“Grunt.” He grimaced. “What an awful word. It makes me sound like a pig.”
“You said it, not me,” I teased.
“Pigs don't swim,” he shot back.
“They don't?” I squished my face at him. “Are you sure? They're highly intelligent animals, despite the grunting. I bet they could swim if they tried.”
He chuckled. “Regardless, I don't grunt like a pig.”
“No, you definitely do not,” I agreed.
Verin grinned.
“It's more like a wolf—more growly than squealy.”
“Neither growly nor squealy are words.” He popped a piece of fish in his mouth smugly.
“The purpose of words is to facilitate communication,” I argued. “You understood exactly what I meant, didn't you?”
Verin laughed boisterously—loud enough to send the swans swimming for the far bank. “By that reasoning, my growly grunts should be classified as words.”
“Not so. You have to be able to spell a word. Try and spell your grunting.”
He grunted experimentally, then spelled, “U N N”—he grunted again—“R G H.”
“Unnrgh?” I tried to put the letters together.
“No. It's pronounced—” and he growled.
I laughed in delight. “Ah, of course. Then it's definitely a word.”
“I was attempting to prove that it, as well as your growly and squealy, arenotwords.” Verin rolled his eyes. “You'd think a Spellsinger would have a greater appreciation for language.”
“I do appreciate language—all of its words and sounds. Especially your sexy grunting which is a language all of its own.”
“I suppose it's better when you call it sexy,” he conceded.
“I thought it might be.”
We finished up lunch and went for a stroll down the pebbled path that wound through the garden. We held hands as we ambled through a tunnel formed of cherry blossom trees, then stopped to kiss beneath the pale pink blossoms. When our kiss ended, I lifted my gaze to the blushing canopy above us and smiled. It seemed as if we were surrounded by love—everything soft and pink and happy. Verin stroked my cheek and I shifted my stare back to him.
“You are so beautiful that it's dangerous. I fear that if I stare too long, I'll forget all else: my kingdom, my people, I might even forget to breathe.”
“I think I just forgot to breathe,” I whispered.
Verin gave me his heartbreaker grin, kissed my hand, and led me out of the grove. We strolled up the dramatic arch of a glossy bridge that spanned the pond and stopped at its apex to lean against the railing and gaze across the garden. The pond spread out before us, the movement of fish and birds becoming a dance between partners who never touched. Cherry trees grew to our left and a rock wall covered in orchids backed a meadow on our right. The meadow and trees met across the lake from us—pink spotting the green. Everything was so tranquil there, even the artificial sunlight wasn't harsh. I sighed and laid my head on Verin's shoulder. He swept his arm around me. It had been a long time since I'd felt so peaceful. Even with an unknown enemy on the loose, I couldn't bring myself to worry. Not there, in that garden with Verin beside me.
“Are those clouds?” I asked as I peered up at the ceiling.
The ceiling had been painted to resemble a midday sky—robin's egg blue with white puffs over that—but gathering beneath the painting were what appeared to be real clouds.
Verin made a low sound of irritation. “I've forgotten the time. Again, I blame your beauty.”
I laughed. “What does time have to do with clouds?”
“The garden is on a watering schedule,” Verin took my hand and led me down the way we'd come. “Every afternoon it rains.”
“It rains under the sea?” I asked in delight.
