The rain had stopped, but the world still dripped.
Drizella's boots squelched through the muddy lane as she pulled her shawl tighter. Cinderella would be at home by now, singing sweetly while pretending not to notice how everyone admired her. Anastasia would be studying her embroidery, lips pinched with effort. Their mother would hover, fussing, reminding them endlessly that appearances meant everything.
And Drizella? She would rather choke than sit through another evening of that.
She cut through the back alley, ignoring the smell of damp hay, and reached her refuge: the old library.
Once, it had been magnificent. Marble steps still rose proudly, though cracked and worn, and the doors—half splintered, one hanging crooked—gave the place the look of a forgotten giant. The townsfolk said it was cursed after a fire decades ago. Books were left to rot, shelves to crumble, roof beams to sag.
Which meant nobody came here—nobody but her.
Drizella pushed the door with her shoulder. It groaned open, scattering dust into the shafts of sunlight that pierced the broken windows. She breathed it in, letting the quiet wrap around her like a familiar cloak.
Then she froze.
Someone was sitting in her library.
A man, of all things, tall, broad-shouldered beneath a travel cloak, hair a little too neat to belong to a beggar. He sat cross-legged on the floor among fallen shelves, a book in his hands. His lips moved as he read, brow furrowed in concentration, as though the cracked leather volume contained the secrets of the universe.
Drizella narrowed her eyes.
"You're in my library."
The man startled, snapping the book shut. He looked up, blinking, and for a strange moment, his eyes—clear, deep gray—met hers. Something flickered there. Surprise. Amusement. A shadow of loneliness.
Then he smiled.
"Yours?"
"Yes, mine," Drizella said, stepping inside with as much dignity as she could muster. Her skirts snagged against the broken wood, but she ignored them. "Nobody else comes here."
"Ah." He tilted his head, lips curving. "Then perhaps I should ask permission."
"Perhaps you should leave." She crossed her arms. "What are you, some failed scholar? A vagrant with delusions of grandeur?"
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Neither. Just a man who likes quiet."
Drizella scoffed. "You don't look like a man who's used to quiet."
That earned her a soft laugh. Warm. Deep. Startling. "And you don't look like a woman who shares libraries."
They stood a moment in wary silence. Then Drizella stalked past him to her usual table, brushing dust off the warped surface. She pulled a book from the pile she'd been working through and sat, spine rigid, nose deliberately in the air.
Behind her, the man reopened his own book.
For several long minutes, the only sound was the flutter of pages.
"You read out loud," Drizella said suddenly.
He blinked. "I—yes. It helps me follow."
"You stumble over every other word."
His lips twitched. "Do I? I hadn't noticed."
"Of course you hadn't." She shook her head and muttered, "Idiot."
To her irritation, he laughed again. "Then perhaps you should read to me, Firebrand."
Drizella's head snapped up. "What did you just call me?"
"Firebrand," he repeated, completely unruffled. "You look ready to set this entire room ablaze."
Her mouth opened—and closed. Heat crept up her neck. "You're insufferable."
"And yet you haven't left," he said mildly.
Drizella stared at him, at the smirk playing around his mouth, at the calm, steady eyes that seemed too clever for his own good. Then she huffed, opened her book, and muttered, "You won't last a week here."
But he did.
And she came back.
Again. And again.