The first snow comes early. We’re curled by the fire when he says it. “You could still go. Before winter locks the passes.” I set down my book. “You don’t get it, do you?” He frowns. “They threw me in here to die. You caught me. Held me. Gave me…” I gesture to the lair—the books, the herbs, the cloak he wove me. “This is my choice. Every day, I choose you.” His throat works. “Why?” “Because you see me. Not a witch. Not a sacrifice. *Me*.” He crushes me to his chest. “Always.”
