EverHeart

Chapter 19: Moira in Celebration

LUCY

Puerto Espera started celebrating at six in the morning.

I knew because someone began ringing the church bells at six-oh-three.

A door opened across the hall.

Marco appeared with sleep-mussed hair and a deeply offended expression.

“What happened?”

“Festival.”

“At six in the morning?”

“Apparently.”

Another bell joined the first.

“That's hostile.”

“You wanted to experience local culture.”

“I wanted to experience it after breakfast.”

I turned toward the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Black. No sugar.”

I glanced back.

He was already walking away.

He knew.

That shouldn't have made waking up easier. It did.

---

By eight-thirty, Marco had developed opinions about my clothes.

“You're wearing white.”

“I am.”

“You always wear white.”

“That isn't true.”

He leaned against the doorway in a pale blue linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

It was irritating how well it fit him.

“I also wear cream.”

Marco stared at me. “That's white with ambition.”

I ignored him and reached for the hair tie around my wrist.

“Don't.”

My hand stopped.

“What?”

He looked briefly horrified by his own mouth.

“Your hair. It looks nice like that.”

I'd left it loose after showering, still damp at the ends.

A faint flush appeared high on his cheekbones.

Interesting.

I lowered my hand.

“Fine.”

Something brightened in his eyes.

“If we don't leave soon, Cami will come here.”

Marco straightened. “Let's go.”

I passed him.

“You look really nice, by the way.”

I stopped.

“Thank you.”

Then, because apparently I'd abandoned caution before breakfast, I added, “So do you.”

Marco caught up outside three steps later.

He was smiling.

---

By nine, Puerto Espera had transformed.

Colored ribbons stretched between balconies, some charmed to shift from sea-blue to violet in the wind. White flowers framed doorways, silver fish made of light darted through the fountain, and music spilled from every direction.

Marco watched a woman using a translucent second pair of hands to arrange flowers.

“Projection charm.”

I looked at him.

He frowned. “I knew that.”

“Yes.”

“I don't know how.”

“You also know what a door is.”

“Doors aren't magic.”

“Some are.”

He considered that. “Fair.”

Then Marco smelled the food.

Three stalls stood within sight.

“Oh.”

“Try not to bankrupt me.”

“I haven't even asked.”

“You're looking at that stall.”

“I'm appreciating it.”

“With my money.”

I took out my wallet.

“Bring me something.”

“What?”

“Surprise me.”

That stopped him.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

His expression softened.

“Okay.”

He disappeared into the crowd.

I watched him go.

That was becoming a habit.

---

Cami found me ten minutes later in a yellow dress and an enchanted blue ribbon that seemed to be losing an argument with her hair.

A curl escaped. The ribbon shimmered and tucked it back.

Three seconds later, it escaped again.

“I paid extra for this.”

“Perhaps it doesn't like you.”

“It's defective.”

Then she looked at me.

“Oh.”

“No.”

“You look pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Marco saw you?”

Her smile widened at my expression.

Fortunately, Marco returned carrying enough food to make my budget theoretical.

A tiny winged creature hovered beside his shoulder, stealing candied orange from his tray.

“Sugar sprite,” Cami said.

“I know.”

We both looked at him.

Marco paused. “I know?”

The sprite stole another piece and vanished.

“That was mine.”

Then he held a pastry toward me.

“You said surprise you.”

Orange cream.

I took a bite.

Sweet, sharp, not too sweet.

“Well?”

“Acceptable.”

Cami leaned toward him. “She likes it.”

“I know.”

I frowned. “How?”

“The left corner.”

“What left corner?”

“Your mouth.”

My hand almost rose before I stopped it.

Marco smiled.

I looked back at the pastry.

“Eat your food.”

---

By afternoon, the harbor was crowded.

Fishing boats wore flowers, ribbons and polished protective charms. Water-born families gathered nearest the edge, children dangling scaled feet into the harbor.

Marco stood beside me, close enough that our arms touched whenever someone passed.

He was better with the sea now. Not entirely. An engine backfiring could still tighten his shoulders, and sometimes his gaze stayed on the horizon too long.

But today his hands rested loosely against the seawall.

A blue ribbon had appeared around his wrist.

“You're staring.”

I turned toward the boats. “No.”

Marco laughed and bumped his shoulder lightly against mine.

I didn't move away.

Neither did he.

---

At sunset, Puerto Espera released its lights.

Hundreds rose from glass lanterns—gold, cream and pale blue drifting above the streets like stars that had forgotten which direction the sky was.

One descended toward Marco's hand.

He lifted his palm.

The pale gold deepened.

Blue appeared at its center.

I went still.

Marco frowned.

Then the light floated away, ordinary gold once more.

“Did you see that?”

“Yes.”

“What was—”

“Marco!”

Cami appeared through the crowd.

I stored the question away.

Later.

---

The dancing began after dark.

I intended to leave.

Cami disagreed.

Twenty minutes later, she'd dragged Marco into the square.

His body remembered dancing even if he didn't.

Of course it did.

I watched from beside the table as he learned the steps almost immediately. Cami spun beneath his arm, her yellow skirt flaring as Marco laughed.

Something small and unpleasant moved beneath my ribs.

Interesting.

I considered the feeling.

Then decided I disliked all the available explanations.

Across the square, Marco turned.

His eyes found me.

His smile softened.

Then he walked over.

“No,” I said.

“You haven't heard the question.”

“I don't dance.”

“Do you know how?”

“That isn't the same question.”

He held out his hand.

“One dance.”

I looked at it.

Open.

Waiting.

He didn't reach for me.

That mattered.

I put my hand in his.

---

I did know how to dance.

Marco discovered this within seconds.

His face lit up.

“You do know how.”

“I never said I didn't.”

“You said you don't dance.”

“I don't.”

He glanced at our joined hands. “Lucy.”

“This is clearly an exception.”

His smile widened. “I'll take it.”

He led me into the crowd, uncertain only until his body remembered the rhythm.

“There you are,” I murmured.

“Was I lost?”

“Briefly.”

“Did you miss me?”

I should have ignored that.

“Your foot was becoming a concern.”

He laughed, warm and unguarded.

His hand settled carefully at my waist.

Marco usually reached for the world without hesitation. With me, he was different. His touch remained light, as though waiting to see if I would object.

I didn't.

My hand found his shoulder.

“See?” he said. “You're enjoying yourself.”

“You have no evidence.”

“You haven't tried to escape.”

“The song isn't over.”

“So you're staying until it is?”

I'd walked directly into that one.

“Dance, Marco.”

His laugh came again.

We moved beneath the lanterns.

He turned me gently, and when I came back toward him, his hand found mine without searching.

Something about the ease of it caught me.

As though his body had already learned where I would be.

“You're smiling.”

“I smile.”

“Not like that.”

My smile disappeared.

Marco laughed.

“That was cruel.”

“You pointed it out.”

“I liked it.”

The simplicity of the answer made me look at him.

He wasn't teasing anymore.

“You've been doing it more,” he said.

“What?”

“Smiling.”

His voice was warm.

“I think Moira's good for you.”

I almost told him Moira had been quiet before he arrived.

“Perhaps.”

He blinked. “That's it?”

“Would you prefer I disagree?”

“No. I'm appreciating this historic moment.”

I shook my head, and he grinned.

Then the wind caught my hair.

Several strands tangled around the blue ribbon on his wrist.

“Wait.”

Marco carefully worked them free.

“You could pull it.”

“I could also not pull your hair.”

“Practical.”

“I have my moments.”

The last strand came loose.

“There.”

He should have let go.

Instead, his fingers remained around mine.

“Thank you.”

The crowd moved around us.

For a few seconds, we didn't.

Someone bumped Marco from behind. He stepped closer, his hand returning instinctively to my waist.

Neither of us moved apart.

His thumb brushed once against the linen.

Barely anything.

My breath changed anyway.

Marco noticed.

His gaze lifted to mine.

The music slowed.

So did we.

My attention fell to his mouth.

When I looked up again, he was already watching me.

“Lucy.”

He said my name softly.

Something inside me pulled toward him.

Not urgently.

That would have been easier to resist.

I simply wanted to stay there.

To let the song continue.

To find out what happened if neither of us stepped away.

And that was precisely why I had to remember what he couldn't.

Marco knew me as Lucy Hart.

He knew this island, this cottage, the life he'd built after waking with almost nothing.

For now, I occupied too much of that life.

Whatever this was becoming, I couldn't let that be the reason he chose it.

The final notes faded.

I loosened my hand from his shoulder.

Marco let me go immediately.

“Thank you.”

“For the dance?”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head. “You actually liked it.”

I should have denied it.

Instead, I looked at our still-joined hands.

“Yes.”

Marco went still.

The smile that followed was smaller than his usual grin.

Softer.

Almost shy.

“Good.”

I slipped my hand from his.

His fingertips brushed mine on the way apart.

I felt them long after.

---

We walked home after midnight.

Marco carried the leftovers.

I carried my shoes.

“I thought you were practical.”

“I am.”

“You wore shoes that hurt.”

“They didn't hurt six hours ago.”

He nodded gravely. “That's how shoes get you.”

I laughed.

His eyes went to my face.

That little pause again.

Our arms brushed as the road narrowed.

Neither of us corrected it.

The cottage appeared ahead, one window glowing.

Marco slowed.

“Nice.”

“What?”

“Coming back.”

My chest tightened.

The cottage was small. Recently repaired. Nothing remarkable.

Except Marco had a room down the hall now.

His shoes sat beside mine. His toothbrush was in the bathroom.

He had a key.

A chair.

A place.

And somewhere along the way, I'd begun measuring days by whether he was in them.

That was dangerous.

Not because Marco was dangerous.

Because he wasn't.

I unlocked the door.

“Home,” he said lightly as he stepped inside.

I stopped.

One day his memory would return.

He would have a surname. A family. A life that existed long before Moira.

And when that happened, Marco deserved to decide what he wanted with the whole world available to him.

Not because he owed me.

Not because I'd given him somewhere to stay.

Not because I was the first person he'd learned to trust when he couldn't remember anyone else.

Whatever he chose had to be his.

Freely.

The thought should have eased the tightness beneath my ribs.

It didn't.

Marco looked over his shoulder, hair untidy from dancing, blue ribbon still around his wrist.

“You coming?”

Behind him, the kitchen was warm.

Two glasses were already waiting on the counter.

“Yes.”

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.