Page 5 of Mystic Wonderful

Francis loaded up his fork with what was supposed to be meatloaf. “When do you think we’ll meet–”

Two men entered the mess, and he had a clear view of them.

“The rest of the team,” he finished in a strangled croak.

Lance du Lac had just walked in. And beside him?

Tristan Mayweather.

Rose lifted her head at the sound of his voice, spotted what – who – he had, and then sighed. “Shit. Don’t freak out on me.”

Too late for that.

Rose said something else that he didn’t register, as his eyes followed the two senior Knights’ progress across the mess and toward the back of the line.

Rose stepped on his foot under the table.

He forced his eyes to his tray, and put the hovering bite of meatloaf into his mouth. It tasted like cardboard, but maybe that was just his sudden burst of nerves.

It was fine. He could do this. It wasn’t as if he had to speak to the man yet, or even meet his gaze. Tomorrow, he would, when he and Rose were officially introduced to the rest of the company. But now…now he could chatter and pretend they weren’t all in the same room together, albeit a crowded one.

“So,” he said, with unfelt enthusiasm. He’d always been good at forced-cheerfulness in the face of panic, a trait he’d developed in early childhood. “What do you think our rooms will be like? Better or worse than the ones back at training? I mean, the private quarters there at the end were a lot better than the bunk room, but–”

A tray thumped down into the seat across from Rose.

He lifted his head, and nearly choked on the bite of saltless potatoes he’d just taken. “S-sergeant du Lac, sir.”

A darted glance to the side proved that Rose was dipping bits of biscuit into the meatloaf gravy, her gaze flat, unflinching, and pinned on du Lac. She said, “Lance,” and Gallo bit his lip, braced for the inevitable reprimand. He admired so much about Rose, but why did she always have topushpeople like this?

But du Lac didn’t bow up the way their old instructors would have. He smirked, and, even if it surprised him, Francis had no trouble interpreting the intensity of his dark gaze as it met Rose’s. He wasinterested. Riveted, actually.

Du Lac said, “Insubordination on your first day, Greer?”

Rose’s expression didn’t waver. “No, sir.” She made the honorific sound ludicrous.

This had all the makings of a disaster, and in front of everyone at the mess, to boot.

“Sir?” Gallo asked.

Du Lac and Rose both ignored him.

“You made it through training, then,” du Lac said, with a nod toward the jacket hanging off the back of Rose’s chair, her Rift Walker wings glinting off the collar.

Rose popped the bite of biscuit into her mouth and broke off another. “Top of my class.”

“I don’t doubt it. Why did you want to be a Walker? Because I told you that’s what I was?”

“No.”

Gallo, swapping his gaze madly – but he hoped covertly – between the two of them, saw that Rose never flinched, didn’t even blink, but that a quick flicker of emotion crossed du Lac’s face at her denial. He would have sworn it was disappointment.

“Because it’s the elite branch,” she continued, “and I don’t care about being common.”

Despite Rose’s stony composure, tension stretched taut between the two, fraught with a tangle of emotions that Rose would have denied, and that du Lac, Francis thought, would have gripped with both hands if given the chance. He hid it fairly well, but Francis had caught glimpses of his own face often enough in the mirror, when he’d just gotten lost admiring one of his posters, to know what want looked like. Longing.

When it became apparent that Rose wasn’t going to try to diffuse the moment, Francis said, “Rose is really good, sir.”

Once again, the sergeant didn’t bother to spare him so much as a glance. “She is,” he agreed, eyes still pinned to Rose, the mulish tilt of her chin. His tone shifted, lower, cautionary. “There’s no shame in being a soldier. Being infantry,” he said. “And out here, on the front lines – it isn’t like being in class. It’s dangerous.”

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