Page 39 of Embers of Midnight
“They will. But nicely.”
We turn back through a side path, avoiding knots of people. I catch eyes. People catch mine. Some surprise. Some interest. No fear sharp enough to nick. That helps.
At the corner between buildings, trouble finds us because of course it does.
Three students stand like they practiced it. The girl in the center wears ice like posture—perfect hair, perfect mouth, a face carved into sympathy and then sanded cruel. She gives us a smile that stops just before it reaches eyesight.
“Well,” she says, musical. “You brought home a stray.”
My hackles go up. I don’t show my teeth. “Cute.”
She tilts her head, examining me like a jeweler considering a flawed stone. “Someone should have asked permission before importing wildlife.”
“You’re right,” I say, sweet. “We forgot to file the ‘Ice Princess is bored’ form.”
Ash makes a noise that might be a laugh and might be a warning. Before Frostbite can retort, a voice drifts from the low wall behind us, where a guy sits swinging his legs like a cat. Dark curls, sharp eyes, a mouth two seconds from a joke I won’t see coming.
“Permission for what?” he asks, lazy. “Existing? Hard to enforce.”
Her smile doesn’t move, but something tightens around the corners. “Laz,” she says, like the word should sting. “Always a pleasure.”
“Mutual, Cassandra,” he says cheerfully, which somehow makes it an insult.
There it is. Name acquired. Cassandra’s eyes go flat. She has followers; I can feel the hunger of it. But there’s a line she won’t cross here, not with this company, not with this angle. She gives me one long look that memorizes me for later and then turns with a curtain of hair and leaves.
The space sucks air for a second and then exhales.
“Laz,” Ash says, easy. “Walk and talk?”
“I was on my way to admire plants for being better than people,” Laz says, standing. He’s lean and springy, a human razor in a hoodie. He tucks his hands in the pocket. “But sure.”
He falls in on my other side as if he’s always walked there. We drift toward the lane that leads back to the house. He doesn’t pry. He doesn’t even introduce himself beyond the name Ash gave. He just exists like a neutral barometer that reads light pressure, possible storms, and smiles like he prefers the drama.
“Nice to meet you,” I say after a beat, because apparently I’m that person now.
“You too,” he says, and means it.
We split at the corner—and because the universe likes comedy, he peels off toward the greenhouse. I file that away under Friday foreshadowing and potential ally.
“Do I get to slap her later?” I ask Ash as we cross the threshold to the residential lane.
“Legally, no,” he says. “Morally, I have a spreadsheet.”
Caelum snorts into his scarf. Ronan’s mouth goes warm for a heartbeat, pride and amusement and don’t encourage him layered like cake.
“Home,” Darian says, and the word fits better than last night.
The house is quiet the way kitchens get quiet before surprise parties. Which is hilarious, because I see exactly two people and zero confetti. Caelum and Darian have the kind of guilty halos that mean “We did errands” in some language I’m learning to read.
Caelum sets a folded stack on the table. Expensive neutral colors. Texture. Jeans, a sweater that’s going to ruin me, a soft black dress I’d wear when I wanted to look like I meant it without trying. A pair of boots with low heels and soles that will not betray me on wet stairs.
Darian places a small tower of supplies next to it: notebooks, pens that won’t smear, highlighters in three useful colors and none of the annoying ones, a simple phone with a black case, a charger, a compact toolkit that’s either adorable or lethal depending on how you use it. On top: a paperback with a cracked spine, title printed in small, stubborn letters. Something to read that isn’t a manual.
My throat goes tight enough to hurt. Stupid eyes sting. I blink hard and look at Ash like this is his fault. “What the hell.”
“Basic kit,” Caelum says, mild. “You can swap anything you don’t like.”
Darian adds, “There’s also a lockbox for your room. Combination is yours; no duplicate.”
