconds. The metal rang under his boots. The figure did not run, but turned toward him with an open, cooperative expression and both hands visible. By the time Thorne reached the landing, he had already identified the face.
The journalist. The same man who had approached Phoebe on the path several evenings ago. His press credentials were visible on his coat, and an apologetic half-smile was on his face.
"Officer." The man took a step back from the rail. "I didn't realize this area was restricted. I'm working on a behind-the-scenes piece on the headliner experience. The production angle."
Every word passed Thorne's truth-sense as technically accurate. Still, none of it settled right.
The sentences were shaped too well. Each one was precisely true, while revealing nothing. The man wasn't lying; he was constructing.
"The area is restricted," he said. "Your backstage credentials do not extend to maintenance gantries. I will be revoking your backstage access pending review."
"Of course. I completely understand." The journalist raised both palms, still pleasant, still cooperative. "I apologize for the confusion. It won't happen again."
Every word rang true. And the man's eyes, as he passed Thorne on the narrow stairs, moved toward the rehearsal space below where Phoebe was visible at the piano with the sheet music in her hands.
Thorne escorted the man to the exterior door, and the journalist thanked him warmly, leaving without protest. Thorne filed a formal report on his comm while walking back. He restricted the journalist’s credentials before he even reached the rehearsal space.
Phoebe was standing when he returned. Her coat was over her arm, her bag on her shoulder. The sheet music sat alone on the piano.
"What happened?"
"A journalist was in a restricted area." He kept his voice level. "The one who approached you for an interview. I have revoked his backstage access."
She nodded, and her face shifted. Not fear, exactly, but calculation. Caution.
"That's the one I agreed to sit down with," she said. "He seemed professional enough."
