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Harrow was still gaping at the red-haired baristar’s beautiful smile when Abigail Pent appeared in the doorway of the coffeeshop. At the sight of her, Harrow jolted with sudden adrenaline, and dragged a confused but unprotesting Gideon—she’d said her name was Gideon, hadn’t she?—around the corner out of sight.
“What’s the deal? Are you hiding from that woman?” Gideon craned her neck, trying to see around the corner; Harrow pulled her back with two fingers hooked around her chin, a sudden startling contact that almost made her gasp even though she had initiated it. “Who is she, your mum?” Gideon was asking.
“I wish,” Harrow said without thinking, and then thought—if she wished it, then maybe it was true, here.
And then realized, stomach freefalling, that if she was able to think of that, then it was all falling apart. Within seconds, this whole little universe would be gone.
“Listen, I’ve got to get back to work,” Gideon said, but she wasn’t moving. She was just staring down at Harrow with those gold-coin eyes, one hand on Harrow’s waist as if she’d instinctively placed an arm between Harrow and her pursuer.
A few shop customers were watching them curiously. One very familiar, wet-haired woman with chains around her neck and wrists looked Harrow in the eye and said, “This isn’t how it happens.”
“I know,” Harrow said, her voice strained.
She grabbed Gideon’s face in both hands and kissed her.
And it wasn’t real, she knew it wasn’t real, but it felt real. It felt like everything she’d tried so hard not to imagine—Gideon’s warm skin under her palms, her lips pressing hot against Harrow’s, firm muscle shifting around her as Gideon wrapped her in her arms. Gideon had always been the only hot, bright, healthy thing amongst the Ninth’s cold and crumbling decrepitude.
Harrow let the kiss trail off. Gideon, sounding giddy and drunk, said “Sure, okay,” and pulled her in again.
In that moment Harrow would have let Gideon do anything she wanted, pliant and soft while water prickled the corners of her eyes. But Gideon demanded nothing from her. She was fervent, to be sure, her big callused hand cupping the back of Harrow’s head so the rest of her could press in on Harrow eagerly, but every movement seemed to give more than it took. At her heart, Gideon had always been desperate to please, to earn something from Harrow that Harrow hadn’t known how to give her.
Abigail came around the corner, and Harrow pulled away with a gasp, shoving Gideon behind her as if to protect her.
“Oh, Harrow,” Abigail said, exasperated but not unkind, “absolutely not.”
And everything dissolved.