because she does not know if she will get another chance, she whispers, “I love you.” He pulls her close, into the safety of his arms. He smells of pine sap and pouring rain and ancient things, of the manor’s dusty corridors and of old books and of magic. He smells of home. “I…,” he says. She hears his breath catch in his chest, and for a moment she is afraid he won’t say it. But he does. “I love you too, Liska Radost.”
