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“I got you,” Quigley grasped Violet’s forearm and pulled her up beside him. “This ledge is solid. We should sit here for a moment to get our strength back.”
“Good idea. You’re an excellent climber,” said Violet.
“You’re an excellent inventor,” Quigley shot back, watching her catch her breath as she looked down at their intimidating distance from the ground, and then up at their intimidating distance from the top.
“Thanks,” said Violet, still too occupied to meet Quigley’s gaze. “But let’s not celebrate yet. There’s a long way to go.”
“‘Celebrate when you’re half done/And the finish won’t be quite as fun.’ My sister wrote that.” Quigley looked down, corner of his mouth perked up in spite of the wistful ache in his chest.
“Once we find Sunny, we’ll search for Duncan and Isadora,” said Violet sincerely.
A black glove slipped away from Violet’s fingers.
“Your glove!” Quigley exclaimed as both children turned their attention downward to its fluttering descent.
“We’ll get it on the way down,” said Violet absentmindedly as she looked out again, staring in wonder at the landscape. “You know, if you have to hide a headquarters, it’s a beautiful place to do it.” Icy mountains met a cloudy grey sky, tinged fiery pink at the horizon. “It’s a lovely view.”
“Very lovely, indeed.” Quigley, eyes set on Violet instead, gave a small smile. Violet turned, cheeks flushed, and met his gaze.
“We should get moving,” Violet said after a pause. She looked away, embarrassed at her inability to stop smiling, and fiddled with her remaining glove. “My fingers are already getting a bit cold.”
“Do you want to use my gloves?” Quigley took them off immediately and offered them to her.
“I’ll be fine. Besides, I couldn’t take what’s yours. I’m the one who lost a glove,” dismissed Violet quickly. “I wouldn’t want your hands to get cold.”
Quigley solemnly reached out for Violet’s bare hands with his own. “They’re warm enough.” He watched Violet quietly, as her eyes remained focused on their hands in her lap.
He was true to his word. As his fingers wrapped under Violet’s palms she felt heat in their grasp and it spread to her cheeks, up her spine, across her chest, in her heart. Her thumbs ran across his fingertips and, in a tender symmetry, his thumbs stroked her knuckles.
Violet looked up through her eyelashes to find Quigley watching her, seeing her. She saw gentle admiration in his eyes, a hint of intensity surfacing as his gaze flitted, briefly, to her lips. A smile broke across his face. She pressed for answers.
“What is it?”
“It’s funny,” said Quigley, voice low and tentative, “how the warmest smiles can exist on the coldest of days.” He bit the inside of his lip, intensely aware of their proximity, allowing him to observe closely the details of Violet Baudelaire: the flutter of her bangs as wind blew against them, the pink tinge of her nose against her pale complexion. She was worth memorizing.
“Well, a cold day is the best time for a warm smile,” Violet reasoned.
“I couldn’t agree more,” murmured Quigley with a tiny shake of his head. He seemed content enough to share this moment of quiet intimacy the way it was, and was still. Violet, however, was not.
She pulled his hands in and leaned toward him, heart pounding furiously as if she’d just climbed a thousand frozen waterfalls. She stopped, close enough to him to see the flecks in his irises, close enough to breathe in the air he would have exhaled if his breath hadn’t stopped. Quigley closed the distance between them, meeting her lips with soft exaltation.
After a heavy moment Violet drew back, almost afraid his lips had burnt their impression onto her skin. They exhaled silently, close, together, both of their gazes concentrating fiercely downwards to veil their own quiet elation. Another moment passed before Quigley spoke again.
“Let’s get moving, then.”