"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For taking care of me. Even if you'll claim it was purely practical."
His shoulders tightened. "It was practical. Can't have my property expiring from preventable causes."
"Of course." She moved to her wardrobe, pulling out one of the simpler dresses. "Very practical. The flowers with every meal. The perfect tea. The way you read to me when you thought I was sleeping."
He spun to face her then, and she caught something raw in his expression before he shuttered it.
"I have to leave."
The words landed like stones. "What?"
"The Wild Hunt requires..." He paused, and she noticed his hands flexing at his sides. "Preparations. Ancient rites that must be observed. Things only I can..." Another pause, as if the words were fighting him. "Oversee."
"What kind of preparations?"
"Territorial—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "There are... rituals. Sacred groves that must be..." His hand went through his hair, messing the perfect strands. "It's complicated."
She'd never seen him struggle so much with an explanation. "You're being very vague."
"The old magics don't translate well to human understanding." The words came out rushed, and he turned away again. "Two days. Perhaps three."
"Three days for rituals?"
"The moon phase must be exact. The Hunt begins in four days, and certain... elements... must be gathered before then." He moved toward the door, then stopped. Turned back. The struggle on his face would have been comical if it hadn't been so genuine. "You'll attend the ball the night before. With me."
"The ball before the Wild Hunt?"
"An ancient tradition. The court gathers to..." He seemed to search for words. "Celebrate. Honor the old ways. Present themselves before the Hunt."
"And I'll be presented?"
Something flickered across his face—anticipation? Anxiety? "Yes. You'll... yes." He turned to face her fully, and something shifted in his expression. "I've arranged for a dress to be made."
"Another gossamer nothing?" She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice.
"No." His response was immediate, almost fierce. "The seamstress will visit tomorrow. You'll tell her what you want. Color, style, coverage." His jaw tightened. "Whatever you choose."
She stared at him. "You're letting me choose my own dress?"
"It seems..." He struggled with the words. "Appropriate. For this occasion."
"Why?"
"Because I—" He cut himself off, ran a hand through his hair again. "The Wild Hunt ball is different. Traditional. Important. You should wear something that makes you feel... yourself."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I." The admission seemed to surprise them both. He moved toward the door again, then stopped. Again. "You're not to go near water."
"Eliam—"
"Any water. The baths will be supervised. You'll take meals in the main hall where others can watch you. If you so much as look at a river—"
"I won't go near water." The words came easily. Not quite a lie—the dungeons were dry as bone.
