Page 58 of The Duke and the Disciple

“He informed us in his correspondence that you’d been staying in close quarters with your scholar since the troubles started. This is no different.”

Yet it was. Whether in Rahn’s apartments or hers, they’d never shared a bedchamber.

“Have we misunderstood?” Pieter asked. “I can call for the porters?—”

“No,” she said quickly, wondering where Rahn’s head was, why he’d said nothing. “You’re right. This is no different.”

Pieter ran down all of the accoutrements, but she was hardly listening. She snuck a glance at Rahn, but his attention was on their host.

“I left some books on your desks I thought might be of interest. We have quite a library here at Wulfsgate Keep, which you’re welcome to make use of. But, ah, the reason I preparedthisplace for you... Come, come.” Pieter ushered them to what she thought must be the north side of the room, to a series of three windows. He unlatched one, and it swung open. “Look.”

Aesylt stepped closer and craned her neck out. The cloud cover was too low to see anything, but the views were otherwise unobstructed. He couldn’t know their astronomy days were on hold—or why—so she smiled and said, “This will be perfect. Thank you so much.”

Pieter watched her reaction closely enough to make her question her performance, until he gave her shoulder a squeeze and stretched his hands above his head. “It’s late. You’re both exhausted. We break our fast at the eighth hour in the Great Hall. Aes, do you remember the way, or shall I come meet you?”

“I know the way.”

“Splendid. When you want warm water, just notify the kitchen staff, through the guard duty, and they’ll have it sent to the ground level, where it can be hoisted via pulley.” He pointed at the corner the tub was in. “And I’ll cease running my mouth so you can both enjoy some needed rest. Dobranok.” He bowed. “Did I say it right? That means good night in Vjestikaan, yes?”

Aesylt, smiling, nodded. “Tak. You did. Dobranok, Pieter.”

“Dobranok,” Rahn said, his eyes following Pieter all the way to the door. He didn’t move even when the man’s steps faded down the stairs.

“It’s... cozy,” Aesylt ventured, stepping slowly around the room. “We’ll have the seclusion we need. Just don’t tell poor Pieter his astronomy tower won’t be rising to its intended purpose.”

“Hmm.” Rahn was still watching the door.

“Are you here with me or somewhere else?”

Rahn puffed out a breath and turned. “Sorry. Of course I am. It’s late. Shall we turn in?”

It shouldn’t have felt like a rejection, but it did. She had extended no invitation with her words, but the lack of acknowledgment left her more insecure than she’d felt in a long while. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. Maybe he already regretted the offer before the partnership had even begun.

Or maybe your imagination is a wild garden you should remember to prune from time to time.

Aesylt rushed to her trunk before he saw any of that written on her face. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up just as Rahn was leaning past her. He grabbed the latches and lifted with a grunt.

“This should be near your bed,” he said and disappeared behind the curtain. “Actually, I should have asked first. Which one do you prefer?”

“They seem the same to me,” Aesylt said, dazed. She was tired too, far more than she’d realized. “Thank you, Scholar.”

He popped back out with a stern look that he aimed not at her but past her. “You may as well start calling me Rahn.” Then, dusting his hands down his torso, he made a strange face and headed toward his own bed.

“Not a chance, Scholar.”

A faint laugh echoed from behind the curtain. “Dobranok then.”

He was both the most transparent man she’d ever known and also impossible to read. But the next however many days, weeks, would be untenable if they were tiptoeing around each other, around their arrangement.

Aesylt didn’t return his good-night because her mind wouldn’t rest until she knew for sure where his head was.

Once he disappeared behind his side of the curtain, her heart a racing, unconfident mess, Aesylt started to undress.

Rahn shed his layers meticulously,in the same order as always. By the time he finished removing his vest, he was on fire. Sweat trickled down his temple. His hands felt ready to explode into flames.

The belltower was meant for workers, not lords, and aside from a few tapestries, a bearskin rug, and the modest hearth, there wasn’t much to heat it. If he were to accidentally leave a window open, they’d likely freeze to death in their sleep.

But it wasn’t the room sending the heat through him in lashes, it washer.

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