Page 119 of Spellwright

Her hand fluttered to her chest, where the gargoyle charm had rested for so many years. It was gone, of course, guarding Sebastian Smith, wherever he was, but she remembered the weight of the stone—and she didn’t miss it.

The last thing she wanted now was to be guarded.

“Penbrook?” she whispered.

He tilted his head, attention divided. “Hmm?”

“I’m quite content too.” Maybe it wasn’t so hard to say after all.

He glanced over at her with dark, drowsy eyes. “As am I.”

Twin spots of pink bloomed on Fia’s cheeks, and Penbrook grinned as he began sketching again. For a while more, she watched him work, and then his hand stilled.

After a moment of consideration, he looked up at Fia. “Ah, I think it’s a perfect likeness.”

“May I?” Fia wondered—and not for the first time—what he saw when he looked at her. Not how he considered her appearance exactly, but how he thought of her. If he might show his heart on the page, a reflection of his feelings caught in the composition.

“Come see,” he invited.

Fia shifted a disgruntled Finnick to the side, and climbed to her feet, which had fallen half asleep after sitting still for so long. She padded over to Penbrook.

He held his spellbook close for a moment, and then he offered it up with a hesitant smile and an admission: “I want you to like it.”

With a held breath, Fia looked down.

He’d drawn her so boldly, the charcoal dark on the page, the lines of her skirt and her tangle of hair made with confidence, but there was a softness in certain places too, around her mouth, which wore a small smile. Like she was holding in a secret. Like when he looked at her, he saw a mystery to unravel.

“I more than like it,” she told him, before her brows drew together. “But wait…” Penbrook stifled a laugh. “I see what you’ve done!”

“What’s that?” He played innocent as she stabbed at the bottom of the page, where he’d sketched the tips of her toes peeking out from the folds of her skirt.

“My stockings! You drew them with polka dots!”

“Yes.” He grinned, pulling her down onto his lap. “I couldn’t have you immortalized in stripes.”

“Thank goodness for your fashion sense.” She laughed along with him, curling closer, his spellbook pressed to her chest. “Whatever would I do without you?”

Fia had asked him teasingly, sarcastically, but Penbrook bade her, “You tell me.”

“If not for you…” And here she might have voiced so many things. “If not for you, I wouldn’t laugh half so much. My cheeks hurt from smiling.”

Penbrook cupped the side of her face, touching the corner of her mouth with his thumb.

“Now you tell me,” Fia breathed.

He bent toward her, and she lifted her face to his, their lips nearly brushing.

“If not for you,” he said softly, “I’d have no one to kiss.”