“Everything.” For the moment, I didn’t care how eager I sounded. He understood what music meant to me.
He laughed, taking three long strides to the stack of instrument cases. A long one waited on top, and he chose that. “Sometimes I think you sound like I must. We make quite the pair, Ana. Now”—he turned, holding a slender silver instrument—“how do you feel about the flute?”
When he played, I melted.
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Chapter 20
Silk
STEF HAD CANCELED dance practice the morning of the masquerade because I’d warned her how late I’d have to stay up to finish my costume. She’d looked absolutely gleeful and said something to Sam about having to fight to get a turn dancing with me.
I hadn’t slept as late as I’d anticipated, which was probably the only reason I overheard Sam on his SED. His voice was low, like he didn’t want to wake me. Or didn’t want me to hear.
“So you’ll meet me at the gazebo on North Avenue?”
Grit stung my eyes as I sat up in bed, glanced out the window. The false dawn of the walled city bathed the backyard in cobalt and shadows; the city wall made sunrise even later than usual, though it was well after midwinter.
“I think she’s in danger, and tonight is the best opportunity for something to go wrong.”
What? I peered at the silk walls, though of course I couldn’t see him through the shelves and all the instruments and books he kept in the rooms between ours.
“She’s my best guess. I can’t think of anyone else with better reason to hurt—” He paused. “I don’t think she’s working alone, either. I haven’t been able to find anything useful.”
Too many feminine pronouns. Was he talking about me?
“Thanks, Stef. Will you call Whit, Sarit, and Orrin too?” He chuckled, but the fact that someone was clearly in trouble—maybe me—kept it from sounding genuine. “Yeah, only took five thousand years to find a use for them.”
Even though he was joking about his friends, I shivered, glad he hadn’t said that about me.
“Of course I still need your help. Don’t be ridiculous. No one could replace you.” He sounded—irritated? Insulted? It was hard to tell. “Okay. I’ll see you in an hour.”
While he moved around the house, his footsteps quiet down the stairs, I washed my face and dressed. Just simple trousers and a sweater for now. It was chilly; hopefully it’d warm up before this evening.
The scent of coffee lured me downstairs, along with the hiss of something in a frying pan. A mug waited for me on the table, probably because Sam had heard me getting out of bed, but he was standing over the stove, frowning at eggs.
I took a gulp of coffee for courage and leaned on the counter near him. He acknowledged me with a half smile. “Sleep okay?” His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t slept at all.
One more long drink of coffee. I didn’t want him mad at me, especially not today. “I overheard part of your conversation with Stef. What’s going on?”
He glared. “Private discussion.”
“The walls are silk. Next time you talk with her, I’ll just go deaf, okay?” I carried my mug back to the table. “And you’re burning the eggs.”
Swearing, he used a spatula to prod at the pan, and a few minutes later we had runny-in-the-middle-crispy-on-the-outside fried eggs. He was usually a better cook than this, and though I considered skipping what he referred to as “breakfast” and I considered “gross,” I didn’t want to insult him further. I ate the parts that looked like eggs should, and cut the rest into bits. With luck, he wouldn’t be able to tell how much I hadn’t eaten.
“I need to go out for a few hours.” He sat back. His plate looked like mine.
“All right.” I scraped my eggs into the compost bin. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Some things can be private.”
He sighed and pushed off his chair. “Ana . . .”
I put my plate in the sink and faced him. “Look, you asked me to live here. Your walls are not exactly soundproof. I’m going to overhear things. I don’t snoop around or bother your belongings, but if you’re talking in the house, I’m probably going to hear it.” I dragged in a heavy breath. “I don’t want to go, but if you don’t want me to live here anymore, all you have to do is say.”
Sam crossed the kitchen in four long strides and stood as close as we had the day he hadn’t kissed me. His mouth opened and shut, whatever he’d been about to say trapped inside. “Don’t leave.”
There were a thousand things I could have said, mostly rude, but he actually looked worried—as well as a dozen other emotions flickering across his face too quickly to read. Too complex. “Then I won’t leave.” I kept his gaze. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”