A Fragile Enchantment

by Allison Saft

Something in her face must have changed, because his body became charged with awareness. He twined his fingers into her loose hair, pushing it back from her face. His hand seared her chilled skin like a brand. She knew, down to her very marrow, that she was about to be kissed. Her head swam. It felt like a dream—a fairy tale. It didn’t feel possible, that she should’ve been allowed to have something she wanted so badly. “Are you sure?” she blurted out. “After everything that has happened, I understand if you are tired, or—” “Stop talking.” He kissed her.

She crossed the room and opened the door. “I wasn’t expecting you until—gah! Kit!” “You were expecting someone else?” Wry amusement glittered in his eyes. “Who do I have to duel?”

Sinclair frowned up at the balcony. “Are you sure you can do this? You have a way of tripping over air.” “Ghosts push me, I’ll have you know!” She huffed. “Have a little faith.” “Very well,” he said skeptically. “I’ll see you soon.”

She laughed breathlessly as he lifted her off the ground. “Kit! Don’t drop me, please!” “I won’t. I’ve done this once before, remember?” “Oh. Right.”

“What do you think?” Kit leaned over her and tapped the ashes into a glass tray. “Will he keep his word?” “He seemed sincere enough.” Sinclair snatched the cigar back from him and smiled with catlike slyness. “But if he doesn’t, there’s always Lovelace to keep him accountable. That goes for you, too.” Kit rolled his eyes. “You’re a prick.” Sinclair laughed, a full-throated sound Niamh hadn’t heard in a while. “Tell your husband to be nice to me, Niamh. That kind of language isn’t becoming of a good, respectable politician.” Niamh sprawled out languidly and rested her head in Kit’s lap. With a yawn, she said, “Be nice, husband.” As if on reflex, he began to stroke her hair. He scoffed. “When have I ever been nice?”