The Enchanted Greenhouse(69)

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Terlu fell asleep with her face smushed against her notes. Waking, she blinked at the moonlight streaming through the window. She hadn’t used the privy before falling asleep and now she desperately needed to. She dumped her notes on the table as she padded past it.

She used the toilet, swished some toothpaste in her mouth, and then stumbled out. Her limbs felt heavy, and her eyes were only half-open. She climbed back into bed, grumbling a bit at how much space the winged cat was taking up, and fell immediately asleep.

Hours later, when sunlight streamed through the window, Terlu realized that she’d crawled into the wrong bed. It took a moment for the facts to penetrate her foggy-with-morning brain: she was nearer to the window than usual, the winged cat was sprawled across the other bed, and Yarrow’s arm was flopped across her.

It was nice.

Very nice.

And she should definitely not be in his bed, uninvited.

But if she moved, would that wake him? What was she going to say? What was he going to think? Did he know she was here already? Was he going to think she’d climbed into bed with him on purpose? And would that be a bad thing?

Yes, yes, it would. If she was ever going to move beyond friends—were they even friends yet?—with Yarrow, then she wasn’t going to do it by being sneaky. He deserved to have a choice.

Yarrow shifted in his sleep, curling around her. His breath warmed the back of her neck. She felt like she fit within his arms, like a book properly shelved.

She dithered so long about whether to stay or move that Yarrow woke up.

“Um, hi?” he said.

“Hi.”

“You’re in my bed.”

“Yes, I am.” She winced at herself. “I got up in the middle of the night and … uh, missed my bed.”

“Ahh,” he said.

He didn’t move his arm from around her.

Terlu searched for what to say. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very well,” he said gravely. “You?”

“Very well.” Her voice squeaked a bit.

“Good.”

“I’m glad you slept well too,” Terlu babbled. “It was … warmer this way, even if it was a mistake. Because of the cold outside. There must be a draft from the window, but I couldn’t feel it. Because it’s warmer with two.” Oh, for the love of the sea, stop talking!

“It is warmer,” he agreed. Then: “It was a mistake?”

“Yes,” she said.

Should I have said no?

He began to withdraw his arm.

“No,” she said. Then winced. “I mean, yes, it was a mistake, but it was a nice mistake.”

“A warm mistake?”

“Yes,” Terlu said.

Yarrow slid his arm back around her, and she wondered what it meant. And then she wondered if she was being an idiot—and then she decided that even if she was being an idiot, that didn’t mean she had to continue being one.

Terlu twisted until she was facing him, within his arms, her breasts pressed against his chest. His eyes were wide, the flecks of gold brighter than she remembered. “I’d like to kiss you,” Terlu told him, “if that would be okay with—”

He kissed her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

She had kissed and been kissed before, but never like this, like she was the most precious jewel in all the Crescent Islands. His lips were warm and soft and tasted like honey—how did anyone taste like honey when they first woke? His hands were on her back, pulling her so close that she could feel his heart beat through the fabric of their shirts, and she wanted to be closer, to be enveloped by him—

A thud thumped on the door. “Yarrow! Terlu!” Lotti called from outside.

They broke apart.

Yarrow disentangled himself and threw himself out of bed. Terlu felt as if a bucket of snow had been dumped on her head. He yanked open the door and demanded, “What’s wrong? Is another greenhouse failing? Which one?”

“No. Not that.” Lotti hopped inside and then shook her petals and leaves. Bits of snow flew around her. “Eeks! Cat!”

Half falling out of bed, Terlu launched herself forward and grabbed Emeral before he could fly at the little rose. She cuddled him as she carried him to the icebox, where she offered him some grouse. Forgetting the talking plant, he dedicated himself to nibbling on the unexpected breakfast.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Yarrow said. He was shedding his nightclothes and pulling on work clothes, heavy pants with many pockets and a warm shirt, and Terlu tried not to remember how it had felt to be pressed against him—that moment had passed, and she had no idea if another mistake like that would happen again, or if he wanted it to.

Lotti sighed dramatically. “It’s the other plants.”

“Are they hurt?” Yarrow demanded.

“No.”

“Are they asleep again?”

“No.”

Terlu tried not to glance over at Yarrow as he buttoned his shirt over his chest. His chest hair was golden, tapering in between his muscles. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Are they being unkind to you? I can talk to them.”

“It’s not that,” Lotti said. “They’re … singing.”

Slowing as he secured his belt around his waist, Yarrow scowled at the little rose. “They’re supposed to sing. Laiken spelled them to sing.”