Chapter Three — An Inch of Distance

By five twenty-six, Asher Quinn had defeated three sold-out arenas, an electrical failure during a live broadcast, and a producer who believed every chorus needed a choir.

A paper lantern, however, was winning.

He stood beside a row of market stalls along the river, attempting to persuade a crooked frame of thin wooden strips to remain approximately spherical. The blue tissue paper he'd attached at home bulged on one side. Two small wings of folded card stuck out beneath it.

A vendor eyed his handiwork. “Is that a bird?”

“Diplomatic housing.”

“For a bird?”

“An ambassador, technically.”

“Ah.” She offered him a spare wooden clip. “Diplomacy could use a structural engineer.”

Asher accepted the clip. He was still wrestling with it when a familiar voice arrived behind his shoulder.

“Please tell me you've been attacked by a craft project.”

Luna stood a few paces away in a dark green dress and a light denim jacket, her hair swept away from her neck. Her eyes went from the crooked lantern to his hands and then back to his face.

Asher forgot the excellent greeting he'd rehearsed.

“I was going to say you look beautiful,” he told her. “But now I feel I should establish that this is not a cry for help.”

“You can do both.”

“You look beautiful. Please rescue my bird.”

She laughed, and he decided the humiliation had been worthwhile.

“That's the Ambassador?” she asked, lifting one folded wing.

“His embassy. I thought he deserved a permanent address.”

“You made this?”

“Technically. Its continued existence is a matter of debate.”

The laughter faded into something softer. She studied the uneven little frame, the careful pencil marks at the joints, the places where he'd clearly undone and redone the same knot.

“You actually sat down and made it,” she said.

“I told you I was going to take the lantern market seriously.”

“I thought you meant buying something and pretending it was difficult.”

“I could have done that.” He held her gaze. “I wanted to make you something instead.”

For once, Luna failed to produce a comeback on schedule.

The market stretched beside the river in a loose procession of stalls. Colored paper hung like flags from ropes overhead. Families leaned over craft tables; an older couple examined lanterns painted with tiny flowering branches. Beyond the railing, the water caught the last bright pieces of afternoon. A string quartet somewhere near the food trucks was struggling valiantly with the wind.

Luna touched the frame again. “It's awful.”

“I know.”

“I love it.”

His smile became almost indecently pleased.

At the nearest booth they bought materials for a second lantern. Luna chose warm yellow paper, then surprised him by asking for the same thin blue used on his disastrous embassy.

“Coordinated colors?” Asher asked.

“Don't get ambitious. It just means your disaster has contaminated my aesthetic judgment.”

They worked at a narrow table with their elbows occasionally colliding. Asher could have paid somebody to build a hundred immaculate lanterns. He had never particularly wanted to. Here he found himself absorbed in whether a seam would hold, and in the way Luna pressed her lower lip between her teeth when she concentrated.

“You're staring,” she said without looking up.

“Studying the technique.”

“My technique is currently glue on my thumb.”

“Fascinating technique.”

She looked at him then, eyes narrowing. “Do you always flirt when you're losing an argument?”

“Usually before the argument. It's more efficient.”

“Does it work?”

He leaned closer, not quite close enough to touch her. “You tell me.”

Her fingers slipped on the paper. An ugly crease formed along the lantern's side.

“That's sabotage,” she said quietly.

“You've accused me of that twice now.”

“And I keep finding evidence.”

He let her recover, though the faint color in her cheeks made him want to do absolutely nothing of the kind.

When the frame was assembled, one knot refused to stay tight. She tried twice, muttered something unkind about string, and held it toward him.

“Your turn, occasional music professional. Show me those supposedly useful hands.”

“Dangerous phrasing.”

“Earned phrasing.”

He moved beside her and took the frame. The knot was in an awkward place. Luna steadied the ring while he drew the cord through, his fingers working a breath away from hers. He could smell lemon and a trace of something floral in her hair. When she shifted, her shoulder rested against his arm.

Neither moved away.

“There,” he murmured as the knot caught.

“You're annoyingly competent.”

“Only occasionally.”

She turned her head. He was close enough to see the tiny fleck of gold paint on her cheek. His attention dropped to her mouth before he could stop it.

Luna saw. Her smile changed, became smaller and far less innocent.

“You have glue on your sleeve,” she said.

“I do?”

“No.”

He laughed under his breath. “Cruel woman.”

“Don't believe everything you're told.”

He could have kissed her. He wanted to. Instead he kept hold of the frame until she took it back, and found that wanting something without immediately claiming it could make an evening feel astonishingly alive.

They carried the finished lanterns to a sheltered display beneath a row of small lights. The organizers had strung cables between wooden posts so visitors could hang their work without sending fire or paper into the river. Luna insisted that the Ambassador's embassy go beside hers, despite its alarming tendency to lean southwest.

“It's going to fall,” Asher said.

“Then we'll repair it. I've had practice.”

He secured the clip again, and she watched him do it.

“You really didn't have to make anything,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He considered saying something easy. There were dozens of lines available to a man who knew how to hold a crowd in his hand. None seemed suited to the woman watching him beneath a crooked paper lantern.

“Because you invited me,” he said. “And I didn't want tonight to feel like I just happened to turn up somewhere you were going.”

Her gaze lingered on his. “It doesn't.”

A breeze stirred the lanterns above them, making the paper rustle. Luna stepped closer, slid her fingers between his, and held on as if the decision required no further explanation.

Asher looked down at their joined hands, then back at her.

“You realize,” he said, “this makes you an accessory to the embassy's numerous building-code violations.”

“I'm willing to testify against you if necessary.”

“After everything I've done?”

“Especially after.”

She squeezed his hand. He answered without letting go.

The market lights began to glow more brightly as the sky dulled, and far to the west an untidy bank of clouds gathered above the rooftops. There was time before the stalls closed. Neither of them suggested leaving.