As the pair emerged from the trees, it was clear that the weather had once again shifted for the worst. A squall line advanced steadily from the southwestern horizon, sunbeams cutting a harsh pattern against thick, slate-purple clouds. The newly green leaves were vibrant against the storm, shimmering emeralds rustling in the rain-cooled wind. The manor was a stoic sentinel at the center of its island, shutters rattling as clouds loomed over the highest spire. Frantic ripples raced over the lake, turning the marshy shoreline into a mudhole.

Eve picked her way over the swampy ground as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the oppressive, sticky heat wrapped around every inch of her body. Her damp sleeves clung to her forearms, sweat beading on the back of her neck as she maneuvered around puddles and skipped over the waterlogged ditches. The hastily folded quilt was wrapped in her arms, one errant corner brushing her skirt with every step.

Barnham stayed a full two paces ahead of her, his footing sure despite having travelled the lakeshore path only once before. His arms were full of the food Mrs. Eclaire had packed for them; at least, what hadn't been dumped unceremoniously earlier. In his hurry, he'd given up trying to mirror the way it had been packed, stuffing as much as he could into the bulging basket and wrapping the rest in the protective cheesecloth.

Her stomach growled; despite having the best intentions, neither of them had eaten a bite. Not that our minds were on food. She stumbled at the thought, feet sliding over mud-slicked grass. Her palms still burned from his kisses, heart fluttering with excitement that he'd wanted to do more than kiss her hands. There was a healthy dose of disappointment as well, seeing as they had no time to do anything more.

Why not? Her traitorous mind supplied. She was unable to answer herself, glancing up long enough to gauge the building storm. You've the perfect excuse, the pesky inner voice continued slyly. He can't walk home through the forest in a thunderstorm. That's dangerous. It was true; lightning could easily strike one of the trees. Besides, the ground was saturated enough that one strong wind could spell the end for any tree not firmly rooted in the earth. It would be rude to send him home in a tempest.

That's true… and anyway, we didn't even have a proper picnic. Her eyes strayed to the quilt clutched in her arms, nails biting into the plush fabric. He must be as hungry as I am. It's only polite to invite him to stay and finish eating. Deep down, she was fully aware of how reckless thoughts could be. After all, it was only their first date; wasn't she being a little too eager?

What does that matter? The snide voice protested. You're not some blushing little girl; you're both adults, and consenting ones at that. Even if something did happen, how is that any different from couples who sneak into the shadows during the Spring Festival? Not to mention the things that happen during Midsummer.

I—I suppose… but won't he think me forward for suggesting it? She snuck a glance at the broad-shouldered form striding ahead of her. After all, he can barely flirt without trying to apologize every five minutes.

He's unsure. That's why you must show him that you're not the innocent lady in a chivalric ballad.

But—

He was fine once you assured him that you enjoyed his flirting. What might he be capable of with a little encouragement?

Well—

She was so lost in the thought of what might be that she nearly plowed into him, stopping short only when his back was an inch from her nose. Thunder echoed around them, deep peals that resonated in her bones. The storm was almost too close now, the air smelling heavily of damp earth.

"You're going to be caught in the rain if you try to make it back to the bakery." He glanced at her over his shoulder, one brow arching to meet sodden bangs.

"Somehow I don't think that will matter at this point." It was true… just not what she wanted. She stepped closer, clutching the quilt to her chest as the wind left her bare legs shivering.

"I'm serious," she insisted, raising her voice to be heard over the next round of thunder. "Come inside." The offer, meant to be polite, sounded more like an order.

"Well, I…." He stared at the house, wilting as though faced with some foreboding obstacle. "That is—"

"You promised me a picnic," she interrupted, bridging the rest of the gap until barely a breath could pass between them. "We still haven't eaten." From the jumble of her thoughts, a plan began to form. "It's not outside, per se, but I do know of another place we might ride out the storm."

"You do?"

"There's an old conservatory at the back of the manor; it's been converted into a sunroom. We won't be disturbed there." Softening, she felt a blush creeping up her neck as she added, "We could always pick up where we left off… after we eat, of course."

"Of course." His flushed expression darkened further as he searched her face. A flash of lightning startled them both, highlighting a rivulet of water still hanging by a thread to his temple. The answering thunder rang in her ears before her dazzled eyes had time to adjust. "Alright. Let's go."

He reached for her hand, swallowing a quick gulp. She expected him to feel skittish, somehow—a tremble, if nothing else—but his grip was strong. He squeezed warmth into her chilled fingers, lingering only a moment before tugging her with renewed vigor towards the bridge as the first droplets pelted her upturned face.


Mrs. Eleanor Simmons had been housekeeper for the Belduke manor since its predecessor, Newton, was a young man. Her husband and two of her three children had been lost in the Great Fire; the entire family might have perished, had a bout of illness not kept her and the youngest at home. Despite this, she dedicated her life to keeping the home in order and its servants in line.

Having known her a lifetime, Eve often felt that she was more of a stern guardian than a mere servant. That's certainly the way she felt now, watching the elderly woman glare over her spectacles at the muddy mess they'd left in the foyer. A small team of servants had already tackled Barnham at their lady's behest, fairly manhandling him in an effort to get him both dry and presentable. Both quilt and food had been surrendered with some fuss, and now Eve was locked in a different sort of battle: deciding how to ensure privacy without sounding overly eager for it.

Belduke servants knew when to mind their own business, especially when it came to the family's mannerisms. There was a great deal of respect between them and their mistress; they took pride in their work and, so long as they were able to do their jobs with a degree of independence, they were more than happy to stay out of the way. But even so, there were few that she trusted to give her complete privacy.

"Hannah might bring tea, when it's ready." Mrs. Simmons might have held the pleasure of her mistress's highest regard, but as lady's maid Hannah was a close second. She was a reliable and trustworthy girl, possessing both a penchant for hard work and—more importantly—the ability to keep her mouth shut. "To the conservatory, not the drawing room."

"As you like." Mrs. Simmons' brows jumped as Barnham managed to disengage both footmen from his ankles, nearly trampling a poor housemaid in the attempt. It took everything Eve had not to wince as the woman's mouth pursed in a discouraging frown. "And the food as well, presume?"

"Yes. We'll arrange it ourselves. I want to be able to focus on my guest," she included, trying to summon the same calm conviction that had always seemed to come so naturally to her father. "Unless there's an emergency, I expect full privacy this afternoon."

"Of course, ma'am."

"Argh!" With a stumbling lurch, Barnham was released from his persecutors. His face was red from its impromptu scouring with a dry cloth, shirt sleeves yanked down over his forearms and unruly hair sticking out in damp spikes; the neatness only served to make him look more disheveled. Mrs. Simmons' nostrils flared, somehow managing to look down at him despite being two feet shorter.

"Zacharias, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Simmons." Still disoriented, his attempt at a courtly bow ended up lopsided. "Mrs. Simmons, Zacharias is my… my date." It seemed odd to say it aloud, although that's exactly what he was. Even odder was the small thrill that ran through her as the word danced over her tongue. We're dating… I can hardly believe it. Shaking the thought and its accompanying emotions from her mind, she cleared her throat before adding, "I'm not sure if you recall when—"

"Indeed I do." The thin lips tightened further. "My memory has never failed me, and even if it had, I'm sure that I'd remember anyone foolish enough to bring down an antique chandelier: one that has been in the Belduke family for no less than three generations. And with a sword, no less."

Her tone made it clear that she found the memory distasteful beyond measure, dripping with more passive venom than one of Ms. Primestone's lectures. Barnham's jaw unhinged, the blood draining from his face as he caught the full brunt of her matronly contempt. His nervous gaze flitted from Eve to the housekeeper and back, looking positively green as the seconds ticked by.

"I-I-I offer m-my deepest apologies," he stammered faintly, shrinking under the withering glare. For a man who could storm a den of witches without a single fear, he looked absolutely terrified to be faced with the consequences of a single incident— one that was well over a year old. "I must confess… at the time, I was caught up in the moment."

"Clearly." The silence stretched again, tense with unspoken thoughts… or perhaps insults. Feeling a sliver of trepidation, Eve nearly took pity on her poor knight; it wouldn't hurt to play peacekeeper and mention that the chandelier had been promptly repaired. It had been sent to the Hungarian masters, and now anyone ignorant of the affair would have a hard time finding fault in the beautiful piece.

A twitch caught the corner of Mrs. Simmons' wrinkled mouth, fast enough that it was gone between blinks. Eve let out a muted sigh of relief, relaxing as the tension melted from the air. Even if her date didn't realize it, he was dangerously close to being teased. If she so wanted, the housekeeper could stand here and demand various apologies from him all afternoon. However, she merely turned in the direction of the kitchens, one neatly combed wing of hair doing well to hide the wry twinkle in her eye.

"I shall attend to your orders, ma'am." With a single jerk of her head, the servants scurried ahead of her down the long hall. "Hannah will be in directly."

"Thank you, Mrs. Simmons." She waited until the housekeeper had swept out of the foyer in a rustle of skirts before turning to smile up at her confused partner. The color was slowly refilling his cheeks, although he still looked like a schoolboy faced with a potential whipping. "What?" she asked lightly, trying to dispel his remaining horror. "Don't worry, she likes you."

"Likes me?!"

"Absolutely." She allowed herself a smile. "Otherwise, she'd have been more polite."


Now that Eve was the last Belduke, many of the manor's rooms had fallen into a sad state of disuse; the sunroom was no exception.

Not that it was abandoned, by any means. Mrs. Simmons often sat in there during the winter months with her sewing, content to soak up the sunshine without having to brave the icy elements. And the servants kept all rooms, including the sunroom, in constant readiness— at least, those not locked away from curious eyes. Still, no Belduke had made good use of it years; her father had probably been the last to use it regularly, before his practice grew to encompass all his spare time.

Eve had sparse, hazy memories of when it had been a true conservatory, filled with plants that seemed larger than life to a child's imaginative eyes. Her grandfather's illness had taken him when she was a baby, but she knew from stories that he was a solemn, reserved man who let action, not emotion, speak for him. He'd built the conservatory to house the plants he brought his wife from around the world, silent apologies for leaving her alone while he dealt with business.

She could remember begging to help water the brightly colored flowers, barely old enough to toddle down the rows after her grandmother's heavy skirts. Of course Grandmother Belduke's stately visage could be seen in the portrait hall, hung in its gilded frame next to Grandfather's. But in these memories her hands were clearer than her eyes or her smile; wrinkled hands with firm, elegant fingers that covered her own as she helped lift the bronze watering can.

Following her grandmother's death, Eve's grieving parents had made the room over into a commemorative Victorian sunroom. The exquisite woodwork had been painted a soft sage green, and the floors tiled with slate. Furniture design had been one of her grandmother's favorite hobbies; her fashionable pieces could be seen in nearly every room in the manor. One of her best wicker living suites was housed in the sunroom, and her most beloved plants still survived in well-kept urns.

Eve held memories of the sunroom, too. However, these were so faint that they seemed to be more like dreams or photographs, vivid tableaux in the otherwise cloudy fog of her pre-Fire childhood.

Her hands smudging the frosted windowpanes, watching snowflakes dance just out of reach as they followed the wind.

Her papa's careful fingers opening the latches on the rosewood chess case, lifting her up so that she could admire the carved pieces wrapped in velvet.

Nestling against a warm body, tracing the glittering outline of a brooch with one sleepy finger while a soft voice hummed a slow, wandering song.

She had avoided the sunroom for ages; it was a place of family and warmth, things that High Inquisitor Darklaw had no need of. She'd dispensed of those ties long ago—she had to, in order to craft the perfect cold, distant persona. But now she craved the sight of the circular room, with its high ceiling and arched windows. Labyrinthia was a new town, and she had a new life. It made sense to create new memories; who better to create them with than the one person warm enough to melt the High Inquisitor's ice?

Barnham passed her as he stepped into the room, craning his neck to look at the peaked roof. The rain was coming steadily, hammering against the glass and running in sheets down the broad windows. The world beyond the streaming water was a muted blur of color. It was a cozy sight, surrounded by the elements and yet safely warm and dry.

"We need to move the furniture," she stated. They could have used the wicker suite, but that wasn't in the spirit of a true picnic. She wanted to sit near him, to lean invitingly over the dishes without worrying about bothersome chair arms or shifting cushions. Turning to the room's one solid wall, she mapped out places for the furniture in her mind. "We can move the table and sofa over there. That will give us room to push the chaise and rocker out of the way."

"That's fine with me." She took one side of the table, expecting that he would follow her lead with the sofa. Grabbing her shoulder before she could push, he shook his head before taking the table's other side.

"I can move it myself."

"No," he protested gently. "It'll be better this way. Besides, I'd rather not be accused of scuffing your floors," he explained, only partly teasing. They carried the table to the wall, making sure that the rough bricks wouldn't catch the delicate woven siding before going back for the sofa together.

It was easy to work with him; her movements melded with his in a harmony that felt almost natural, different and yet alike. They were like two cogs in a machine, overlapping again and again without the need to verbally announce each step. One glance was all it took to know when to adjust their movements to match, sharing an equal amount of weight as they gingerly walked the sofa to join the table at the wall.

They didn't have many excuses to work as a true team anymore, a fact that saddened her. The reconstruction effort was one thing, of course. But that was an extended team of engineers, architects, and too many contractors to count… not to mention Labyrinthia's own volunteers, ever eager to help in any way they could. That was alright, but Eve missed the old days, too. When it was just the two of them, back to back against the world: the untouchable Inquisition.

It made sense, in a way—how many years had they worked hand in hand to keep Labyrinthia safe from witchkind? She'd naturally played a double role, skirting both sides in order to keep the scales in constant equilibrium. Still, she had to admit that it was fun to solve puzzles with him, to guess at miniscule details despite already knowing the crime's outcome.

There were even times, in the past, that life plodded along too slowly for anyone to find enjoyment in it. Usually a trial was just the thing to stir the pot, to—as Cantabella liked to say—keep the public on their toes. After deciding which unlucky witch's hourglass had ran dry, she would often leave the details to the more creative of her Shades. She liked to remain in the dark, able to experience the thrill of discovering a hot trail and following it to the close.

In her guiltier moods, she insisted that it was her cover—a way to help High Inquisitor Darklaw seem more convincing. It was a good idea to stay firmly rooted in the Story's convoluted plotline; she wasn't always the best actor, and having an alibi came in handy more than once. But the reality was that she enjoyed it too much: the mystery, the chase, the inevitable taste of triumph.

And, she was forced to admit, she'd spent many of those hunts basking, near reveling in her fellow inquisitor's undivided attention. It was always a pleasure to see Sir Barnham's intelligence at work in the field, to watch the gears turn in his mind as he worked through the various crime scene clues. He'd even occasionally manage to solve the puzzles before she could; it never failed to send her heart into overdrive.

Only her position as his superior, and the persona she was forced to uphold, had kept her from being an embarrassing puddle in the face of his sharp intellect. It didn't help that his entire countenance would brighten when she complimented him on a job well done. Each time his self-pleased smirk widened at the well-deserved praise, becoming something more genuine. It softened the planes of his face and her poor heart couldn't take it, hammering against her sternum until it ached.

She could only guess at what he gained from those rare interactions. It must have been impossible to ignore how the High Inquisitor blushed, averting her eyes so that he couldn't see the longing in them—even in those days she felt it, albeit in smaller, easier to control amounts. Was he pleased to see her so affected, even if nothing would ever come of it? Had he considered it a victory, or had he put it from his mind?

Why do those days have to be over? Why couldn't we still…? She waited for him to maneuver his side of the wicker sofa into place, her entire body warming at the thought of them devising puzzles one afternoon, each trying to stump the other with harder and harder questions. It would be fun on a rainy day like this—no, in late winter, with snow heaped on the ground and a strong fire blazing in the library grate.

Yes… it would definitely be late January, when the shadows are long no matter what the time of day. Firelight dancing off the cherrywood bookshelves, the only source of light in the room—well, maybe the two Tiffany lamps as well—and casting a warm glow on the shorter loveseat. Cold by nature, she would have to rely on him to keep her warm enough; they could wrap themselves in a thick quilt from the linen cupboard, cozied up together against the embroidered cushions as she tried to trick him with math puzzles.

He would laugh at her smugness, asking for hints when he finally gave up. She could refuse while he offered her anything and everything he could think of in lieu of coins, and then his hands would find their way beneath her sweater and she'd forget the answer to her own puzzle, lashes fluttering when he—

"Eve?" She blinked, swallowing quickly. "Is this not where you wanted it?"

"I— yes." God. He'd already let go of his side and was gawking as she stood idly, arms shaking from the weight of the sofa yet completely unaware of it. She quickly put her side down, heat flooding her from head to toe. To be lost in a stupid fantasy, and while the object of her thoughts stood in the same room, no less! "Forgive me," she mumbled, feeling the phantom flames lick her cheeks. "My mind was elsewhere."

"'Tis fine. Nothing to forgive." Even-toned as ever, he waved her apology aside with one hand before grabbing the end of the long chaise. His forearms flexed as he lifted it easily, any lack of grace compensated by the raw power evident in his stance. Silently, Eve cursed her servants and their penchant for orderliness. Of course they'd be the ones to roll down his sleeves right before a display of strength!

It was unusualto see his arms covered by fabric instead of metal. Armor was one thing, bulky and not very flattering. But she'd already grown used to his sleeves being pushed up and out of the way, safely above his elbows as he worked with tools or kneaded dough. She could have stared at his forearms for hours: dark skin and fine, fair hair, muscles that flexed with every subtle movement of his hands. It was mortifying how much the sight alone affected her.

"You don't have to stay that way." The words tumbled clumsily from her mouth. He paused, bent over the rocking chair, and stared blankly. "Your shirt sleeves," she tried to explain, not wanting to admit she'd spoken impulsively. "It's just that… I know you normally roll them up. You don't have to be uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable?" He scrunched his neck to study the neatly fastened collar, shining buttons all in a row and cuffs properly adjusted at his wrists. It was the sort of thing she expected from the servants themselves, but not him. "'Tis not my usual style," he confessed, "but 'tis formal enough for—"

"No. Don't be." Once again her traitorous mouth didn't bother waiting until she could think! It was too late now; she was still talking, barely understanding a word. "Formal, I mean. I didn't ask for it, I didn't—I don't want formality, not from you. At least, not right now." Their eyes met, neither moving a muscle until he averted his gaze with an anxious grin.

"You are, of course, a perfect hostess. But as you said, 'tis a date and I—"

"I mean it," she insisted, ungluing her feet from the floor with a jerk. She crossed the room quickly, reaching for him when she was close enough and releasing the top button of his collar. "I don't want formalities, or needless chivalry or… or whatever else is running through your mind." She all but yanked apart the fabric in her hurry, letting it fall open to show the blunt edges of his collarbone. "Sir Barnham didn't ask me on a date: Zacharias did. And that's who I want to learn to be comfortable around… you."

"Zack."

"…What?" He gently brushed her hands away, taking the collar for himself. Whereas she'd been fighting with it, he easily tamed it into the casual style she'd long grown accustomed to.

"You say Zacharias, although you might say Zack instead. Not many people can, but… you should." He blushed, fidgeting as he waited for her response. She didn't know what to say. It was true that very few were privy to that nickname: Rouge, for one, and some of the senior garrison knights. But she'd never… not even in her mind…. He'd always been Sir Barnham to her, before, even though she'd known his given name from day one. And then after he was just-Zacharias. She didn't know Zack.

She wanted to.

The doorknob squeaked, the sound enough to drive them apart. They stepped away hurriedly, smoothing their clothes before turning to the door. It flew open with something of a bang, a three-tiered service cart rumbling over the bumpy threshold with a rattle of silverware. Hannah followed, her golden brown rope of hair swaying as she shoved herself, voluminous skirts and all, through the gap. The lady's maid took a deep breath, righted her cap, and curtsied.

"Your tea, milady."

"Thank you, Hannah." Was there really need for the biggest serving cart we have? Not that it wasn't laid out beautifully; the good silver and her second best china had been stacked neatly on the upper tiers. The resulting display looked more like high tea than a picnic. There was a different quilt on the lower tier, lattice square instead of nine block. She turned to Hannah, one brow raised in silent query.

"Mu—er, Mrs. Simmons said that the quilt was wet in places," Hannah explained, glancing sideways at Barnham drying bangs. "I brought you another from the linen cupboard. I thought it might be important." Eve smothered a smile at her stilted language, knowing that she was doing her best to stifle her natural accent before company.

"Oh, yes. Thank you, we can handle everything from here." Eve nodded. "Please remind Mrs. Simmons of my prior instructions."

"Of course, milady. I'll see to it at once." She gave another, shorter curtsy, eyes cutting again to her lady's date. Barnham smiled politely at her, offering a half-bow, half-nod as he tried to work out where he stood in this unfamiliar hierarchy. Eve was sure that he saw only a polite woman and model servant, but she knew her servants. Hannah was only five years older, and had been her personal maid since the Great Fire. Used to a certain level of informality from both Hannah and her mother, she could easily see the ghost of a grin threatening to break the illusion of proper service. I'm sure I'll have more than enough questions to answer once he leaves….

"Good. We'll call if we need anything more."

"Very good, milady." The door closed behind her with a deft snick, leaving the two of them alone with the cart of food. Barnham squinted at the china, fingers twitching as he reached out to take a teacup and thought better of it. She knew how he felt, looking at the delicate settings. As a child, she'd often been admonished for straying too near the china cabinets. Now, as an adult, she was wary of using them, afraid to tempt fate and somehow mar the lovely designs.

"Are these—?"

"The Eldwitch flowers, yes." She handed him the teacup, watching as he carefully cupped it like a baby bird. He held it close to his face, staring intently at the hand painted petals beneath gilded lace framing.

"It's beautiful… I've never seen anything like it."

"My father…." She trailed off, a muted pain flaring in her chest. It still hurt terribly to think about him; once she allowed herself to grieve, the emotions seemed to come at the most inopportune times. At the same time she felt the need to share what few stories she held, keeping some part of her parents' memories alive with the telling. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried again.

"My father had this china created for my mother when she… before I was born." Her finger traced the lacy edge of the empty saucer. "It was a gift for something: their anniversary, perhaps, or a birthday. I'm not sure which."

"She died." The rest of the sentence was left unsaid, but she felt its weight hanging in the air between them.

"In the Great Fire. Papa loved her dearly… too dearly to speak of her once she was gone." The emotion she hated most was the anger, burning like acid in her throat with no way of escape beyond bitter tears. She fought against it, pushing down against the bite but allowing the sentiment to be aired. "I wish he had. I barely remember her as it is."

"This was hers." He handed back the teacup, closing her fingers around the thin handle until she cradled it as carefully as he had. "You remember that. It's a start, isn't it?"

"I suppose." Her eyes traced the scarlet brushstrokes, vibrant against ivory white. "I do remember that she loved the Eldwitch flowers. Did you know," she asked suddenly, "that they can only grow on the island?" He looked surprised.

"I did not."

"It's the groundwater. The water causes us to faint when we hear silver, but the flowers rely on it to grow. Their seeds won't germinate without it. If you try to replant them anywhere else in the world, they'll wither and die within a week's time. My mother was understandably fascinated by it—she was a scientist, like Papa. She learned about them when they studied together at university. I'm not sure which she loved first: the flowers or my father. But she came to the island for both."

He didn't reply, but his smile held more words than either of them needed. She felt the urge to kiss him just for listening, for understanding what she herself didn't entirely understand and accepting it without a word. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, filled to overflowing with an affection that was foreign to her, part happiness and part intense longing.

She had to turn away to compose herself, to lose sight of him long enough to refill her empty lungs. Taking the quilt from the lower cart, she spread it on the space they'd cleared before busying her hands with the food.

"Here." His hands covered hers, imparting a steadying warmth. She sensed, rather than felt, his chest at her back; a small movement on her part would have her leaned against him. How many times was it possible to blush in a single day, before one dropped dead from lack of blood flow? "Let me help."

"S-sure." Zack, she added, trying it out mentally before testing it on her tongue. He took the silver platters from her with the speed of a servant and ease of a baker, arranging them quite pleasantly on the quilt before plopping himself down on an empty corner of quilt. The only free space was directly beside him—an oversight, or an intentional move? Steeling her nerves, she kneeled next to him, slowly sliding her legs to rest beside her rather than beneath her skirts.

"Allow me." She took the teapot from its place and filled their cups. "Now," she said, trying to find some conversation that wasn't too heavy for a first date, "maybe I can finally try some of this… um…."

"Kozinjak," he supplied readily. "It's a sort of sweet bread, with raisins."

"I've never heard of it before." She took a bite, pleasantly surprised at the texture. "Is it one of Mrs. Eclaire's originals?"

"No, actually. It's from a family in town: my squire's, to be exact. When his mother learned I was apprenticed to a baker, she lent me a recipe book from her home country. Whenever we find one that sells well, we add it to the weekly rotation. Kozinjak's become one of our bestsellers."

"I'm not surprised. It's very good."

"If you want one of Mrs. Eclaire's recipes, I'd suggest these," he said, pointing to a plate of small, multicolored squares. "She told me once that the real name is pastila, but she calls them sweetmeats. I could probably eat an entire plate on my own."

"What's this one, then?" She gave him the floor, relaxing with cup in hand while he welcomed the opportunity to show off his knowledge, the extent of which was more than a little astounding. It was around this time last year that he'd first apprenticed himself to Mrs. Eclaire; listening to him now, she could have easily believed him to be a seasoned veteran of pastry. At the time, she'd thought it an odd choice of profession for an ex-Inquisitor. Now, it was easy to see that he thoroughly enjoyed the work.

I'm grateful, she thought, nodding along to his explanation of flood icing, that he was able to find a purpose beyond the garrison. Like many of his peers—her included— he'd spent the majority of his youth working towards a cause that no longer existed. To lose one's place in the world and be forced to carve out another made it easy to fall victim to despair. Not everyone was strong enough to remain standing when knocked off their feet.

Not that he'd given up on the Order entirely, of course. From what she heard, he split his time fairly evenly between the bakery and the garrison. However, his main focus was no longer centered around civil service, which meant that he could focus on himself. He deserves no less, after putting so much of himself into the Order all these years. It gladdened her that he'd been able to find that comfortable niche for himself… one that she was admittedly still searching for.

She ate as he spoke, sampling everything he pointed out to her and taking seconds of what she liked. She could feel his eyes on her, cataloguing what dishes she helped herself to and filing it away for future reference. It almost wasn't fair how sharp his eyes were. Even though they'd worked together all these years, she was sure he knew more about her from observation alone than she knew of him. Her mannerisms, her quirks, even her likes and dislikes were silently noted, leaving him free to turn that knowledge on her when she least expected it.

Chewing thoughtfully on the last meringue, he lapsed into a post-lecture calm. Spying a chance she all but brandished the teapot at him, determined to be a good hostess. Let that go down in your little mental notebook too, sir.

"More tea?"

"I thank you, but no." He patted his stomach, leaning back onto one hand with a sigh. "It was a delicious spread; I'm quite content." Eve seconded the notion; the gnawing hunger in her stomach was abated, but the space it left was quickly filled with hunger of a different sort. I suppose Maslow was onto something. Rising to her knees, she held out a hand for his teacup.

"Here, I will—"

"No. You set everything out, so it's only fair that I clean up," she insisted, waving his hands away. "Besides: if your food doesn't settle, you might get a cramp." She smiled playfully, only to swallow a gulp when her heart skipped a beat. Did that sound suggestive? I didn't mean it that way—am I overthinking again? Her barely-shaking hands clattered the china plates as she gathered them up into neat stacks. She arranged everything onto the middle tier of the cart, pushing it out of the way with her heel before settling back at his side, hands folded in her lap.

"Eve?"

"Yes?" She glanced at him through a curtain of hair, fidgeting with her nails as she waited. As brave as she'd appeared earlier, offering to continue their tryst seemed to have taken all the courage she had. He leaned over, following her wrist past the scar to clasp her hand loosely in his own. They sat quietly, listening to the rain drum against the glass as his thumb brushed soothingly over her knuckles.

"Z—"

"Ev—" They both broke off with nervous laughter. She squeezed his fingers, clearing her throat with an awkward cough.

"You first."

"I was only going to say that earlier you mentioned picking back up where we left off. If we wanted to."

"Yes," she admitted, strangely breathless. "I did say that. If… if you wanted to."

"Well… do you want to?"

"Do you?" He didn't answer, instead raising her hand to his lips and kissing it the same way he had the night of the festival. Her heart thudded heavily against her breastbone, a shiver slipping down her spine as she tried to remember how to breathe. How was it that he could be so… so… like this?! Bashful, sweet, and yet the simplest touch was enough to send her thoughts racing.

The space separating them closed slowly as he tugged her forward by the hand, drawing her onto his lap. She followed blindly, knees resting on either side of his hips and one arm looping over his shoulder to steady herself. The only thing keeping her body from his were her skirts, an unwelcome barrier that bunched over her knees and strained against her upper thighs.

"Weren't we like this?" He nibbled at her fingertips, each sharp nip going straight to her lower stomach. Nodding mutely, she felt her knees shake, going all but limp against him. Every inch of her warmed to him, the dull ache between her hips matching the rhythm of her heart as she pressed forward, desperate for more warmth, more contact… more.

It no longer mattered that this was their first date. They'd been dancing around each other for years, even before the Story's end, and she'd been forced to wait too long. Damn propriety, I need this.

"Then is it alright if I—" Both hands found his cheeks, dragging his face down to meet hers and cutting him off midsentence. For a long moment he didn't move, the world frozen in place. It shattered when his arms wrapped around her, palm heavy between her shoulders as he pulled her as close as possible. She rewarded him with more, smothering him with near-frantic kisses on his cheeks, his brows, his chin, mouth slipping and missing the mark more than once in her rush.

"Yes," she mumbled, bumping their noses as she moved from one cheek to the other. "It's alright, I want you to—" His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers fisting ever so slightly in her hair: not to pull, but to make her pause. The temperature of the entire room seemed to rise as he kissed her, tilting his head to take better advantage of her resulting gasp.

She could hardly believe it. This was… really happening? She tried to keep pace with her muddled thoughts, grasping at the back of his shirt for some kind of grounding leverage. Part of her was convinced it was a dream, something she'd spun up for herself in a fit of weakness. It wouldn't have been the first time his red head had slipped into one of her fantasies, replacing whatever dream lover she'd thoughtfully conjured.

But no, this was real. The giddiness was catching up to her. He was—Zacharias Barnham was really, truly kissing her, burning her alive with the culmination of every emotion that had built up between them since the festival, since… since the day they'd met, almost. She met his fire with her own, pouring everything she had into kiss after kiss: years of helpless teenage puppy love, lingering glances and sparring sessions that ended in hormone-fueled frustration, a crush that lived up to its namesake every time he looked right through her.

Her spine met the quilt and she let out a little squeak of surprise, the slate chilly against her back through the quilt. Cool air caressed her inner thighs; with a hint of embarrassment she found that her skirts were near her waist, legs bared to the room. He steadied her, catching himself on one palm before letting her yank him back down.

Her head fairly spun; it was all intensifying so fast. Now that they'd started, she didn't think she'd ever want to let go, to stop kissing him. But, feeling him fumble with the top button of her blouse, she realized that he might have other, better ideas.

A flutter of disappointment ran through her when she remembered just what it was she wore beneath her blouse. Wanting to be as comfortable as possible—and avoid bra lines—she'd chosen to pair her outfit with short stays and a simple half-chemise. Stays were more supportive than a strapless bra, and the sheer fabric of her blouse wouldn't have allowed anything else.

But traditional Labyrinthian fashion was notthe sexiest option by any stretch. If she'd only known that he'd have a go at her blouse before the date's end, she might have worn something a little more… revealing! There was no easy way to unlace her, not without taking off dress, belt, underskirts, and her blouse.

Only three pearled buttons were visible over the low cut of her dress, and he made short work of them before parting the white fabric. She tensed, waiting for the inevitable comment… that never came. His eyes, already dilated, darkened further as they skimmed over the subtle rise of her bust.

"Eve…." With the hair brushed from her shoulders, the rest of her décolletage was framed within the pale fabric of her parted blouse. He visibly swallowed, melting her further at the thought of his mouth watering over what he saw. Do I look good enough to eat? She was too shy to ask that sort of question aloud, but some part of it must have shown on her face. Licking his lips nervously, he bent his head to press a fluttering kiss against the hollow of her throat.

"You're lovely," he whispered hoarsely, lips brushing her skin. Something in her chest stuttered in answer, a soft sound tickling the back of her throat. He traced the line of her collarbone, infrequent kisses increasing in fervor as he reached the pale, creamy skin pillowed beneath. His hands were hot as they roved over her thighs, squeezing appreciatively before gliding back up over her tensed stomach. He tugged at the chemise in an effort to reach every inch of available skin, kissing her over and over until it was impossible to hold onto a single thought for more than a few seconds.

She barely noticed the way he growled as she squirmed under him, one hand fisting in the quilt while the other tangled in his thick hair. It was maddening; even as she fought to escape his ticklish, insistent mouth, she still craved even more. He mumbled something unintelligible against her chest, hand pinning her hip to the floor in an effort to keep her still. She whined in reply, heels digging into the quilt and spine arching in clear supplication.

Without warning he bit her, sharp canines sinking hard into her flesh. She let out a yelp, fingers tightening in his hair and yanking until he pulled away with a hiss. The resulting mark was already darkening, the start of a perfect bruise right over her heart; she surveyed it with a scowl. At the very least it would be easy enough to hide, provided she didn't wear any lowcut tops until it faded.

"I warned you to hold still," he huffed, entirely unapologetic. Still, he soothed the spot with a gentle kiss before crawling back up her body, fingers skimming along her ribs. Warned!? Who'd put him in charge? She squirmed harder, fighting his questing hands and determined to retaliate at the first given opportunity.

He faltered only a moment, watching her closely with a puzzled frown. Then, rolling his eyes, he easily brushed off the assault before pinning her wrists to the floor with one hand. Again he hesitated, and she realized he was giving her time to say no. His meaning couldn't be clearer: if she no longer wished to continue, this was her chance to make it known. Otherwise, he was content to play her little game, even if it meant a fight.

And to be fair, she wanted a fight—no, a battle. A final end to all those intense sparring sessions, where cowardice and lack of a worthy excuse left them both frustrated beyond measure. She wanted to tackle him to the ground, to rip at him with teeth and nails and be ripped at in return, rolling around until their sweat-slicked bodies were bruised and battered in every place imaginable.

She struggled, nails curling against her palms and head twisting to avoid him. Calmly his free hand turned her by the cheek, pushing her back into place too easily. It wasn't fair! They were matched in intelligence; why not also in strength?! He shouldn't have been able to overpower her so easily. Where was her sporting chance?

He kissed her painfully slow, thoroughly exploring her mouth, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest whenever she bit at his lips. By the time he let her breathe she was properly panting, lungs aching for air and chest heaving as she stared up into his flashing eyes, hair mussed and lips swollen with kisses. He looked half-wild, the tips of his hair practically alight whenever lightning seared the sky; she couldn't have been faring much better, not with her curls tangled across the quilt and dress hiked up around her hips.

Even after she caught her breath he remained stoic, watching her with narrowed eyes. She knew he was cataloguing her again, no detail escaping him as he filed her away like a crime scene. Huffing impatiently she jerked her arms, wiggling halfheartedly in an attempt to continue their one-sided battle. Why had he stopped before she was tired?

Obligingly he lowered over her, pressing down on her from every possible angle and hovering just out of range, moving away whenever she raised her head for a kiss. She protested wordlessly, feverishly trying to think of any way she might throw him off balance. If she could change her situation, flip them maybe, then she'd really

Every half-formed plan flew from her mind when he rocked his hips carefully against her. Her snarl sputtered into a gasp, blushing brightly as he repeated the motion. With her skirts out of the way she could feel everything, lashes fluttering helplessly as the back of her skull met the floor with a muted thud. Her hips rose to meet him, breath hitching whenever he pressed against just the right spot.

Her world shrank to the size of the room, time no longer holding any meaning. They could have been there for minutes, or hours, or—who knew how long. Who cared—she certainly didn't, her only thoughts centered on the pressure slowly building in her lower stomach, little jolts of pleasure racing through her every time his ragged breath ended on a moan.

He was clearly holding something back, the occasional curse slipping through his gritted teeth and fingers flexing around her wrists. So damn stoic…. It wasn't his fault; it was nothing more than a byproduct of his rigid knightly upbringing. But her so-called 'delicate sensibilities' weren't going to be offended by anything he could throw at her. She wasn't afraid of him; she couldn't be, not when he was her… her… he was hers.

"Zack—" His eyes flew open at the sound of his name, dilated so far that his irises were nothing more than thin bands of grey stormy enough to rival the tempest outside. She had meant to entice him to meet her halfway, to let loose of whatever it was he kept at bay. But he slowed his pace, a foreign emotion softening his features as he looked down at her. If she didn't know better, she might have thought him awestruck.

"Truly, a dream could not compare…." His voice was low and warm, adding even more kindling to the heat blazing in her veins. She wasn't sure he knew he was speaking aloud, jolting slightly when she spoke up.

"What dream?" He shook his head after a moment, bending to kiss her. She wasn't caught so easily off guard… but neither was she yet immune, letting him kiss her deeply before taking his jaw in her hands. Pressing her forehead against his, she nuzzled sweetly until he relaxed against her. "Tell me."

"What does it matter?"

"Mm… I'm curious." He paused, and then let out a low chuckle that left her limbs weak.

"I… in the most recent one, I was… I meant to… taste you," he finally admitted with usual bluntness. "Unfortunately I awoke before having the chance."

"Taste?" Her mouth was suddenly quite dry. "You mean… here?" Her hips rolled against his and he jumped, a fine tremor working through his body.

"A-aye. There." Their eyes met, turbulent sea against stormy sky, and he inhaled sharply.

"What?"

"Your eyes." He gulped. "I… shall I?" Shall you, sir?

Should he? she asked herself. To say yes… that really was the point of no return, wasn't it? Fooling around on a quilt was one thing, but letting him—as he put it—taste her, that was… something else. What if this was nothing more than the heat of the moment, something they'd both regret later? No… no, that's not it at all. I want this. She was nodding without realizing it, stopping only when his knuckles stroked her cheek.

"Are you certain?" Am I? Oh god, I am.

"Yes," she breathed, already shifting in anticipation. His jaw went slack and he nodded, looking around helplessly before his eyes landed on the chaise. A spark of ingenuity lit his face and he turned back to her, worming his hands beneath her thighs.

"N-not here," he stammered, testing his grip. "Hang on, lo—Eve." Obediently she looped her arms over his shoulders, clinging to him while he lifted her clear from the floor. Her stomach dropped and she bit her lip, burying her face against his neck. His pulse fluttered nervously against her cheek as he quickly carried her to the chaise, dropping her lightly on the end of the longer cushion and pushing until she was spread out along its length. "This should be more comfortable than the floor."

"Yes," she repeated, reaching for his collar.

"A-are we… are you ready?" He looked confused, the protocol tripping him up. Feeling bold, she let her legs fall to either side of the cushion, peering up at him through her lashes.

"I've never done anything like this before."

"Neither have I."

"Then… I have one little rule." She raised onto her elbows, gazing imploring to where he sat on the end of the cushion.

"Anything," he agreed immediately. "What is it?"

"It's my turn when you're through." He blinked.

"Pardon?" He paled as her words sank in. "No, Eve—you don't have to—I don't expect—"

"That's the way it goes," she insisted. "It's not fair for you to have all the fun. I want a turn, too."

"But—but—"

"Please?" she all but mouthed, the sound lost on a soft sigh. He gulped, cheeks darkening as he choked on his breath; he ran a shaky hand through his hair, coughing harshly to clear his lungs.

"God, you— you're going to kill me if you keep doing that." She smiled, lifting her hips in silent encouragement.

"Fair's fair."

"I— is it truly what you desire?"

"More than anything," she vowed. "Now… promise me? Zack?"

"Very well." He leaned down, kissing her forehead chastely. "If this…" he continued, moving down to her collarbone, "is what…", to her stomach, "you want…." He paused, massaging her calves. "Then I give you my word."

"Please." It was more of a true plea now, her body heating as he slowly ran his hands beneath her skirts. He pushed them up achingly slow, ignoring how she clawed at her dress in an attempt to help. "Hurry!"

"Shh…." With precise movements he lifted them out of the way, draping the swathes of cloth on either side of her body and making sure they'd stay there before studying the view before him. What was left of her coherent thought was used up in a prayer of thankfulness to past-Eve, who'd at least opted for one modern article of clothing.

Still on her elbows, her belly hitched as she watched his fingers run along the elastic of her panties, feeling her skin before sliding over the fabric and down between her legs. He seemed utterly absorbed in the task, inadvertently teasing as his fingertips skated over the inside of her thighs. Ticklish, she twitched, prompting him to look up at her questioningly.

"Is this okay?"

"Hurry." He slid from the cushion with a good-natured sigh, kneeling at the end of the chaise before motioning for her to lie back. She collapsed, trying to hold onto the last shreds of her patience. There was a pregnant pause, and she nearly came off the cushion entirely when he yanked her towards the edge without a word of warning. "Zack!?"

"Needed… closer," he muttered, pressing apologetic kisses along her inner thighs. The mark on her chest stung warningly; knowing him, she'd end up with a few on her thighs if he wasn't careful. Not that she'd really mind. She let out a grateful breath when he finally slid her panties off, too eager for what was to come to be really worried about what he thought.

At least, not until he stared.

"What?" He blushed, looking away guiltily when she pressed her thighs together.

"It's just… you're very pretty." She let out an impatient breath through her nose, throwing an arm over her eyes and trying to appear unaffected as she let him draw her legs apart. It didn't help that she flinched when he tried to touch her again. "What's wrong? Do you want to stop?"

"No, but… I really haven't done anything like this before."

"I believe you." He ran his thumbs over the seam of her thighs, chafing as he spoke. "If ever you want me to stop, then you only need say so. I'll obey."

"I trust you." It was true. There were so few people left in the world for her to trust, but he was one of them. She'd have gladly placed her life in his hands… but he was only asking for her heart. And it would be so easy to let him have it: who else but him had any use for it? There was no one left to interfere, no city demanding their attention. He was the only one left, and he wanted to devour her, and she couldn't think of any good reason he shouldn't, not when he was gentleman enough to hold her hips to his face—

Kissing her thigh one last time, he let out a soft hum before bending his head for a taste. The first few licks, entirely experimental, had her brow furrowing at the sensation. It wasn't painful, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Just—new, and a little odd. He rose with an inquisitive frown, tongue working in his cheek, and she knew plain as day he was judging her the same way he would any new flavor. She held her breath, waiting for a verdict.

He caught her glance and gave her a crooked smile, eyes twinkling as if they were no more than two good friends, sharing a lighthearted secret together. Before she had a chance to respond he buried his face between her thighs, a satisfied moan vibrating her from the ground up. It was a blessing she was already on her back; had she been standing, she would have had no choice but to sink to the floor.

Hands lifted her hips higher, pushing her as close to his mouth as she could possibly get. His tongue delved deeper, tracing over her entrance before flattening to mold to every crevice she had in one long lick. She quivered, knees bracing against his shoulders as she lifted her hips, giving into the need to ease the thick tension growing taunt at her core.

He surfaced only once, eyes dazed and wiping the shine from his mouth as he caught enough breath to speak.

"Is it good? Tell me if you need—"

"Keep going, don't stop now—" That was all the guidance she could offer, which was thankfully all he needed. She found herself praising the same keen observation she cursed earlier; his eagerness to learn every facet of her body more than made up for their combined lack of experience. His head dipped, lapping with wet flicks of his tongue that she could hear even over the rain.

Every part of her was warm and melting, thighs twitching every time he found a spot more sensitive than the rest. It amazed her that she could move at all, but her body was no longer under her control; she bucked and squirmed against his mouth, relying on him to catch her before she rolled off the cushion entirely. She felt him grin against her folds and let out a shaky groan, his arrogance both annoying and arousing.

In the end he changed tactics on her, focusing all his attention on one spot with enough vigor that she had no choice but to anchor her hands in his hair. She loved it, the way it curled in vibrant copper strands around her pale fingers, soft and luxuriously thick, the sounds he made whenever she thoughtlessly pulled. The pressure was just right and he didn't stop, taking her at her word as he swirled and licked and sucked until the stars blinked behind her eyes. She whimpered, every breath filled with fragments of his name, jumbled words and pleas, begging him for everything he had—

She didn't have enough breath to cry out when she came, the resulting mewl sensually sweet as she went entirely limp in his grasp. He eased her down to the cushion, continuing to work even as her hands slid from his hair. A couple of his fingers found hers, lacing through and squeezing gently as he licked her clean, stopping only when she made a weak, protesting noise.

Kissing his way back up her body, he lingered at her stomach, nibbling the soft skin at her navel while she relaxed. Her mind was hazy, thoughts disjointed as she absently watched him wipe his mouth on his shirt before smiling at her. He's cute….

"Did you like it?"

"Mm…." She touched his face, the lightest possible brush of her fingers. "That was… mm."

"Not the most eloquent compliment, but I'll take it." He stretched out as best he could beside her, holding himself up with one elbow. Too worn out to even roll her eyes, she let out the best sarcastic breath she could muster. That wasn't fair, either; he shouldn't be allowed to talk to her until she was capable of speech. Then again, let him… it would just make it more fun when it was her turn.

My turn… my turn! She glanced down, grinning slyly at the obvious bulge in his pants. He followed her eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly and catching her hand before she could touch.

"My turn," she protested, flexing her fingers. He opened his mouth to argue. "You promised."

"Aye," he agreed, defeated. "But I'll warn you now: I'm, um…." He turned his head, burying his face in the hair near her temple. "It won't take long."

"You like it that much?" she teased, running her fingertips over his zipper and delighting in the sharp breath he took.

"It's just—the sounds you made when—I'm never going to have a good night's sleep again," he grumbled, kissing her temple.

"Zack," she laughed, feeling oddly playful. She was more relaxed than she'd been in a long time, her thoughts temporarily free of worry and woe alike. "Zack," she repeated, cooing as she found the waistband of his trousers. "Can I?"

"You—" He was cut off by a rhythmic beep, raising his head to find the source. She very nearly bit her tongue in two, jaw snapping shut as a scream threatened to bubble out of her. Can they not follow simple orders?! "What's that noise?"

"It's the phone." She swung her legs off the cushion, ignoring his smirk when she wobbled on standing. She crossed the room, nearly yanking the entire phone off the wall as she ripped the receiver from the base. "What?" she hissed between clenched teeth, not caring who it was.

"It's an emergency," Hannah replied calmly. "We're flooding."