Page 74 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

“Of course.”

She stood, shaking out the hem of her gown. “You watched the whole thing, didn’t you.”

His lips curved. “Long enough to see the moss become a new hat.”

Angela pressed her lips together, then looked at the ceiling, then back at him. Until the laugh spluttered free, and her snort at trying to stop it only made it worse.

But then his warm, low laugh made it seem okay.

It lasted only a moment before that stern expression reassembled itself into the composure of a captain, though his stunning eyes were brighter than they’d been a second ago.

“In my defense, every fire I’ve ever started involved a lighter or a gas knob.”

“Hmph.”

She tilted her head, watching him cross the room with that unhurried strength in his stride.

He crouched beside the hearth, reset the board and the tinder, and positioned the curved stick with strong and sure hands. She couldn’t help but notice those powerful hands, without their gloves.

“Wait,” Angela said.

He glanced at her sideways.

“You could just—” She snapped her fingers. “Couldn’t you?”

He looked back at the unlit fire. “Yes.”

“You’re made of fire.”

“I’m aware of what my magick can do.”

“But you’re down here. On a stone floor. Holding a stick.” She looked at the stick as the smile she was trying to suppress grew. “Is this—are you doing this on purpose?”

“I prefer to do some things by hand.” His tone had that flatness she was learning was not coldness. “When I can.”

Angela opened her mouth. Closed it. The obvious joke was right there, but she let it hang in the air for exactly one beat. “I won’t say it.”

“Good.”

“I thought about it.”

“I know.”

“It was a very good one.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I have yet to understand your otherworld humor.”

“Right, I’m an alien, now. Graduated from prisoner, have I?”

“You are neither of those things. Now watch and learn.”

She pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and watched him work. And him. There was so much of him that, honestly, he was the only thing worth watching.

In seconds, he spun the stick. The moss caught with a thread of smoke first. He blew at it to create a curl of amber flame that he transferred to the firewood to let it catch. She expected him to stand then, to step back to the doorway, keeping that composed distance he wore like a second armor.

Surprisingly, he didn’t.

Instead, he settled back on one heel, his forearm resting on his bent knee, and watched the fire find its form.