Page 94 of Scars and Crowns

"Haven't you?" His voice stays soft. Patient. "The man spends most of the book pretending everything is more important than his feelings." I don't answer. "He keeps convincing himself he's thinking."

"When really . . . " His eyes meet mine. " . . . he's hiding." The words settle quietly between us. He isn't talking about the book anymore. He's talking about me. About these last two days. About alphabetising shelves that never needed alphabetising.

I fold my arms before I realise I'm doing it. "I'm not hiding." Even to my own ears . . . the sentence sounds weak. He smiles. Just a little. That annoyingly gentle smile that somehow makes arguing feel impossible.

"Aren't you?" There's no accusation in his voice. No frustration. Only quiet curiosity. "You've been avoiding me for two days, Daisy."

My heart sinks. So he noticed. Of course he noticed.

"I wasn't going to ask why." He pauses. "I still won't." Something eases inside me. Just a little. "But . . . " He looks around the perfectly organised children's section before letting his gaze settle back on me. "I'd rather you didn't disappear behind the shelves." His eyes flick toward the books in my hands. "Especially when they're already organized."

I glance down. The book I'm holding is indeed exactly where it belongs. I sigh. " . . . You noticed that too?"

"I notice most things about you." The answer comes so naturally that I don't think he realises how devastating it is. My heart performs one slow, hopeless somersault. He slips the old paperback gently into my hands.

"Keep it."

"I gave it to you."

"I know."

"I want you to have it now."

My fingers curl automatically around the worn cover. It still feels familiar. Comfortingly so. He waits until I'm looking at the book before speaking again.

"Take all the time you need." His voice is quiet. Steady. "I'm not asking you for answers."

"Not today."

"Not tomorrow."

"Not until you're ready." He smiles. "But I'd prefer it if you stopped hiding from me while you're deciding."

Silence settles between us. Not awkward. Just . . . full.

I look down at the old paperback resting in my hands. The corners are bent. The pages have softened with age. He really did read it. Probably more than once. Then I look back at him. At the man standing patiently in the middle of my bookshop, giving me space without ever making me feel abandoned by it.

I open my mouth. Close it again.

For once . . . I have absolutely nothing to say.

BOX OF MEMORIES

ANAMIKA

Long after Sara falls asleep, I stay awake.

The room is quiet except for the soft rhythm of her breathing, and I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying the last two days for what feels like the hundredth time. The fair. His wallet. The photographs. The word soulmate. Then the bookshop. The old paperback. The way he'd looked at me and somehow seen straight through every excuse I'd been hiding behind.

I've spent two days running in circles. I'm tired. Tired of pretending reorganising books counts as thinking. Tired of inventing reasons to avoid him. Most of all . . . tired of carrying questions that only one person in this palace can answer.

I still don't know what I'll say when I see him. I don't have a speech prepared. I don't even know if I'm brave enough to ask him what he really meant that afternoon at the fair. But I know one thing with complete certainty.

I don't want to run anymore. The decision settles quietly inside me. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just . . . firmly.

I slip carefully out from beneath the blanket, pausing to make sure Sara doesn't stir. She shifts once, sighs softly, then settles again with one arm wrapped around her stuffed rabbit. I adjust the pillows around her in case she decides to go on a walk in her sleep and ends up covering the whole bed. I brush a loose curl away from her forehead before quietly leaving the room. The marble floor is cool beneath my bare feet. At this hour the palace feels like an entirely different place.

The bustle is gone.