The library looked entirely normal.

Regis paused for a moment after closing the door, looking over at the place where he and Charlotte had been backed against the wall the night before. The small table she’d grabbed had been replaced—and that was the only reason he knew anything was different. No blood on the carpet, no scorch marks from the fire arrows, nothing.

Charlotte had meetings all day, he knew, and he’d planned to spend the day there, but that was before. Still, the library wasn’t something he wanted to be afraid of.

Trust. Charlotte said that was what she had to do. So he took a deep breath and started browsing.

Hours later, quick footsteps distracted him, and he looked over to see Charlotte running lightly up the spiral stairs. Regis met her at the top of the stairs, and then for a moment paused, but Charlotte seemed to pause at the same time, so they smiled a little. When he hesitantly held out his arms, she slipped into them.

Regis held her close, breathing into her hair. “I thought you had meetings all day?”

“I have a fifteen minute break before lunch,” she said. “I got done with the Duke of Snowden early.”

“Isn’t he the one who likes things short and clear?”

“Exactly.” Charlotte pulled back to look over his face worriedly. “Have you been here all morning?”

“I don’t want to be driven off,” he said. “I’m trying to turn my back on empty spaces and focus on books.”

“I can tell,” she said. “You’re shaking.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But how does one not . . . worry is the wrong word.”

“It’s alright,” she said, brushing some of his hair out of his face. Her fingers were warm. “It’s alright to be scared.”

“I don’t want to be,” he said. “Not enough to do this.” He held up one hand so she could see how badly it was shaking. She took it.

“You’re ice cold,” she said. “Come down to sit by a fire.”

They went back to the first floor, and despite his protests Charlotte found a lap rug to put around his shoulders.

“No wonder you’re shaking, you’re still wearing short-sleeves,” she said. “It’s getting to the end of harvest.”

“It was warm enough this morning,” he said.

She shook her head. “I forgot to warn you—have you ever been further north during the snows?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. Since I got you into this I’ll have someone make you some coats—”

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Do you have any?” When he hesitated she nodded as if that settled it.

“You don’t have to pay for my coats,” he said. That’s what she meant.

“What if I want to?” she asked.

“I do have some money,” he said.

She leaned closer to him, half serious, but that young, mischievous spark in her eyes. “Bah.”

Something about that made him laugh.

“Still,” he said, “I’m not that poor.”

“Hmm, but I want to,” she said.

“Charlotte—”

“It’s selfish, I promise,” she said, “so you’d be doing me a favor by accepting.”

Regis raised his eyebrows.

“It’s true,” she said. “I like you and I want you to be warm, and look nice—”

“Charlotte—”

“You’ll be under so much scrutiny, after the story and I’m still keeping you with me—”

“Charlotte—”

“Fine,” she said, sitting up straight, looking away with her nose in the air. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Regis burst out laughing.

“Hey,” she said, batting at him, “I’m trying to make you melancholy that I’m upset with you.”

“I saw you down to a t, didn’t I?” he asked, still laughing. “You’ll think of better arguments and go after me again tomorrow until I either give in or you decide making me melancholy for another day works, in which time you’ll think up more arguments—”

“I didn’t realize you were so dangerous,” she complained with the cutest pout he’d ever seen. “I’ll never get my way around you.”

The spark was back, and Regis eyed her warily. He knew as well as she did that knowing what she was doing didn’t mean he wasn’t susceptible.

“Oh,” she said, “I have to go in a moment, but I forgot the best part about you never being farther north, aside from having to accept clothes as gifts—”

“I’m not going to,” he said.

“—it’s that you’ve never seen snow tunnels, or been to a ball in an ice cavern, or—well, you’ve never seen the snows at their finest.”

She’d been eying the clock, and now she jumped up. “I have to go, but—” she hesitated, and then leaned down and kissed him softly before disappearing through the door.

The snows descended the week after that, dozens of feet of thick, packed snow, and the evening after first construction on snow tunnels started Regis came back to his room to find two inconspicuous packages on one of the chairs. They were the right size, and Charlotte had been mischievous without an apparent reason for the hour they’d just had together. After a moment he decided not to deal with them right then, and went to bed.

In the morning, fortified by a reasonably good sleep, he opened the first one.

“Charlotte,” he muttered at the coat as he held it up. “I don’t like thinking about clothes.” It was probably exactly his size, and it was simple enough it wasn’t obviously expensive. He tried it on, and yes, it fit perfectly. On the other hand, it made his other clothes look horrible—and if it looked bad to him, he could only imagine how it would look to other people. Nem had always taken care of both of their clothes, so he’d never given it more than a passing thought.

The other one was a nicer coat, the kind you wore over nicer clothes. The foreboding feeling in his stomach only grew when he saw her again over breakfast. He couldn’t ask her outright, but the hints of her mischievous look, and how she wasn’t looking at him almost ever except with a completely bland expression, told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He knew she had an hour free later, so he waited for her in the library, but he didn’t know what he’d say. It was enough that he didn’t look up from the book he was scanning when he heard the door close and her footsteps. It was the first time he’d done that, but it was her light footsteps on the stairs. Then she wrapped her arms around him from behind.

“I know you’re mad at me,” she said, “but I already had them made, so don’t waste them—”

“Charlotte—” but when he turned around her smile was so wide he stopped. There was a hint of nerves in that smile.

“They’re not so nice they’re noticeable,” she said.

“How am I supposed to respect myself if you’re dressing me?” he asked. Coats, he knew, would likely only be the beginning.

“I wondered if you were thinking that,” she said, and took his hands, holding them earnestly up between them, and turning serious. Almost princess serious. “Regis,” she said, “you can leave whatever I give you behind if—when you go home,” she blushed fire at the slip, “but for the snows you are mine.”

He half suspected she slipped on purpose to throw him off balance and that, with her soft kiss, made it hard to argue.

“Just . . . nothing else,” he said.

“But you’re from Setan,” she said, almost whining a little, “so you won’t have any of the right clothes.”

“Nem brought me some from home,” he said.

“Iles is too far south. You’ll need something better. And I know you only have one suit.”

“Charlotte—”

She seemed to have realized kissing him threw him off balance enough she could convince him. “You’re here as my guest,” she said when she drew back, “and since I didn’t even warn you to bring better clothes, as your hostess it’s my duty to see that the mistake is righted. And as for not respecting yourself, that’s ridiculous.”

“That’s the best argument you have for that?” he asked.

She pouted. “You could man up and take it as a nice gift.”

Regis laughed.

“Please?” she asked. “Don’t think less of yourself because I want you to look nice.”

“But I don’t care about looking nice,” he said.

“I do,” she said. “So, to please me? Is it really that much of a blow to your pride?”

Regis gave up. “It won’t always work,” he said. “Nem gave up trying to manipulate me years ago when I learned her tricks too well.”

“Alright, I won’t do something like have them made anyway again, and I will buy your acceptance with reason. Deal?”

“Are you sure you can keep to that?” he asked.

She considered. “Unless it’s really for your own good,” she said. “If it gets really cold and you refuse all warm clothes to the point that you might actually freeze to death I will put my foot down. I’ll talk to you about it first, though. That I can keep to.”

She might, Regis realized, be more truly stubborn to a fault than Nem had ever been—or himself—but somehow her seriousness over the subject and earnestness in wanting to be kind despite his opinion made him smile.

“I guess I’ll have to learn quickly,” he said.

“You could ask Geo,” she said.

“If he’ll tell me something more about you?”

She seemed to think that was fair. “You could ask my ladies.”

“They don’t seem to like me very much, if I read their looks right.”

“Really? But they know I like you.”

“They probably think I have ulterior motives.”

“Bah.”

She steered the subject far away from clothes for the rest of the hour, and when they parted Regis went straight to the writing room to start making notes.

Her implication—if he left—made his heart jump and his cheeks heat, but whether she’d meant the implication or not, he should figure out how to at least match her stubbornness. As was he’d spend at least the snows being gently bullied into what she wanted. He didn’t mind some of that, especially since she’d probably always look incredibly pleased to get her way, but he still felt uneasy about her buying him clothes, and they were two different people so they were bound to disagree on other things—some of them would be important. He didn’t want to know how to win against her, but how to—oh, the cliche—win with her.

Regis twisted the quill in in his fingers for a while, staring at the blank paper. Maybe her implication was different than he thought, but . . . what if it wasn’t? What if she wanted him to stay for much longer than the snows? What would that mean? And could he possibly hope that she meant . . . .

After about an hour, her historian friend came in, and paused, looking at him uncertainly, he got up.

“No, I don’t want—I can come back later,” she said.

“I’ve decided I don’t actually need to write anything,” Regis said. Besides, if he wrote out his thoughts he’d have to burn the papers before anyone read them. “The room is all yours.”