I lit the fire quickly, and when it was crackling, I placed herbeside it. Erina kneeled on the carpet, holding her hands up to the warmth. Not wanting to loom over her, I sat beside her.
She smiled at me as she said, “I would’ve never seen any of those places if you hadn’t showed me.”
“You don’t know that,” I told her. “You have long years ahead of you yet.”
“I doubt I’ll ever leave Krynn,” she said, but she didn’t sound too upset about the admission. “I suppose I prefer my adventures in stories.”
“Where’s the thrill in that?” I asked.
She frowned briefly. “I find stories perfectly thrilling. Whole worlds opened to you, even made-up ones. The possibilities are endless in stories. You’re not bound by time or money or connections or the logistics of travel or unromantic things like paperwork and applications. Anything can be made a reality. That’s why I like them. They’re magic. Just like those paintings.”
I’d never cared much for reading or stories, but I didn’t want to tell her that.
“Is that why you write your own?” I asked, remembering our conversation in the garden. “Why you fill your notebook with your ideas? Why you change endings of long-told fables older than yourself?”
“I’ll tell you a secret I learned long ago,” she said. I stilled, my breath catching at the words, at the tantalizing image she made, with her soft, playful smile and luminous eyes and damp skin. “Even when you think you have nothing, you are rich in imagination and more wealthy if you’re creative. That is the key to a happy, content life. At least I think so.”
A nice sentiment. A naive one, perhaps. And yet…
“For some,” I said gently. “Others have ambitions of more tangible wealth, of status, of power. You can’t deny that. People are inherently greedy, always wanting more.”
“I just wonder that if people dreamed more, maybe they wouldn’tneedso much.”
The fire crackled in the hearth. “Not everyone is gifted in their creativity as you,dallia.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “Creativity is a practice and an—aninterest, not a gift.”
“I don’t have a creative thread in me,” I argued. “You should see me try to draw. Horrendous.”
“But it’s not always art or stories or crafting or painting,” she said, and I could see she felt strongly about this. The passion it sparked in her was whatIfound interesting. “It’s also ideas. The birth of an idea, like…breaking into your family vault and stealing your mother’s garden plans so that you could create something beautiful in her vision here. Or…finding ways to cut through the Vyaan Pass for the South Road without destroying the groves by the river.”
“You heard about that?” I asked, surprised.
She nodded, but it was shy. “Some of the keepers talked about it.”
I made a sound in the back of my throat.
“You solve problems,” she said. “That’s a form of creativity.”
I chuckled lowly. “When you put it like that, I am averycreative individual, then. You’ve convinced me.”
She laughed. The fire’s light illuminated her features, making her glow.
It was true I likely wouldn’t have looked at her twice if I’d seen her in passing…and yet seeing her now, unguarded in her satisfaction, her cheeks tinged with warmth, I found I couldn’t look away. And it had nothing to do with what was running in her veins and how it called to me.
When her laughter died down and she saw me observing her, she surprised me by not shying away. She met my eyes and let me look. She did the same to me, as if she was studying me. For long moments, we regarded one another, but it didn’t feel strange or uncomfortable. It felt like we had all the time in the world.
“Can I ask you something?” she began slowly.
Wariness pricked me, but I nodded.
“What’s changed since this afternoon? Because something has.”
“I’m tired,” I said. “I’m tired of fighting against this.”
“Against…me?”
I inclined my head, even though it wasn’t something I was certain I wanted her to know.
