The next day, Drizella almost didn't go back.
Almost.
She told herself it was ridiculous to feel curious about a stranger who read like a schoolboy and laughed too easily. But somehow, her feet found the muddy lane again, her hand pushed open the splintered library door, and her eyes searched the shadows of fallen shelves before she could stop herself.
He was there.
Sitting at her table, of all things, legs stretched out, chair tilted back precariously, as though he owned the place.
"You're in my seat," she said.
He glanced up, entirely unrepentant. "Am I? There were no nameplates."
"You're impossible."
"And yet," he said with mock solemnity, "you came back."
Her jaw tightened. She stalked over, dropped her book on the table with a thud, and glared. "If you fall backward and break your neck, I'm not dragging your corpse out of here."
"Noted." He straightened, grinning. "Shall we read, then?"
They tried, but within minutes Drizella's annoyance boiled over.
"My sister," she muttered, slamming her book shut.
The man blinked. "Pardon?"
"Cinderella," she spat, as though the name tasted sour. "The darling of the household. Sweet as sugar, sharp as glass. She floats around with her perfect hair and perfect smile and perfect everything. You'd think she invented sunlight the way people praise her."
He tilted his head. "That bad?"
"Worse." Drizella jabbed the table with her finger. "If I hear one more person gush about her radiance, I swear I'll—"
"Trip her down the stairs?" he offered.
Drizella stared. Then, to her horror, she laughed. A real, unguarded laugh that echoed in the dusty rafters.
The man's grin widened. "I take it I guessed correctly."
"You're insufferable." She grabbed a quill from the table and tossed it at him.
He caught it clumsily, still smiling. "Do you insult everyone you meet, or am I special?"
"You're special," she said dryly. "Specially irritating."
He twirled the quill between his fingers. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You would."
Silence stretched. Not awkward—surprisingly easy.
Finally, he asked, softer, "And what about you? What do they say?"
Drizella's throat tightened. She looked away, feigning disinterest. "That I'm the ugly one. The bitter one. The sister who snarls while the other sings."
He studied her for a long moment. "They're blind, then."
Her head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"Blind," he repeated calmly, as though stating a fact. "You've got more life in one glare than most women have in a lifetime. Anyone who can't see that is a fool."
Her cheeks warmed. She masked it with a scowl. "You talk too much."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming. "And yet you're smiling."
"I am not."
"You are."
Drizella hurled the nearest book at him. He ducked, laughing, as it hit the floor with a dusty thud.
The library rang with the sound of their laughter until even the shadows seemed to brighten.
-----
That was the first day of many.
Some days they argued over books, voices rising until they collapsed in helpless giggles. On other days, they read quietly, the silence companionable. Slowly, cautiously, they wove themselves into each other's days, until it felt unnatural not to find him waiting.
And yet, she never asked his name. He never offered it.
Somehow, it was easier not to.
For now.