“Oh, Serah,” she says, embracing me as if we’re old friends. “Soren told me we’re to spend the afternoon together. What should we do first?”
She offers a myriad of suggestions before we settle on cards. I despise cards but can’t bear to tell that to someone who looks so cheery.
“I’ll teach you quandary,” she says. “It’s all the rage in Ilanthren.”
She drags me into an adjacent room that I expect to be a misplaced parlor, but which turns out to be a small, snug library. I gaze up at the stuffed shelves stretching all the way to the ceiling. There are nearly as many books here as there are in my mother’s library.
Lady Tilanthia and I settle in at a stout table and begin to play. The game is simple enough and after two rounds, I beat her at another three.
“To tell the truth, I’m terrible at this game,” Lady Tilanthia laughs. “I’m always talking too much to pay attention.”
I smile. “Being a good conversationalist is a far more valuable skill.”
She lays down another pair of ill-fated cards with a frown. “Do you really think so?”
“I do.” All her questions have been thoughtful and kind, and none of them prying.
“I’ve been told I talk a bit too much,” she says, studying her hand with downcast eyes.
Mother told me not to get attached to my spouse. She said nothing of future siblings, and I already feel a surge of sisterly indignation for this sweet spirit.
“Perhaps whoever said so could stand to speak a little less themselves,” I say, prompting a small smile from her.
She asks me of Vasna and my sisters, of my people and even my own interests. It’s hard to imagine someone taking issue with her open, friendly way.
“Enough of me,” I say finally. “Tell me of your own interests.”
“Oh, well…” She tucks a lock of fiery hair behind her ear. “I enjoy good company.”
I recognize the signal and respond accordingly with a conspiratorial smile. “Anyone in particular?”
She rolls her lip between her teeth. “Lord Lyken.”
Lord Lyken? The overseer of Tirenth’s western province? He has to be her senior by a decade, at least. To say I’m surprised is an understatement, but I keep my expression neutral.
“I see. He is a bit older than you, isn’t he?” Yesterday, I guessed her age at fifteen or sixteen. I have a feeling the king will not approve.
A strong feeling.
“I know that,” she says, “but he’s funny and kind, and we both love flowers.”
“Is that so?”
She nods eagerly. “That’s where I met him, in the eastern gardens. He was overseeing the planting of an exquisite bed of mourning irises there.”
“Really? Are they rare?”
Her eyes light up, and she launches into a discourse of surprising depth on the characteristics of the mourning iris. I guide her onto other flowers, and the subject of Lord Lyken is safely left behind.
“Is anyone in your family fond of gardening?” she asks after a while.
“My mother,” I say before thinking. “She’s a skilled herbalist.”
“How wonderful! Who taught her?”
“I’m not sure, but do you think we should call for the midday meal?”
The remainder of the afternoon passes quicker than I expect. We eat and talk and laugh with ease. My cat friend emerges to briefly lie in my lap before flopping over in the waning sunlight cast upon the floor.
