Fatessavehim.
Why did he agree to leave the hotel?
Not that Cerian could ever refuse his grandmother anything.
She’s too intimidating, when she wishes to be.
He clutches the handle of the pail Chef gave him as they walk down the wooden walkway in front of the shops lining Feressa’s main street.
It’s so bright, almost blinding compared to Darlei. He misses the trees.
And people keep glancing their way.
“You should eat one of those,” Arisanna says as she wraps her arm around his. “You’d feel better.”
“People are staring,” he mumbles.
“It must be my wild hair that my elven husband loves so much.” She gazes up at him, her eyes twinkling, and the hint of a smile tugs at his lips.
“He does,” Cerian forces himself to say.
“I know he does. He’s wonderful.” She rests her head against his shoulder as they walk close together while Grandmera studies the windows of the shops they pass.
“You are wonderful,” Cerian says.
A man eyes him warily, and Cerian’s grip on the pail tightens.
“Focus on me, my elven prince. Most of these people are just curious. And I’m probably shocking them by hanging on you like this.”
He snaps his eyes toward her. “What?”
“You looked like you needed some love.” She shrugs, but there’s something hesitant in her gaze. It’s the same look she had earlier when her mother first arrived.
Arisanna really is wonderful. And brave and strong and absolutely perfect.
“You’re growing warmer, my elven prince,” she whispers. “Should I let go?”
“Never.” He shoves his fire magic down, and it cooperates, for the most part.
Being surrounded by humans has put a damper on his heat. At least that’s one positive thing about their expedition.
“Shall I feed you?” she asks. “Because I will if you don’t eat soon.”
Whistling wind. She would, too.
The clopping of horses’ hooves as a carriage passes leaves him on edge.
Why are human cities so noisy?
Without saying anything else, Arisanna reaches into his bucket and pulls out a plump yellow apple before offering it to him. “Eat.”
Stubborn. That’s what she is. She fits right in with the rest of the women in his family.
With a sigh, he takes it from her and bites into the juicy flesh. Fresh fall apples. They remind him of home and sunny days and brisk nights. Cook will order a shipment of them from the growers in the farming lands in western Lostariel soon. And she’ll dry them and can them and make cider and sauce with them.
His mouth waters at the thought. She usually puts him to work peeling, but he doesn’t mind if it means he gets to breathe in that sweet aroma of roasting apples.
“You love apples,” Arisanna says. “I can read it in your eyes. You look happy but wistful. You have pleasant memories involving apples, don’t you?”
