“What are you doing here?” I asked stupidly.
“Looking for you, of course.” My lantern glinted in his gemstone eyes. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
I scowled at him.
“If you keep making that face,” he warned, “it might get stuck. It’s almost dark, you know. You’ve spent all day up here.”
“Shite, really?” I cursed and stood up, sliding my half-finished translation between the pages. “I was supposed to weed today.”
“I did it.” Rogan held out a hand. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
“What? And where?”
Rogan grinned, a sharp dazzle of humor meant to disarm me. “It’s a surprise.”
“You know I hate surprises.”
“Only when other people surprise you.” His smile widened. “You love it when I surprise you.”
“I especiallyhatewhen you surprise me,” I argued. “Your surprises are usually ill timed and frequently painful. Like my sixteenth birthday, when you strewed roses all around my bed in the middle of the night, except you didn’t take off any of the thorns, and when I woke up to pee, I cut up my bare feet.”
His smile slipped. I tried not to feel guilty.
“Your choice. But hurry, or else we’ll miss it.”
I crossed my arms. Rogan shrugged, then walked out of the alcove. I cursed his receding back, then ducked down the hidden stairs after him.
Rogan didn’t speak as we meandered through the dún and stepped out into a perfect spring evening. I paused, shading my eyes against the last rays of day striping the estate in shades of chrysanthemum and forget-me-not. I felt fleeting guilt for neglecting my garden; grudging gratitude for Rogan’s interruption; cooling calm as my feet on the earth chased away my cerebral agitation.
I kicked off my shoes, flexed my bare feet in the sun-warmed grass, and followed Rogan toward the forest. He paused beneath the long shadows, peering into the green silence between the trees.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, cautious. These woods were too close to Roslea—to Tír na nÓg—for me to trust them completely. “I don’t have my knives.”
“This isn’t something you can fight, changeling.” He chuckled. “We’re just early.”
I stepped next to him and followed his gaze. “Early forwhat?”
He quirked one golden eyebrow at me. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an extremely impatient person?”
“I consider it a virtue.”
“You would.” He sank down on the grass, tilting his head to catch the last of the sunlight. “And patience? Is that an equal virtue?”
“Depends.” The balmy afternoon showed no signs of cooling as evening approached, so I shucked off my outer mantle as I sat beside him. I didn’t miss the way his eyes grazed my suddenly bare shoulders, the curve of my breasts beneath my shift.
“On what?”
“Whether the thing you’re waiting for is worth the wait.”
“How do you know whether it’s worth it, before you have it?” His eyes lifted to mine, suddenly intent. A whisper of intuition told me we’d passed beyond banter into something more serious. I suddenly wondered whether he really had anything to show me down here, at the edge of the forest.
“Rogan,” I said, not ungently. “What are you talking about?”
“You know—” He paused, brushing golden hair off his brow. “You know how unhappy I’ve been. How hard this has been for me.”
“Hard?” I laughed. “Yes, I imagine following a charming princess to a series of exquisite Folk revels—flirting with her and wooing her—must be hard indeed.”
“Don’t do that, Fia.” He caught my hand, and his pulse throbbed quick against my skin. “Don’t make a joke of this.”
