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It is late spring, not even summer yet, but it’s still among the warmest evenings Snowe has ever known. He leans against the doorframe and blows on his tea. Sweaty air licks back against his face, making the skin flush. The mug in his hands feels almost too hot.
Astra is sitting cross-legged on the porch’s edge, atlas and translucent paper spread out in her lap. She is near halfway done tracing a map. Most of the tracing is too light to see from here, but Snowe can make out a few pencil marks denoting mountains, rivers, a city. The paper glows a little in the waning sunlight.
Inside, Hiante and Vera are engaged in quiet, intense discussion, most likely over a book Hiante wants to borrow. Richard is out on business; he’ll be back later tonight. Although Erio is a guest, he volunteered for dish duty. There is an occasional muffled clank of porcelain in the kitchen.
It’s the last light of sunset, the bright flare of light that comes just before darkness. Light catches Astra’s hair, burnishing it like copper or gold. There are shadows at her neck and back, shadows creeping across the lawn in front of her, shadows barricading the sides of the porch… The light grows red, redder. The light makes Astra’s hair look like it’s burning.
Or—wait! I know—I’ll burn her limb from limb—
“Hey Snowe, I can barely see. Will you light the lantern?”
He realizes that Astra has craned her neck to talk to him, and tears his gaze from her head to the lantern hanging under the porch eaves.
“Uh. Sure.” His fingers slip while he’s bending to put the tea down, but he catches the mug in midair before it smashes. Spilled tea stains the porch. He sets the mug aside, breathing in deeply, and wills his hands to stop trembling.
“Are you okay?” Astra asks. The very top of her hair is still on fire, but she’s facing him now, and her eyes are shadowed and cool.
“I’m fine. It was hot tea. J-just give me a second.”
She gives him a knowing look, and he’s pretty sure she’ll say something like, Forget it, I’m tired anyway, let’s go harass Erio while he cleans. That would be kind of her. Astra is kind.
“Just a second,” he repeats.
“All right,” she says, with suspicion.
He stands on tiptoe to reach the lantern. Astra is watching him, or trying not to watch him. Snowe fumbles with the lantern door. He takes another few deep breaths, tries not to think, and performs a simple flame spell.
It works. The fire stays inside when he closes the lantern. Astra, the atlas, and the traced map are bathed in even yellow light. She picks up her pencil again.
“Thank you, Snowe.”
“Of course,” he says.
Snowe picks up his mug, now cooled, and heads inside. Hiante is knitting, a recently acquired hobby. He tried crochet first, but found he works better with two needles. Vera has chosen some light reading in the form of an ancient grimoire. It sounds like Erio’s finished the dishes; Snowe hopes he’ll let him rinse out this mug. Like the old royal cook, Erio tends to get territorial about the kitchen.
It’s night now, but the air is soft and balmy. It will be summer soon. Astra has been talking about planting a garden. She wants morning glories and sunflowers. There’ll be room for Erio’s herbs, too.
The escape lifted a weight off Richard’s shoulders, or so it appeared, but he has seemed more and more tired lately. Still, he lit up when Astra brought over the seed catalog. Richard will probably come home exhausted. Snowe considers waiting up for him, but then Richard would think something was wrong. Maybe he’ll just leave some tea out.
It’s a warm night, a very warm night. The nights to come will be warmer still.