I looked at him across the desk. This man who had sourced peonies from a hothouse two hours south because I had paused at a picture of it. Who had stood outside my door for four minutes and seventeen seconds before knocking. Who had sat on the edge of my bed yesterday morning counting something I hadn’t yet understood the significance of.
The pull toward him was so strong it was almost physical.
And underneath it, immediately, like a shadow following light:
But did he choose you? Or did your bloodline choose him?
“Thank you,” I said.
I turned to leave.
“Isla.”
I stopped. Didn’t turn around.
“Whatever you’re working through.” His voice was careful. Precise. The voice of someone choosing every word. “You don’t have to do it fast. You don’t have to come back with answers.”
A pause.
