“No. Nor do I wish to imagine my sister being romanced by your brother.”
“It worked, though, didn’t it?”
“Far too well. Now show me how this is done.” He hands her the other fork, and she shakes her head as her lips tilt into another smile.
“We aren’t supposed to use forks.”
“In the elf version, we do. And we don’t smear cake on each other’s faces.”
Arisanna bursts into laughter at his words. “I think this is the Cerian version, not the elf version. I saw your sister plaster my brother with cake. It must have been a chore to get all that frosting off. I wonder if Rominy helped—”
Cerian stuffs more sweet bread in her mouth. “I don’t wish to discuss Elowyn.”
After Arisanna swallows, she laughs again. “Fine. I’ll stop torturing you. For now.”
Relief fills him, and he nods. “Together?”
“Together.”
They each take another forkful of sweet bread, and this time, he waits so they can feed each other at the same time. His hands are already warming again with the look she sends him as they slide their forks into each other’s mouths.
After they both swallow, she smiles up at him. “Thank you. That was perfect.”
“I’m sorry I made a mess of our binding feast.”
“I’m not. This moment was far better than that one ever could have been.”
Briefly, his eyes dart to her lips before he clears his throat and looks away.
He needs to speak with Father about his fire magic. And he needs to do so soon.
Astheyexitthecafe after polishing off their mountains of waffles and strawberries and whipped cream, Elowyn smiles in anticipation of the next leg of their journey. While they ate, Rominy told her all about the aerial trams that run on cables high above the ground, and the thought of flying through the air beside him thrills her.
When they step onto the cobbled street, he points to the right, and she looks up at the snow-capped mountains looming nearby. She can just make out the cable with its massive supports disappearing between the hills.
She’s about to say something when a rock flies toward her and catches the sleeve of her gown.
“Elf vermin!” Spittle splatters across her skirt as she freezes at the sneering human voice.
Before she can process what happened, two guards flank her, blocking her view of the man who spat at her.
“Let me go!” Rominy flails as his own guards try to hold him back, but he frees himself and takes off with his guards rushing after him.
“Stay here, Your Highness,” one of the remaining guards says to Elowyn.
Torn, she cranes her neck around the guard to see Rominy flinging himself at the man who spat at her.
Oh dear.
They scuffle on the cobblestones before Rominy’s guards pull them apart.
“That elf is your future queen,” Rominy spits out as he struggles against the guard. Is his lip bleeding?
“Your Highness, we should go,” the guard says to him.
“I din’t realize who you was.” Terror flashes across the man’s face. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I had no mind toward the news you’d hitched yourself to an elf.”
Elowyn can barely follow the man’s speech. Is that even Nunian? Some slang dialect, perhaps?
