Vicky

“But what of you?” Gabriel said, and they
were very close now, almost touching. “It is
your choice to make now, to stay or return.”
“I will stay,” Cecily said. “I choose the
war.”
Gabriel let out the breath he hadn’t realized
he was holding. “You will give up your
home?”
“A drafty old house in Yorkshire?” Cecily
said. “This is London.”
“And give up what is familiar?”
“Familiar is dull.”
“And give up seeing your parents? It is
against the Law …”
She smiled, the glimmer of a smile.
“Everyone breaks the Law.”
“Cecy,” he said, and closed the distance
between them, though it was not much, and
then he was kissing her—his hands awkward
around her shoulders at first, slipping on the
stiff taffeta of her gown before his fingers
slid behind her head, tangling in her soft,
warm hair. She stiffened in surprise before
softening against him, the seam of her lips
parting as he tasted the sweetness of her
mouth. When she drew away at last, he felt
light-headed. “Cecy?” he said again, his
voice hoarse.
“Five,” she said. Her lips and cheeks were
flushed, but her gaze was steady.
“Five?” he echoed blankly.
907/1090
“My rating,” she said, and smiled at him.
“Your skill and technique may, perhaps, require
work, but the native talent is certainly
there. What you require is practice.”
“And you are willing to be my tutor?”
“I should be very insulted if you chose another,”
she said, and leaned up to kiss him
again.”
― Cassandra Clare