Soft as Spring

Chapter 4: The Public Score

I got my first point at the Friday review.

The silver number above my name changed from zero to one while the rest of the cohort applauded their own scores. I stared at it until the single bright mark seemed more real than the room around it.

"Congratulations," Professor Wren said.

"Thank you."

"You've made progress."

I tried not to look for Noah in the crowd. He wasn't a student, and he wasn't supposed to be there.

Then I saw him at the back, beside the doors, holding a clipboard for the restoration crew. He gave me one quick nod. My face warmed.

Mason Cole was waiting near the review table. He was handsome in the confident, easy way of someone who'd never had to rehearse a simple sentence before saying it.

"Eleanor," he said. "I heard you finally got a point."

"I did."

"I'd be happy to help you build on that." He glanced at Noah. "If you want to practice with someone who knows what he's doing."

Noah's mouth tightened. He didn't move.

Mason had declined to partner with me last year. He'd also told his friends he found my magic "too delicate to be useful." I had heard him say it through an open library door.

I could still remember standing in the corridor afterward, deciding that no one would ever know I had heard.

"Thank you," I said, "but I already have a partner."

Mason tilted his head. "For now."

I felt the old impulse rise: smile, agree, let him make the situation smaller. Instead, I looked at him.

"No. I mean I've made a choice."

His smile thinned. "Fair enough."

He turned away before I could decide whether I was proud or terrified.

When I reached the doors, Noah held them open. "That sounded like an invitation to compete."

"It was."

"Were you tempted?"

"To say yes? No."

"To prove you're better than him?"

I looked at the silver one above my name. "I was tempted to prove I could say no."

"And did you?"

"I think so."

He nodded. "Good."

We walked toward the glasshouse. The fall wind carried the smell of rain through the courtyard.

"My supervisor wants a progress report," he said. "The Conservatory's making a review of the restoration project."

"You have a supervisor?"

"Everyone has one."

"I thought you were an outside contractor."

"I am."

It was another locked door. But this time I saw the strain in his face before he hid it.

"Do you want me to ask something?" I said.

He stopped walking. "What?"

"I'm trying to learn the difference between giving you space and pretending I don't care."

The wind tugged at my hair. Noah watched the leaves scud across the paving stones.

"I don't want to talk about it here."

"All right."

"And I don't want you to make up a version of me because I haven't told you."

"I'll try not to."

"Try harder than that."

The words stung, but I nodded. "Okay."

We finished the work in the glasshouse without speaking about the ring. When we parted, he reached for the door at the same time I did. Our fingers brushed.

Nothing in the air changed. No silver thread appeared. The moment wasn't a score.

That night, I wrote the sentence in my journal anyway: I wanted to ask him to stay.

I crossed it out.

Then I wrote it again, in smaller letters.