“I haven’t. Is it magnificent?”
“The water is. How do you feel about sand?”
“I have little experience with sand. Isn’t it similar to dirt?”
A smile teases at her face. “It’s similar. But different.”
“Different in what way?”
“It sticks to nothing. Until you get it wet. Then it sticks to everything. And it gets in your shoes and your hair. Everywhere, really.”
As she speaks, dread fills him. Sand sounds horrific.
“And people enjoy this?” he asks.
“Some people do. My mother isn’t a fan.”
“What about you?”
She shrugs. “It’s all right. It can be fun to play with. To build sandcastles or write your name in it. What is my name now, Cerian?”
He frowns. “Isn’t it Arisanna?”
“Arisanna what?”
It dawns on him what she’s asking, but before he can respond, she keeps going.
“My mother called me Arisanna Montarac Westaria. My tutors told me your mother’s name is Nestraya Thariosi Westaria. Is that the elven convention?”
“My mother chose to take the names of both her fathers,” Cerian says softly. “Restoval Westaria, who brought her into his family when she was a child, and Cerian Thariosi, her first father, who died protecting her.”
Arisanna’s eyes grow wide. “That wasn’t in our history books. That’s why your mother grew up at Windhaven?”
“It’s a long and difficult story, but it’s beautiful, too. I would tell it to you, but I believe it would be better for her to tell you herself someday.”
“So you and Tharios were named after her first father who died?”
Cerian nods. “My mother’s uncle says I look like him.”
This conversation took an unexpectedly serious turn, but since the train’s not stopping, it’s a nice distraction from the heat building within him.
“What is the elven naming convention?” Arisanna asks as her brows draw together. “After binding?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be. The Westaria name is legally yours, if you want it. But many elven women choose not to change their names at the binding.”
Arisanna glances away at his response. The desire to run his finger over the adorable wrinkle in her brow fills him, but he settles for resting his hand on her waist over her elven huntress dress.
Hopefully, that’s all right. She doesn’t seem to mind. It’s not as if his hands haven’t been there before.
And everywhere else.
Arisanna meets his gaze again. “If it’s good enough for the legendary Nestraya of Lostariel, it’s good enough for me. I would like to honor both the family of my birth and my new family with my name. Arisanna Montarac Westaria.”
The heat her words elicit in him is overwhelming.
“Does the sudden warmth of your hand mean you approve?” she asks softly.
He lifts his palm from her waist and flexes his fingers to cool them off. “Forgive me for that. But...yes. It’s perfect.”
