Chapter 29: The Hearth in the Hills

Bram's POV

Mira wanted to see the house the night after the fire, before anyone could stand in the way.

"I can fly," she said. "But I'd rather walk it with you."

So we walked.

It took an hour up the old fire road into the hills, in the dark, with her hand in mine and no glove on mine at all.

The gold in our wrists lit the ground in front of us.

Neither of us talked.

The house was a black square on a shoulder of grass above the sea.

The roof was gone and the walls stood to about my chest.

Someone had planted a rowan tree at the gate a long time ago, and it had grown wild and crooked and was in leaf.

Mira stopped at the gate.

I stood next to her and did not say a word, because there was nothing in me worth saying.

The pack I had been raised to lead had done this, and I had been the knife.

"Don't," she said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to apologize for something that isn't yours."

She walked in over the threshold.

The hearth was still standing in the back wall, wide enough for a man to stand in, built of grey stone gone smooth with age.

She put her hand on the mantel.

"My mother stood here," she said. "I know that, and I don't know anything else."

She was crying without a sound, her face tilted to the dark sky.

I came up behind her and put my arms around her waist.

She leaned back into me, and her whole body was hot through the uniform, as hot as it had ever been.

"I'm not cold here," she said. "I've never been cold. But I'm not alone here either."

"You're not alone anywhere."

She turned in my arms and kissed me.

It was slow and wet and tasted of salt, and her hands were at my collar before I knew it.

I should have asked if she was sure.

She had told me not to ask.

"Take it off," she said into my mouth.

I took off my jacket and spread it on the flat hearthstone.

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