Arisanna exhales through pursed lips as she considers her next course of action. She has no desire to return to the feast alone. That would be mortifying.
But Cerian clearly doesn’t want her in what she can only assume is his chamber.
She’s his wife, for goodness’ sake.
But he’s also struggling with something. Perhaps a gentle approach would be best.
Lifting her hand, she knocks on the door. “Cerian? It’s Arisanna. May I come in?”
There’s no response. She’s about to knock again when the door opens, though Cerian doesn’t even acknowledge her presence before moving toward the hearth and dropping to the rug.
She hefts her gown through the doorway and closes the door behind her. When she looks at Cerian again, she stops short.
What is he doing?
One after another, he forms balls of fire in his palms and hurls them into the empty grate.
“You’re a fire wielder,” she breathes.
He glances her way before turning back to the hearth and lobbing another fireball at the stone enclosure.
“Yes,” he murmurs.
Of course, she knew he could almost certainly wield magic. The thought hadn’t reached the forefront of her mind yet, though. They’ve been so busy getting married. There’s been little time to think about anything else.
“May I join you?” she asks softly. “You won’t catch my hair on fire or anything?”
The corner of his mouth ticks up, but he shakes his head. “I’m no elfling.”
He’s speaking Elvish now. It’s probably easier for him.
She answers in kind. “Of course not. Forgive me.”
With an unladylike grunt, she plops to the floor. At least she’s not wearing hoops anymore, though the stays pinch her hips.
Mother had a few choice words for Arisanna when she emerged from that meeting room without her hoop skirt. Cerian scowled by her side as Mother made her feelings on the matter clear, but he said nothing, and Arisanna took it in stride as Mother lamented her “total lack of propriety.”
She’s the wife of an elf now. There’s no reason to pretend otherwise. And elves don’t wear giant cupcake dresses.
She’s going to dress like an elf. That’s her plan.
Once Cerian buys her new clothes, that is. Hopefully, her new wardrobe will be free from a real-life counterpart to her gown from the heartlanding.
If you can even call that a gown.
“I don’t know your human dances.” Cerian says it so quietly it’s possible Arisanna imagined it.
“So you left?”
“I should not have done that. I’m...sorry.” He glances at her, and her face softens.
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not. My father will be displeased.”
Unsure what to say, Arisanna waits for him to speak again, but he doesn’t, and an awkward silence hangs heavy between them. It’s interrupted a few minutes later by a knock on the door.
“Cerian.” The voice of King Lorial carries from the corridor.
