He studied her, tilting his head. “What age marks you now?”
Ilys paused. No one had asked her that in some time. “Eight and ten,” she said, pleased that it sounded more mature than it felt.
Jorrin nodded, thoughtful.
She moved to sit demurely on a hay bale, aiming for effortless grace, but misjudged the length of her veil. The fabric caught beneath her, yanking her head back with an undignified jolt.
Jorrin coughed to mask his laugh.
Ilys straightened stiffly, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her cloak. “All is well,” she declared, “I merely wondered if you might like to dine together.”
Jorrin took a slow breath, his gaze unreadable.
“Is that lawful?”
Ilys lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug, though she was hyper-aware of the way her own pulse had quickened. “I don’t see Death around to forbid such acts.” She chuckled, but the sound did not come out quite as she intended, too sharp, too unnatural. Flirtation, she realized, was an art she had not yet mastered.
Jorrin looked unsure, his lips pressing into a thoughtful line.
Emboldened, she leaned forward, sealing the deal. “Meet me in my chambers at the eighth bell.”
Then, before Jorrin could reply, she turned on her heel and strode from the stable, boots crunching over the fresh snowfall outside.
And promptly ran straight into Rowenna.
“By the Unbound, Ilys,” Rowenna breathed, clutching her chest.
“What?” Ilys frowned.
Rowenna shook her head, eyes alight with barely contained laughter. “Put a blade in me before I ever have to bear witness to such a tragedy again.”
Ilys huffed. “Hush.”
But Rowenna doubled over, laughter spilling from her lips. “Torturous,” she gasped between giggles. “Absolutely torturous.”
Ilys shoved her, sending her stumbling into a snowdrift. Rowenna shrieked, flailing as she tumbled into the powdery cold, her cloak billowing up around her.
Ilys smirked down at her. “Still tortured?”
Rowenna sat up, shaking snow from her hair, cheeks flushed from both cold and amusement. “Oh, without question.”
She stood, dusting flakes from her skirts, before falling into step beside Ilys, their boots crunching over the frost-kissed ground.
“I do hope he shows up,” Rowenna mused, glancing over her shoulder toward the stable, where Jorrin’s silhouette still lingered in the dim light.
Ilys scoffed, adjusting the folds of her veil. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm,” Rowenna hummed, clearly pleased with herself. Then, her tone shifted. “Have you heard from Grim?”
Ilys shook her head. “Not since a moon ago.”
Rowenna winced, knowing how Ilys loathed his absence. She drew in a long, dramatic breath. “I have news. You won’t like it. In fact, I recommend you hold your breath for at least five seconds after I say it.”
Ilys narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel a trap is being laid?”
Rowenna smirked, devoid of humor. “Agree to my terms, Veilwalker.”
Ilys studied her friend carefully, then nodded once, the lines around her eyes still tight.
