Page 112 of Fire to the Stars

He drops a pack against a tree and rolls his shoulder. “I’ll pitch the tent. Would you gather some firewood?”

“Sure,” I manage, flushed from the hike.

It takes multiple trips, but I gather enough scrap wood to last us a few hours. Abel starts a fire and drags an old log beside it for us to sit on. Nightfall darkens the forest. Our tiny shelter shrinks to a dot of orange in the snow.

“This reminds me of the night we camped at the river,” I muse.

“But much colder.”

I place a hand on his thigh. “We can make it warmer.”

In answer, he twines his fingers with mine.

Lucy nips the flames while we eat our rations and talk about happy memories from our lives before things went wrong. The tumbles I took when Papa taught me how to ride. The sewing kit Madame Afi gave to Abel to take home for Micah. How his pompous parents wouldn’t have liked me, and that he wouldn’tcare.

Too soon, the fire dims. Fatigue sinks into my muscles. I’mlighting a lamp and about to suggest we retreat to the tent when Abel pulls the map from the bag. His gloved hands shake.

“Show me where we’re headed again,” he says.

I lean close. My lantern lights up the topography. “Here. Around the summit.”

For a moment, he holds his breath. That handsome brow twitches, as if he’s searching for answers that a map can’t provide. For a boy so accustomed to controlling the variables, blindly following my instincts must be difficult.

“Come,” I whisper. “Don’t think about it.”

I guide him inside the tent, then button it shut. I pull my coat off, then his, in the low lamplight. Layer by layer, our clothes come off. Lucy makes a den out of our coats in the corner and falls asleep.

Naked beneath the furs—for survival, Abel teases—we kiss slowly, patiently, until we’re too tired to keep our eyes open. I tuck my head beneath his chin. We pull each other close, savoring the drug of skin on skin. My mind wades into the river of his warmth and drifts ever closer to sleep.

Before I get there, Abel murmurs, “You’re sure the owls never hurt you?”

“Yes.” I run my fingers down his back, to soothe him toward rest, if nothing else. “I’m sure.”

Notify me immediately if you locate Marshal Payen. It isn’t like her not to show up for work!

—Station-wide notice for the Gendarmerie of Varsonne from info broker Lila Bailey

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Abel

On the second day, Claire trudges up the mountain without the map. I can’t stop looking down at it, questioning every slope and curve. The cartographer has included less detail the farther we go, as if this map was drawn from a distance.

Claire waits for me to catch up, then gives me a playful shove. “Men aren’t the only ones with a sense of direction.”

“I never said that,” I retort.

For the next several hours, I mentally pick through the clues we’ve discovered—dragon behavior, Noctu’s magic, the prisoner’s sickly pallor—but they’re puzzle pieces that never seem to fit. As we ascend the mountain, gendarmes double back to report no additional clues. No religious sites, no settlements, no secret magic civilizations. No sign of eau de vie. Not even a silverwolf track.

Claire’s life is in the Gods’ hands.

At night, I add a secret step to our routine. After Claire falls asleep in my arms, I touch my forehead to hers and pray to whichever God will listen.

Noctu. Diu. I don’t care who. Please show Claire your mercy so I don’t have to show her mine.

One more night until the full moon.

Snow clouds smother the daylight, but they don’t help my hyperawareness of the suns traveling across the sky. My breath draws shorter, the bags on my back grow heavier. It’s only midafternoon, but there’s still nothing.Nothingto show for this journey.