She changed quickly and reemerged to hang her wet clothes by his hearth. Outside, the wind had been joined by an eerie howl, as if a wolf pack hunted within the clouds. “Are there storms like this often?”
“Yes. More and more, over the past few years.”
The shutters shook. She wondered if the waves ever reached the house. She decided not to ask about that—it wasn’t as if she had other options. It was stay here, or venture back toward town and hope not to be swept out to sea on the way.Safer to stay here.“It’s the unbalanced magic, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “The emperor’s sorcerers could defuse the storms, if they chose to. Either they haven’t noticed how bad it is because the storms hit too far from where they are, or they simply don’t care.”
The wind shook the shutters as if it wanted to pry them off and reach inside the house.
He got a funny look on his face, his eyes focused on her head. Kiela automatically patted her hair. It was soaked, of course, but—oh, there was something stuck. It felt like a wet ribbon. She pulled it out and dangled a strip of seaweed in the air.
“That kind is edible,” Larran said.
“I carry my own salad,” Kiela said.
He laughed, even though she didn’t think that was particularly funny. He had a nice laugh, warm and furry. Not sure what to do with the piece of seaweed, she dropped it into his kitchen sink and then moved closer to the woodstove. Last time she was here and soaked through, Caz was with her. This time it was just her and Larran. And the storm. “Caz must be so worried,” Kiela said.
“He’ll be okay,” Larran said. “Your cottage is sturdy, and it’s tucked back behind the cove, which offers some protection.”
“How bad do these storms get?” she asked.
He hesitated. “It varies.”
Very bad,she translated.
“But they can be beautiful. Come see.” Beckoning to her, he removed one of the slats covering a smaller window above the larger, shuttered one. “It’s safer not to unblock the whole window, but you can stand on the chair.”
Kiela stepped up onto the chair. As she leaned forward to peer out the slit of window, she wobbled, and he wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. She tensed.
“Sorry,” he said, withdrawing. “I . . .”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.” She stared down at him. On the chair, she was taller than he was. His eyes looking up at her . . . They were warm brown, flecked with green and amber with a hint of blue and even purple. The more she stared, the more colors she saw, until she realized she was staring and blinked, blushing. She forced herself to look out the window at the storm instead.
The storm held as many colors as Larran’s eyes, all swirling over the sea, purple chasing blue, black streaking through like the inverse of lightning. Shapes formed and then dissipated—the face of a lion that roared so wide its jaw split apart and then re-formed as a bird diving toward the sea. It vanished in a spray of waves that crashed against the rocks.
“Arewesafe?” Kiela asked.
She was aware of how close he stood, also looking out at the storm. She felt the heat of his skin, smelled the faint cinnamon scent that she’d come to associate with him, listened to the steadiness of his breath. “Nothing’s safe,” he said.
She had the sense that he wasn’t talking just about the weather, but she didn’t know what he meant. Eadie had mentioned tragedies, plural. Kiela knew he’d lost his mentor in a storm, and she had guessed his parents were gone. She studied him again and wondered what to ask that would make him say what he was thinking. “Will your merhorses be all right out there?”
He looked startled—and pleased—that she’d asked about them. “They’re more suited to this than anyone. See?” He tapped the window, and she bent to follow his finger and see where he was looking. “They dive down to protect themselves from the excess magic.”
Out in the wild waves, the merhorses leapt as if they were dancing with the lightning. They arched their bodies out of the water into the rain, leaping over one another, and then diving deep within the waves the second before purple lightning skittered over the sea. Kiela realized that her cheek was next to Larran’s. If she turned her head just a little . . . if he did . . . Their lips were so close.
She wondered why she was having these thoughts. Because he’d been nice to her? Was that a good enough reason? Or was it the only reason that was good enough? He cared. He’d cared from the very first morning when he’d delivered cinnamon rolls to her doorstep.
If she turned her head . . . If she kissed him . . .
Would he kiss her back?
Or would he pull away?
Would she surprise him, or was he thinking it too? Was he as aware as she was of how close they were, of how sweet he smelled, of how warm he was?
Would he want her to kiss him? Or, worse than pulling away, would he merely tolerate her lips on his because he was kind, and he wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings? He’d be kind, she was sure, no matter what, and she wouldn’t know if he—
Larran pressed closer to the window. “Is that a boat?”
