Page 143 of Mountain of Mirrors and Starlight
“How irritating. I was hoping to keep my thoughts to myself.”
“I apologise then, for noticing them.”
“I don’t want to worry you.”
“I’m already worried,” he said, which was all the confirmation she needed. He went quiet for a moment, staring into the embers of the fire. “Will you tell my father, if I die again? Will you tell Juliana?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t want you to be a secret. I’d like them to know that I had the chance to meet you, to give your story an epilogue, but…”
“But?”
Aislinn swallowed. “I don’t want you to have an epilogue, Dillon. Or not this one. The one you’re worried about. I think you deserve a better ending.”
Dillon sighed. “So did Cerridwen.”
Aislinn paused. “How do you know about… whatdoyou know about my grandma?”
Dillon frowned, brows tightly burrowed. He squinted, like the thought he had was escaping him. “I… I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Something… something happened to her…”
“Did my mother tell you—”
“No,” he said, still frowning, “no, she didn’t, but…”
“Dillon?”
Caer stirred behind her, and all thoughts of anyone else—everything else—were quickly abandoned. She heard Dillon getting up behind her, moving away to give them a semblance of privacy.
“Caer?”
“What angel hovers over me? What celestial beauty showers upon me—”
Aislinn barked a teary laugh. “Well, I was going to ask if you’re all right, but you clearly must be.” She pressed a gloved hand to his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Caer raised a hand to her face, his fingers skirting over her skin until they rested on a loose lock of hair. “Pretty good, all things considering.”
“I healed your wound, but there may still be some lingering effects of the venom. Flora might know more—”
Caer caught her sleeve. “I don’t want Flora.”
Aislinn stilled. “Right.”
She grabbed his hand in both of hers, kissing the top of her own knuckles in lieu of his. “I’m going to lie down on you now,” she said, “very carefully. Try not to move.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She slotted herself against him, resting her head against his chest. Her fingers skimmed his bandages, flirting with his skin, daring herself to claim just a tiny fraction of him. She held back, breathing in the scent of him instead—dirt and sweat andCaer.
“I hate how much I like you,” she whispered.
“That’s a shame,” he said, his hand winding through her hair, twirling the ends through his fingers. “Because I rather like how much I like you.”
