Page 113 of Touch

Their story must be coded in a way only they will understand.

Being mated to an author helps. Being a former goddess, Love also knows which parts of her existence to hint and which to exclude.

For a while, they share ideas and theories. The first step is establishing an outlet for them to recall everything later, without compromising her world.

Until then…

“I have no place to go,” she realizes. “No home. No family.”

“You have me.” Andrew hugs Love to his chest. “You’re mine, and I’m never letting you out of my sight. If your crew says we’ll remember falling for each other—minus the details—we won’t be surprised waking up naked together. So you’ll be new to Evershire, suffering from memory loss after an accident, which’ll be true soon. We’ll tell people we met—”

“—at the abandoned archery range,” she declares. “Where I beat you in several consecutive rounds.”

“Just like that, it was over for me. I became addicted.” His lips skim her throat. “We’ll spin a tale and write it down, like a fictional journal entry.”

“So we’ll lie to ourselves.”

“Partially. Whatever code we come up with about the truth, it’ll be hidden there.”

“Then we have a task to set in motion,” she says.

Andrew nods. In addition to recording their tale, relics of her previous existence will be preserved. Love hadn’t noticed until later that her blood-stained dress had vanished like her wings. Yet she has Andrew’s coat, her silken loungewear, and the black plume Anger had recovered from the snow, as well as her bow and…

Wait. She owns a bow? What is she doing with a bow?

Her thoughts waver, but she clenches her molars. She was matchmaking, that’s what. At one time, she’d been a matchmaker. And Andrew had been her next target.

Love relaxes her teeth. Of course, she remembers her bow. She has good aim, and the arrows are forged of… of iron, like the weaponry of another archer she’d once known. She’s certain of it.

There’s another memento that can trigger the past. She plucks Andrew’s note from the nightstand, their own piece of magic archiving the hour they’d met. Words she had torn apart and put back together.

They approach the crackling hearth. Andrew stands naked behind Love, encircling her waist with his chin propped on her shoulder. It would be easy to toss the object into the fire, to watch the blaze curl its fingers around the evidence. Instead, Love uses the light to guide her, folding the paper into the shape of a star, which will find a safe place in Andrew’s home, along with more proof of what has been. And what shall be again someday.

When the time comes, they’ll rise from these ashes with their souls fully resurrected. In the meantime, who shall Love become without her powers? Until she and Andrew reclaim their memories and join the battle, she has a chance to do good in thisworld. She will jot down the possibilities, including hints about her former identity and what purpose she can serve.

She nestles into Andrew’s embrace. Above all, the greatest thing she can do is love someone unconditionally. As a woman named Love—or Iris—that much is for her to decide.

“So,” she says.

“So,” he echoes.

“If I say that spectacular thing now, will we remember it later?”

Andrew’s voice brushes her flesh like silk. “I’d welcome the challenge.”

Of her own free will, she whispers, “I love you, foolish mortal.”

“Welcome to my world,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against her ear. “It loves you too.”

40

One Year Later

The stars are out. They’re quiet in the darkness, blooming with light as though they have minds of their own. Staring up at them, Iris grins to herself. Strange notions such as these tend to preoccupy her at the most unexpected times.

A gust blows through the woods, dousing the air with the scent of pine. Standing at the forest bridge, she trains her gaze from the celestials to the towering trees, the urge to scale a particular trunk overwhelming her. She won’t make it far without scraping a knee or twisting an ankle—again. It happened to her once before, when she attempted to master those heights.

Her beloved fondly calls her stubborn. She has the scars to prove it: nick marks on one elbow, courtesy of ceramic shards when she’d thrown a tremendous fit and swiped dishes off his dining table, all because they’d been debating a random subject—she cannot recall the topic, only that it had riled her up.

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