Chapter 6The night burned, cold as rain and hot as the hearth. Lorre turned from the table, got up, went to the fire. The scorching of it laced his fingertips when he held them out: close to the flame.
He felt Gareth at his back, poised at the table. He said, not turning, “It won’t matter. What you say. I’d still help you.”
A scrape of chair, a brush of wood over floor, suggested motion. Gareth crossed the room quietly, ending up at his side. Their eyes met: Gareth’s were layered and sweet as chocolate, not entirely calm but entirely certain about a decision.
Gareth said, “Of course it matters. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No. As if you could. And you need me.”
“I might,” Gareth said. “Need you.” His voice, in that faded Northern burr, took the word and burnished it into gold. His hair
