Her magic skirt. That’s what they were discussing.
“I think my dress is magic,” she blurts out.
For goodness’ sake. He’s definitely going to assume she’s addled now.
His gaze travels over her as he studies the gown, and heat floods her at the appreciative look in his eyes.
“Where did you get it?” He glances away as his own cheeks redden. What is he thinking? Does she even want to know?
“From your wardrobe. I wasn’t sure if it was meant for me or if it belonged to...to...”
His eyes snap to hers. “To...?”
Why did she say that part? He didn’t need to hear that. She can’t take it back now, though.
“To someone else,” she whispers, afraid to meet his gaze.
He doesn’t respond at first, and when she looks back at him, he seems to be weighing his words. What does that mean?
The gown feels hot against her skin, mocking her. She shouldn’t have put it on. Why did she put it on?
“There is no one else,” he finally says. “If you found it in my wardrobe, someone put it there for you.”
Her mortification threatens to swallow her whole, and when he takes her wrist, she jumps. What is he doing? He gently turns her arm as she watches, trying to remember how to breathe.
Oh. There’s a note pinned to the underside of her sleeve. How did she miss that?
“I think I know who it’s from.” He unpins the paper and hands it to her as her whole arm burns where he was touching her. “Can you read Elvish?”
“Some. It’s...difficult.” She tries to make sense of the Elvish runes, but it looks like a child’s scrawl.
“Here.” Cerian holds out his hand for the note, and Arisanna lets him have it. He studies it, his brows knit in concentration, and then his face flushes again. “It’s from Viala. Her written Elvish is...still improving.”
Viala gave her a dress? A magic one? A magic fae dress? Arisanna leans toward him to try making out the words again. The rune for prince seems to be repeated a couple of times if she’s reading it right. “What does it say?”
Cerian suddenly looks very uncomfortable.
“Tell me! If you don’t, I’ll go ask Tharios.”
What possessed her to say that? But Cerian stares at her in horror, and she almost laughs.
“Tell me,” she says more softly this time. “Please?”
“It...says...”
She leans even closer. He still smells so good.
“Yes?” she whispers.
“She...hopes you’ll grow to love your elven prince as much as she loves hers. Or something like that. And that he’ll love you as much as Tharios loves her. And maybe the dress will help.” Cerian says it so fast Arisanna can barely understand the Elvish words.
He looks like a cornered animal, panic written across his face, as if he wants to flee.
But he’s not running.
“Do you need some space?” she asks while Viala’s words play over and over inside her head.
Her elven prince.
