Chapter Three, Part Two — Garrick

I head alone down the hall that closes in on itself, narrowing until the walls come together around me. There are two ways of getting backstage: either through the curtain in the grand theater or through a secret door – Brom made me memorize the entire building.

And then I find her. Pink hair.

Not golden, not black, not brown. Not even the sun-bleached copper like half of the people in Solis.

Pink.

She’s not short, nor tall for a woman her age, and stands next to one of the display tables, half-hidden under a curtain of shadows. Her hair reaches just below her shoulders and hangs in jagged waves of vibrant color. She’s reaching towards something on the table.

My eye is drawn to the item drawing her hands to it. A necklace. It resembles the sun.

Her fingers reach for it. 

I step forward. Three long strides put me directly behind her.

I grab her wrist before she touches it.

Slowly, she turns her head. Her eyes get wide.

Then quickly she catches up, with a smile. Not sweet, and certainly not innocent.. Like mischief has realized that I might be worth its while.

She’s good. Far too good.

Her wrist is still in my grip, slim and warm beneath the leather of my glove. I tighten my fingers before she can slip free.

Her smile only widens.

“You know,” she says, voice soft as silk over a blade, “most people introduce themselves before grabbing a lady.”

“You are not a lady.”

Green eyes brighten. “That was quick. You decided that from one look?”

“I decided it when I found you with your hand over an auction piece.”

“Maybe I was admiring it.”

“With your fingers?”

“I’m very thorough.”

I should call for help.

That is the reasonable thing. The Watch-approved thing. The thing Brom would expect me to do if he were here, and, unfortunately, he is not.

Instead, I stare at her.

She is nothing like the women drifting through the front halls of the Gilded Exchange, wrapped in silk and arrogance. Her skin is fair, kissed across the nose with faint freckles that somehow make her look more real than anyone in this marble tomb. Her hair is pink — actually pink, which I still can’t get over— falling loose over one shoulder. And her eyes are the worst part.

Jade-green.

Sharp. Amused. And completely unafraid.

She tilts her head, studying me as if I’m the object on display.

“You’re new,” she says.

I frown. “No.”

“To this post, then.”

“That is none of your concern.”

“So serious.” Her gaze flicks over my uniform, lingering briefly on the sunburst over my chest. “Does the Watch train that into you, or were you born frowning?”

“I was born with common sense.”

“How sad.”

“You were about to steal.”

“Borrow.”

“You do not borrow jewels from auction houses.”

“Not with that attitude.”

My jaw tightens.

She notices – inevitably.

Her smile changes slightly, a bit smaller, friendlier. “What’s your name, guard?”

I don’t answer. She already knows too much.

She leans closer, just enough that I catch the scent of citrus and smoke clinging to her clothes. “Come now. If you’re going to ruin my day, the least you can do is let me know who to blame.”

“You can blame yourself.”

“Can I? That sounds terribly boring.”

“You are under arrest.”

The words should land like iron.

Instead, she looks delighted.

“Oh,” she says. “That is adorable.”

Adorable.

My grip tightens again. “Do you have any idea where you are?”

“Too much gold. Not enough taste.” Her eyes slide toward the jewel. “Very poor security.”

“I am security.”

“Yes,” she says, looking back at me. “That’s the poor part.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

I pull her hand farther from the jewel. “You talk too much.”

“And you blush too easily.”

“I am not blushing.”

“That’s a shame. It suited you.”

For a dangerous second, I’m speechless.

She uses that second.

Her free hand moves fast.

I catch it before she reaches the jewel, pinning both her wrists between us. The movement brings her closer, close enough that her breath hitches, though her smile does not falter.

For the first time, I see something beneath the mischief in her eyes. Certainly not fear; she’s a bold one.

Calculation.

She isn’t flirting because she’s careless. She’s flirting because it’s working, partly, or entirely, my fault. 

I force my voice lower. “Try that again, and I will drag you through the front hall in chains.”

Her gaze dips to my mouth, then rises slowly back to my eyes.

“Promises, promises.”

I hate that my heart stumbles.