Most remarkable of all was that Jasper seemed unconcerned with her noticing that particular piece of decoration. He gave it not a single second glance, closing the door behind her and flicking the lock into place.
She reached out, her hand shaking, and pushed the curling edges of the Human Abacus flyer smooth.
She could hear her own voice as a child, somewhere in the back of her mind. As Bess. As Lizzie. As Eliza.
She could see her brother and Jasper, all of twelve, flicking a red hat at a target the day Willa Selwyn had approached her on the beach.
“Careful,” he said softly, his voice so low and smooth that it was a wonder it could startle her. “It’s brittle.”
“It should be under glass,” she responded absently. “It’s a miracle that it hasn’t flaked to dust by now.”
He chuckled. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“What is…?” she started, turning toward him. Her breath caught at the way he was leaning against the door, his arms crossed, one leg propped up behind him, watching her with a soft smile. “Why?”
“Receipts,” he said, shrugging. “I can’t throw them out.”
She gave a shaky laugh, dropping her hands to her sides. “I never do, either. I keep them in a box, though. Mine don’t go back quite so far.”
He shrugged. “It’s an old habit. Raised in a counting house, you become something of a magpie, I suppose. I like looking at them. At all of you.”
“All of us,” she said, quirking a brow and glancing back at the board. It was three-quarters devoted to her own plays. To her things, exclusively. The other Starling wards simply garnished the cracks. “I see. Has… erm…” She paused, curling her fingers through the ties at the front of her dress. “Has Malcolm seen this?”
Jasper nodded, pushing off the door to stride over to where she stood, his heat and scent radiating off him as he took a stance at her shoulder. “He mailed me these,” he said, gesturing at a few of the flyers from the Seven Dials playhouse. “From London. He wrote me often and he knew I liked having them.”
“I didn’t,” she said, frowning, her eyes flickering shut as she inhaled him. “Write you.”
“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t.”
She turned, her breath held, and tilted her eyes up to meet his. “‘Better than you’ve always imagined.’ That’s what you said this morning.”
His easy smile flickered, a shadow passing over his face. His hand came up, hovering just short of touching her cheek. “I said a lot of stupid things this morning, Lib.”
“Stupid doesn’t mean false,” she said, searching his face, that familiar, safe face. “Had you always imagined it? What I taste like?”
He grimaced, a short, flashing thing, his hand collapsing on her shoulder. “Not intentionally,” he said, giving his head a short shake. “But yes, I suppose I must have.”
“Because you imagine all women?” she pressed, her eyes following the path of his hand. “Because it’s just animal nature?”
His hand flexed, his thumb tracing her collarbone. “I don’t know.”
“My tatty, pink robe,” she said, her voice sticking and fluttering in her throat. “That stupid hair wrap. Why would they make you lose your mind?”
His smile came back then, a small huff of laughter, but he didn’t meet her eye again. “Don’t remind me.”
She took a step closer to him, her body brushing against his. “You didn’t lose your mind when I wore the Xandine dresses. When my hair was down my back. Surely, that is more tempting.”
“Xandine,” he replied with a quirk of his lips, finally looking at her again, his tilted, golden eyes flicking up to crash into hers. “I can manage Xandine. Libba is my problem. And there is not a thread of costuming in your night things, not a single protective shield or act.”
She hesitated, an incredulous burst of air escaping her chest. “I do not need a costume to shield or act.”
“But you weren’t, that night,” he replied immediately. “And you weren’t this morning. And you aren’t. Right now.”
She felt a frown tugging at her lips, a discomfort with that idea scattering across her skin. “How do you know?”
“I know,” he said. “Anyone who knows you can tell.”
“And you know me?” she said, forcing her throat to swallow, forcing her lungs to breathe. “Even after I left? Even after I did not write?”
