She cuffs him gently on the head.
"You're an idiot Rosto." He grins and leans in to kiss her.
"Maybe," he says. "But if I am, I'm a lucky one."
"They're idiots! Pox rot the lot of them!" Rosto stormed into her room one night.
"Bad day?" Beka asked innocently.
He scowled as she kissed his cheek.
"Bet I can make it better," she whispered, grinning wickedly.
She dreads the day she might have to hobble one of her friends for something.
That blasted cat, Rosto thinks as the object of his enmity wriggles its way in between him and Beka.
When Beka is sick on the day Goodwin and Tunstall collect the happy bag, her dogs give Rosto a warning.
"Break her heart and you'll have the whole city searching for you. She's as good as a daughter to my Lord Provost, and I'd hunt you down and kill you myself." He now knows why his people are so frightened of Clary Goodwin. Then the woman grins.
"Just thought we ought to warn you."
For all that's pased between them, her eyes still unnerve him when they turn to ice.
She calls to mind hot summer nights tangled in the sheets, the full moon outside the only source of light.
"If there was something you could change about me Rosto, what would it be?" she asks suddenly, lying beside him. He makes a show of contemplating his answer before kissing the top of her head and replying,
"How hard you hit when you're angry."
She rises and lights a single candle on the desk, staring out at the summer storm. The air is hot and muggy, and the patter of rain is comforting. She stands at the open window, the faint breeze ruffling the hem of her nightshirt.
"How long has it been?" she murmurs. She doesn't have to specify - he knows exactly what she means.
"Three years," he murmurs in reply.
We did it, she thinks, staring absently at her lover, Rosto the Piper. We beat the odds.