The train, perhaps? With its incessant noise and acrid odor?
Images of her lying across his lap on the train in their heartlanding flit through his memory—her in that scandalous dress—and he shakes his head.
That’s not helping.
“Why are you shaking your head?” she asks softly.
He stares at her for a moment. He’s definitely not going to tell her he was thinking about her legs.
His hands tingle, and he groans. That’s not helping, either.
“What’s wrong?” Her brows knit as she gazes at him.
Pressing his lips into a thin line, he lifts his hand and creates a fireball in his palm. Hopefully, she’ll get the message without him having to speak the words.
“Oh. Well. I hope that means you’re thinking about me.”
Is she trying not to smile? Whistling wind. Is she enjoying this?
“You find this amusing?” he asks.
“That you can’t stop thinking about me, and it’s lighting you on fire? Why would that be amusing?” She feigns innocence, but her mouth twitches, and her eyes sparkle. “Perhaps you should focus on something less...fire-inducing.”
“I’ve tried.”
“I’m that distracting? I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She’s definitely enjoying this.
“I wonder how Rominy and Elowyn are managing,” she says. “They must be falling in love, too, right? Rominy has many excellent qualities.”
Cerian stares at Arisanna in dismay.
“Does Elowyn have fire magic? I wonder if she catches fire every time my brother smiles at her.”
Cerian shoots from the bench, trying to banish every thought filling his head of Elowyn falling in love. At least she has water magic, too. That would be useful. The very idea makes him groan.
“I’m sure Rominy will fall completely in love with her,” Arisanna continues. “He’ll probably adore her, and it will be a sappy, disgusting thing to watch. I’m sad we’re not there to see it. Aren’t you?”
Cerian turns to Arisanna in horror. “Stop...just...please stop.”
“Your hand isn’t on fire anymore.” An impish smile fills her face, and he gapes at her.
Whistling wind. She is...evil.
“Please don’t stab me with those forks.” She continues grinning at him as he glances at the forks he brought along on his flight across the room. “Shall I talk about my mother next?” Arisanna asks. “Did you know—”
“Stop. That won’t be necessary.” He hurries back to the table, lowering himself to the bench beside her.
“If you insist, but it’s a good story. I can tell you later after we—”
He cuts her off with a forkful of flaming sweet bread. It was not as purposeful as he imagined, but as long as he doesn’t have to hear whatever story she was about to regale him with, it will suffice.
Arisanna’s eyes alight with mirth as she chews and swallows the sweet bread. “We were supposed to feed each other at the same time.”
“It was a perilous moment requiring action,” he says.
“What? You don’t want to hear about my mother?”
