tilted back, a crooked smile playing on his lips. Clare felt the stirrings of curiosity—an ache that was both exhilarating and alarming—pull her toward the bandstand. She took a slow, steadying breath, the caramel apple sticky in her grip, and watched as one of the girls at his side tossed her hair and laughed a little too loudly.
He caught her watching. Just for a moment, their gazes locked. Clare’s pulse skipped like a stone across water. There was something knowing in his look, a flicker of amusement or intrigue, and then he turned back to his friends, but the trace of a smile lingered on his mouth.
Clare pressed her back to the tree, cheeks warming. She tried to convince herself it hadn’t meant anything—she was just another face in the crowd. Still, the look unsettled her, as if he’d glimpsed something secret in her. Her thoughts tumbled, wild and swift. She ought to head home, finish her book, let the festival wind down without her. Yet something in her refused to move.
Suddenly, there was motion near the bandstand. The boy—she remembered now, his name was Julian Ashcroft, recently arrived from cities beyond, rumor-shrouded—stepped away from his little court of admirers. He slipped down the shallow steps and crossed the grass, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the crowd. For one heart-thudding second, Clare thought he might be coming straight toward her.
She forced herself to look away, focusing instead on the caramel apple’s glossy sheen, her breaths slow and measured. But then a shadow fell across her, and Julian stopped just a few feet away.
“Hey,” he said, voice low but warm, pitched so only she could hear. His eyes—gray, she realized now, with curious flecks of gold—searched her face, as if looking for answers to unasked questions. “You’re Clare, right?”
She nodded, startled by the way her name sounded in his mouth. He smiled, softer this time, and the world seemed to hush, the festival’s noise dropping to a distant hum.
“I’ve seen you around,” Julian said, his tone casual but edged with something sharper. “I never figured you for the festival type.”
Clare struggled, just for a second, to find her voice. “I come every year. My mom likes the dahlias.”
Julian laughed quietly, the sound like a secret. “Flowers,” he mused, glancing toward the distant contest tent. “I guess we’re both here for someone else’s tradition.”
There was a beat of silence, neither awkward nor comfortable, but charged with possibility. Julian shifted closer, unhurried. The scents of sugar and roses seemed to twine tighter between them.
“So,” he said, eyes intent on hers, “what do you say we make the festival a little less predictable?”
Before Clare could answer, a sudden commotion erupted from the far side of the square. Shouts rang out, sharp and urgent. The crowd shifted, uneasy, as several festival-goers surged backward. Police lights flickered at the edge of the green, pulsing blue and red. Julian’s jaw tightened. For a moment—brief and electric—he reached out, catching Clare’s wrist in his hand.
His grip was gentle, but there was an unmistakable tension in his voice as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Stay close. Don’t let go.”
And just as quickly, the crowd pressed in. Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed.
The world spun, the square suddenly a chaos of bodies and confusion. Julian’s hand kept her steady—but something in his expression warned her: whatever was happening, it was no accident, and she was suddenly, irrevocably at the center of it.
Behind Julian, two unfamiliar men in dark coats pushed through the crowd, eyes sharp and searching. Their gaze locked on her and Julian, and their pace quickened.
Clare’s heart pounded. She knew, in that instant, that nothing about this festival would ever be the same again.
Julian turned back, face grave, mouth set in a clear warning. The noise gathered to a crescendo all around them. The space between them was suddenly charged with more than just curiosity—it was survival.