They’d made it through introductions, through Cassia’s approximately forty questions about celestial magic (“Can you actually see the future? Like, specific events? What about deaths? Can you predict deaths?”), through Avine’s gentle interrogation about how she was settling in. She’d been lulled into a false sense of security by the wine and the warmth and the easy flow of conversation.
Rookie mistake.
“It was fine.” She kept her voice carefully neutral. “Very official. Lots of paperwork.”
“We heard you were late.”
“The gardens were distracting.”
“Tell us everything,” Cassia demanded, leaning forward with an intensity that crackled in the air. “Every excruciating detail.”
There was no escaping it. Lunaria launched into a description of the ceremony—the waiting, the forms, the shed waiver that still boggled her mind. She kept it light. Sarcastic.The version of events that cast her as an amused observer rather than someone who had been uncomfortably aware of the mayor’s presence every single second.
“Fourteen forms,” she said. “For access to gardens that have been abandoned for decades. As if anyone was lining up to steal the dead moss.”
She was expecting sympathy. Maybe solidarity in the face of bureaucratic absurdity.
What she got was a round of exchanged glances. Poorly hidden smiles. Avine suddenly became very interested in her wine glass.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Cassia’s grin was anything but innocent. “It’s just—you’re describing him very... thoroughly.”
“Because he was thoroughly annoying.”
“Uh-huh.” Narla’s quiet voice carried from the window seat. “Did you happen to notice his shoulders while you were being annoyed?”
Heat crept up Lunaria’s neck. “I—that’s not—he was wearing a suit. I couldn’t see his shoulders.”
“So you were trying to see them?”
“No! I—” She cut herself off. Drew a breath. Refused to acknowledge the memory of how the suit had fit across his back, the way the fabric had stretched when he reached for the forms, the suggestion of muscle beneath the politician’s clothing. “I was focused on the absurdity of the paperwork situation.”
“Sure,” Junie said, not bothering to hide her skepticism.
“This is classic,” Dahlia said from the laptop screen. Her bear had abandoned the pretense of reading and was now openly watching the conversation. “This is exactly how it started with Cassia and Aero. And with me and Cal. And with?—”
“It’s not starting,” Lunaria interrupted. “Nothing is starting. I’m here for a job. I’ll be gone by spring.”
The room went quiet. The particular kind of quiet that suggested everyone was thinking the same thing and being polite enough not to say it.
“You’ve moved a lot,” Avine said gently.
“It’s efficient.”
“It sounds lonely.” Narla’s observation was soft but pointed.
Lunaria’s jaw tightened. She reached for her wine, buying time to compose her response. “It’s not—that’s not?—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Cassia said. Her intensity had softened into understanding. “I spent years hiding what I was because I was terrified of being seen. It’s easier to stay invisible than to risk being rejected.”
“It’s not about rejection.” The words came out before Lunaria could stop them. “It’s about?—”
She stopped. Took a breath. Changed the subject with all the subtlety of a hammer.
“Tell me about the gardens. The real history, not the file the mayor compiled.”
The mood shifted. Subtle but noticeable. Avine set down her wine glass with more care than necessary.
