But Cade was already saying, “No,” saying it over the end of that pain; Jeremiah should never be wounded by his carelessness, much less when he—when they—when Cade himself wanted—“No. I mean yes. At first. It wasn’t you, it was—everything. My parents. The inn. The wind—”
“It was too much,” Jeremiah agreed, not without recognition.
“You weren’t,” Cade explained helplessly. “You weren’t. You were—the best part of it. Someone who kissed me in the rain, who—you were there that first night. Every night. When I wanted you. I only—I wanted to not think. For a while.”
“I know what you mean.” And he did, Cade could see it: if anyone could, of course Jeremiah Carver could. Someone who’d loved and lost Cade’s parents too, someone who knew about the lure of magic, someone who gave uncomplainingly:
