The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(62)

Closing his eyes, Gansey leaned his head back on his seat, chin tilted up, throat green in the dash lights. There was still an unsafe sort of smile about his mouth — what a torment the possibility in that smile was — and he said, “There was never a time when that could’ve been you and me. You know the difference between us and Kavinsky? We matter.”

Just then, in that moment, the thought of Gansey leaving for D.C. without him was unbearable. They had been a two-headed creature for so long, Ronan-and-Gansey. He couldn’t say it, though. There were a thousand reasons why he couldn’t say it.

“While I’m gone,” Gansey said, pausing, “dream me the world. Something new for every night.”





Good evening, king of swords.”

“And good evening, noble blade. Did you do a reading before I came? To tell you how it all worked out?” the Gray Man asked as he walked with Maura down toward the Champagne Mutiny. He had showered before he came, though he had not shaved his trademark grizzle from his jaw, and he looked nice, although Maura didn’t point this out.

“Did you kill someone before you left to pick me up?” Maura had traded her tattered blue jeans for a slightly less tattered pair of blue jeans and an off-the-shoulder cotton shirt that showed how well her collarbone and neck got along. She looked nice, although the Gray Man didn’t point it out.

But they were both aware that the other had noticed.

“Of course not. I don’t think I kill nearly as many people as you think I do,” he said, opening the passenger door for her. “Do you know, this is the first time I’ve seen you wearing shoes. Oh, so — what’s going on there?”

Maura glanced over her shoulder to where he pointed. A small, weary Ford had just pulled up behind the Gray Man’s rental car. “Oh, that’s Calla. She’s following us to the restaurant to make sure you’re really taking me there and not burying me in the woods.”

The Gray Man said, “How ridiculous. I never bury anybody.”

Calla gave a mean-spirited wave in his general direction. Her fingers were claws on the steering wheel.

“She likes you,” Maura said. “You should be glad. She’s a good friend to have.”

The tired Ford followed them to the restaurant and waited on the curb until the Gray Man and Maura were seated at a table beneath a honeysuckle and Christmas-light-covered trellis. Fans fixed in the corners kept the humid night at bay.

Maura said, “I’m going to order for you.”

She waited to see if he would challenge her, but he just said, “I’m allergic to strawberries.”

“Six percent of the population is,” she noted.

He said, “I see where your daughter came from.”

She beamed at him. She had one of those lovely, open, perfect smiles, genuinely happy and very beautiful. The Gray Man thought, This is the worst decision I’ve ever made.

She ordered for them. Neither drank any wine. The appetizers were delicious, not because of the kitchen, but because all food eaten in anticipation of a kiss is delicious.

The Gray Man asked, “What is it like, being a seer?”

“That’s a funny way to put it.”

“I only mean, how much do you see, and how clearly? Did you know I would ask that question? Do you know what I’m thinking?”

Maura’s smile curled cleverly. “It’s like a dream or a memory, but forward. Most of it is fuzzy, but sometimes we’ll see one particular element very sharply. And it’s not always the future. Oftentimes, when people come for a reading, we’re really telling them things they already know. So no, I didn’t know you would ask that question. And yes, I know what you’re thinking, but that’s because I’m a good guesser, not a good psychic.”

It was funny, the Gray Man thought, how humorous she always appeared, how that smile was always just a moment away from her lips. You really didn’t see the sadness or the longing unless you already knew it was there. But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Everyone had their disappointment and their baggage; only, some people carried it in their inside pockets and not on their backs. And here was the other trick: Maura was not faking her happiness. She was both very happy and very sad.

Later, their entrees arrived. Maura had ordered the salmon for the Gray Man.

“Because,” she said, “there’s something fishy about you.”

The Gray Man was amused.

“What’s it like, being a hit man?”

“That’s a funny way to put it.” But really, the Gray Man found that he didn’t want to talk about his work. Not because he was ashamed of it — he was the best that he knew of — but because he was not defined by it. It wasn’t what he did in his spare time. “It pays the bills. But I prefer my poetry.”

Maura had ordered herself one of those small birds that was served looking like it had walked onto the plate under its own steam. She seemed to be doubting that decision now. “Your Old English poetry. Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me why you like it.”

He did. He did it as well as he could without telling her about where he had gone to school or what he had done before publishing his book. He mentioned he had a brother, but quickly backtracked and moved around that part of the story. He told her as much as he could about himself without telling her his name. His phone was buzzing against his leg, but he let it ring.