Page 85 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

Fire did not notice people. It consumed what it was given, followed air, and died when starved. It did not choose a woman standing several feet away with rain caught in her silver hair and her wet cloak gathered around her shoulders—Elira was watching it too.

Her face revealed nothing, though the stillness in her had become too complete, as if even breathing might encourage the flame to come closer. For one suspended moment, neither woman moved, and the small fire strained toward Elira across the cold hearth like something trying to remember where it belonged.

When Elira shifted her weight, the flame snapped upright. It burned normally after that, crackling through the kindling with such ordinary indifference that Seren might have convinced herself she had imagined the entire thing—she did not.

She lowered the flint slowly and said nothing, because she had no question that would not sound ridiculous spoken aloud. The fire burned low but steady in the hearth, casting gold across the walls while the wind pressed against the cabin in long, uneven breaths. Mara settled near the door and began oiling her knife. Coren occupied the place beside the window, where he attempted to remain awake and failed in increasingly obvious intervals.

Elira stood near the hearth with her back to the room. The detail caught Seren before she granted it permission to matter. The scholar had not warmed her hands, though the cabin remained cold enough that breath showed faintly near the walls. She had removed one glove before apparently remembering herself and drawing it back on with too much care. Even at rest, she kept her weight balanced, as though relaxation were a language she had learned through observation but never trusted enough to speak.

Seren fed another piece of split wood into the hearth, nudging it deeper with the iron poker until sparks climbed into the chimney.

The flames bent toward Elira again.

Not dramatically enough for anyone less attentive to question it, perhaps, but Seren had been watching for the repetition. The narrow tongues of fire leaned sideways, straining past the edge of the hearth toward where Elira stood several feet away, before shivering back into place.

Seren remained crouched for a moment, staring at them. Once could be draft—twice became irritating. “You saw that.”

Elira glanced toward her with an expression of cultivated innocence so unconvincing that it immediately worsened Seren’s mood. “I see many things.”

Seren set the poker down with more care than it deserved. “That was almost an answer.”

“Then we should both be grateful I stopped in time.”

Mara’s knife paused over the cloth in her lap—only for half a heartbeat. Coren was less disciplined. His gaze moved openly between Seren and Elira, his expression carrying the fascinated unease of a young soldier realizing the storm outside had trapped him in close quarters with a conflict he had neither rank nor wisdom enough to interrupt.

Seren rose. “The fire moved toward you.”

Elira’s eyes drifted lazily to the hearth. “Fire moves, General.”

“Yes. I am familiar with the concept.”

“How reassuring.”

Seren folded her arms. “It moves toward air. Drafts. Fuel. Heat. It does not ordinarily take an interest in irritating scholars standing on the opposite side of a room.”

Elira’s mouth curved. There it was—that infuriating little smile she wore whenever Seren handed her something sharp enough to return. “Perhaps it has taste.”

“Or poor judgment.”

“Many things do, in my experience.” The answer came too quickly, polished and effortless, and Seren felt irritation tighten beneath her ribs.

“You do that deliberately.”

Elira lifted one pale brow. The movement was slight, almost lazy, but Seren had begun to recognize the performance beneath it. Elira used indifference the way other people used armor, each gesture polished enough to suggest nothing could possibly matter unless she chose to be amused by it. Even now, with firelight catching along the silver strands that had escaped her braid and the storm closing the cabin around them, she looked irritatingly composed.

“Stand near fires?” Elira asked.

Seren narrowed her eyes. “Answer everything except what I asked.”

Elira’s mouth curved at one corner. There was always that fractional pause before the smile, Seren had noticed. Not enough to call hesitation, but enough to suggest Elira chose each expression with the same care she chose her words. Nothing seemed to arrive on her face accidentally. Except occasionally around Seren. That had become difficult not to notice.

“I answered precisely what you asked,” Elira said. “You simply dislike the answer.”

“No.” Seren folded her arms. “You gave me a collection of words shaped approximately like one.”

For the briefest instant, genuine amusement warmed Elira’s eyes. It changed her face more than it had any right to. The scholar usually wore beauty like a weapon left conspicuously on a table—visible, dangerous, and seemingly irrelevant to her unless someone else became foolish enough to acknowledge it. But amusement softened the severity around her mouth and made something younger appear beneath all that practiced control.

Seren found herself watching the change. She resented that immediately. Mara lowered her gaze to the knife in her lap, though Seren caught the faint movement at the corner of her mouth. Elira caught it too—of course she did.