WhenCeriandoesn’treturn,Arisanna eventually drags herself from his warm bed into the empty room. She’s wearing some sort of satin nightgown, though where it came from is a mystery.
The sleeves are long, but the hem is short, hitting just below her knees.
She can’t wear this in public.
What is she supposed to do? Wait here for someone to bring her clothes? Everything she was wearing yesterday has disappeared. It probably needed washing.
She probably needs washing, too. Is there a water closet in here? Poking her head through the other door in Cerian’s chamber, she discovers a small room. It’s definitely a water closet, though it’s different from what she’s used to in Nunia. There’s no shower, for one. She eyes the wooden tub longingly instead. Whatever Tharios did to her last night has worn off, and her stiff muscles could do with a good soak.
But there are no knobs to start the water flowing. Is it powered by magic? Cerian’s not a water wielder, so that makes little sense.
She’ll have to ask him later.
Hopefully, she doesn’t smell too bad in the meantime.
Not that Cerian seems eager to be close enough to her in the real world to notice. He probably didn’t even want her in here last night. He said his family put her in here.
No wonder he slept in a chair.
With a sigh, she wanders back to the main room.
What now? She didn’t think Cerian would leave her to fend for herself here, but maybe she was wrong. Thoughts of home add to the ache growing in her chest, but she pushes the prickling behind her eyes aside.
This is her life now. There’s no point in crying about it.
Not expecting to find anything useful, she pulls open his wardrobe doors and glances over his clothes before frowning.
There’s a gown in here. Was it left for her? Or is it some artifact from a previous attachment?
The idea of Cerian with another woman seems so absurd she barely gives it a thought. He hardly talks to anyone, instead glaring at everyone every chance he gets. It’s doubtful he steals many hearts that way.
Besides, they’ve been promised to each other their whole lives.
The dress is probably meant for her. Something of Viala’s, perhaps.
And even if it wasn’t left for her, what else is she supposed to wear? Cerian’s the one who ran off and left her here alone.
Is he all right? After the way he left, she doesn’t want to worry about him, but she can’t seem to stop herself. He looked genuinely disappointed when he took off, as if she were rejecting him.
Which she wasn’t. She was trying to thank him for...everything.
How can the same person hold her hand for hours just to help her feel safe and then glare at everyone as if he has a personal vendetta against the world?
What a complicated elf she married.
Perhaps she should go find him—clarify what she was trying to tell him earlier.
It’s not as if she has anything else to do.
Determination fills her as she pulls the silky green gown from the hanger. It shines like emeralds in the sunlight pouring around the edges of the drapes.
Like Cerian’s eyes.
It’s exquisite—made from the finest fabric Arisanna has ever held.
Perhaps she shouldn’t wear it.
What other option does she have, though?
