Too late, she registered that she had not withdrawn from him—that she had not wanted to, despite the distance she knew very well she should hold between them. It would be a simple thing, to rise onto her toes and kiss him as she had the other night, to thread her fingers into his snow-white hair. His gaze trailed down her face and lingered, just for a moment, on her lips. He was right that he had never exactly been subtle; Clarion knew, down to the stardust in her bones, that he would let her. And yet, he stood as still as a sparrow man carved from ice.
