The northern air hit me like a clean blade. Sharp, cold, uninterested in my feelings.
Below the ridge, the Creighton estate rose out of Luminarc's sprawl the way a statement rises out of a long speech. Glass and steel, with spell-work threaded through both; if you knew how to look, you could see the wards humming under the stone like a second skeleton. The gardens had been carved into the architecture in terraces, absurdly green against the grey metal and the first grey of winter.
Rachel met me in the garden pavilion. White coat, golden hair loose over her shoulders, and the particular calm she keeps for days when something somewhere is on fire. It lasted until our eyes met. Then the calm broke into a grin, and she crossed the pavilion in four quick steps and hit me like a warm landslide.
She held on hard. I could feel her heart going fast against my chest. "You're finally here," she said into my coat.
