Page 102 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Nore drew a shaky breath. She reached for Celestine’s hand, seeking comfort. Celestine gave it to her, stroking Nore’s cheek with her other. “I’m sorry,” Nore said.

“I know, darling,” Celestine said, leaning to kiss her temple again. “But you have learned, haven’t you?”

Of course she had: the scar on her ribs and the ones on her back would serve as a constant reminder. That her conniving husband, in his last act against her, had betrayed her one final time, and the greatest thief in Nettlepool had stolen the key from her and fled the city with her heart in his grasp.

I think I’m making progress—it’s impossible to say. She’s aloof as anything, and sometimes, I see her across a ballroom and try to imagine her as my wife. It thrills me, yes, but it also feels like I have stabbed myself through the stomach with a heated blade, and not in a fun way.

Letter from Jessa Picantor-Donan to Lorna Picantor-Donan, her sister, three years post-Resurrection (1636 UCE)

nineteen

HE DID NOT MOVE his blankets to the floor, or get another room at the inn, or ignore her. The reality was much worse than that: Caspian changed nothing at all.

She arrived home to find Caspian’s suit hung up, his boots stored by the wardrobe, a semidamp towel drying on a rack by the desk. Caspian was already in bed, a lamp lit—he could not call forth a magelight without Gail in proximity—and a book in his hands, reading before bed as he always did.

Nore came in, hesitant, looking him over. His hair was still wet, curling over his forehead. The sheets were rucked up around his stomach, one knee tented to support his book, his chest bare. The incident on the desk felt like it had happened to an entirely different version of Nore an eternity ago, but really it had been two hours, if even.

They had crossed the line. They could not take that back. And now, Nore was looking at him, and he was looking at her—and she wondered what would happen if she crossed the chasm of the room, the ocean of the bed, and put her mouth back to his.

A moment passed. Neither moved. Caspian nodded, going back to his book, and Nore proceeded with her usual post-party routine. She hung her own coat and put her jewelry away, every move careful and slow to prevent herself from doing what she shouldn’t. She started on her hair, brushing out the tangles—most of them caused by Caspian’s hands—and braided it into a single plait.

“I didn’t see you leave,” she said.

“I have to be up early. Training tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

She tied off her braid. Hesitated. Looked at him, in bed—Of course I want you—and she did not think of it.

“What did you learn?” Nore asked, trying for any peace between them. Testing the waters. “From the Nestrian heir.”

A pause. “She was chosen for her beauty. Intelligence from the High Lady’s former Scaelan company indicates that she engaged in few dalliances, but when she did, most were wells. No consistent type in regards to appearance or gender. Her latest, before taking power, was with a healer—she’s now the High Lady’s personal healer here.”

Nore turned to look at him. “Do you think they still…?”

“I can’t say,” Caspian said. He looked at her, studying her face. There was so much unsaid between them. “Beyond that, there are reports that she is becoming paranoid—rumors of fights with her ambassadors and staff, that she is uncomfortable with her attendants, that even the Viper took new rooms in the fortress, farther away from her. Some sort of illness afflicted her during Wintertide, though the cause and severity of it is unclear.”

Nore chewed her lip. There was a picture coming together, one that filled her with an odd discomfort: a woman with the walls closing in. She thought about what she’d learned from Jessa, thinking through a way to tactfully ask Caspian his thoughts.

“Is that a good enough report, Finch?” Caspian said. Have I done the job? Have I been good and docile?

She could not ask more from him. Nore turned away. “Yes,” she said. His words filled her with an odd shame, impossible to swallow.

She reached behind her back and started the process of tugging on the knots of her corset, trying to free herself from the dress. She made it only a few moments before the bed creaked, and then Caspian was behind her.

Nore stiffened. She waited for… something: his mouth on her neck as he nuzzled into her shoulder, a kiss to the side of her head, or any of the million ways this scenario had ended before.

But his hands were quick, as always, and oddly courteous. Caspian loosened her corset and Nore drew a breath, wincing at the relief as her body returned to its natural shape. She pressed her hands to the front of her dress to keep it from slipping from her breasts as she turned—

And Caspian was already settling into bed, going back to his book, as if none of it changed anything. As if nothing mattered at all. He lay on his side as he folded down the top of his page to mark it and set his book on his nightstand. “Goodnight, Finch,” he said. Just like every other night.

He extinguished the lamp on his side.

Nore stared at him, uncertain what to say, and why that uncertainty lingered, and why it all hurt anyway. She knew, as it was happening, that it was a mistake. At least Caspian had the decency not to throw it in her face.

Worst of all: he felt the same weight she did, the ceaseless want, the distractions—and yet he had still managed to do her job even better than she had.

“Goodnight, Cas,” Nore said.