“I don’t know. I just know that this is right.” She paused to remove some of the broken threads from the damage that were cluttering the area she was now re-embroidering. “Watch how the needle goes through the fabric.”
“The glimmer? I’m seeing that.”
“No—well, yes, I’m seeing that too. But watch the needle, not the thread.”
He carefully watched her make the next stitch. He didn’t see anything unusual.
“Notice how the needle is so thick, but it is not leaving large holes in the fabric of the tapestry? The tight weave is unharmed.”
He watched her make another stitch. The needle went through the heavy canvas backing with ease, and it left no trace of having been there.
“Do you want to try?” She held the needle out to him.
“Will I ruin it?”
“I don’t think so. Here,” she placed the tip of the needle right next to the last stitch she had taken, “make the stitch right here.”
He took the needle. It felt alive, almost as though it was vibrating with the lightest hum.
“Do you feel it?” she asked.
“I... I think so.”
“I think it’s responding to the tapestry somehow.”
“How do you mean?”
She gently pushed his hand towards the tapestry. As it got closer, the hum felt stronger.
Her fingers were cold on the back of his hand. He set his other hand on top of hers. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head, shyly pulling her hand away. The rough calluses on her fingertips lightly scratched the back of his hand as she did so. He set the needle down and recaptured her hand in both of his own, flipping it over to examine it. Her hand was so small, like the rest of her. He ran his thumb around the palm of her hand. The area at the base of her fingers was rough and calloused, as were some of her fingertips. “You don’t belong here,” he said under his breath.
She quickly pulled her hand away. “Excuse me?” Hurt lined her face.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. You don’t belong here as a servant. You deserve so much better than this.” He held out his hand, hoping she would place her own in it. “You are kind and skilled and intelligent, and yet you are scrubbing floors and polishing staircases. Why aren’t you a seamstress?”
“It’s not that simple, my Lord.” She was looking at the ground, her face hidden from him.
“Please.” His chest tightened with the emotion of all that he wanted for her. He reached out and touched the side of her face, ever so gently. “Please call me Onric.”
She tilted her face up towards him, her eyes soft and her mouth relaxed. He kept his fingers on her cheek, slowly wrapping an errant curl behind her ear.
Despite the slowness of his movement, his heart was pounding. He so desperately wanted her respect, not her deference. He wanted her to reach down and bring him up to her level. She was far too perfect. He wanted her to see him.
He kept his eyes glued to his hand on her cheek, suddenly too shy to look her directly in the eye. He was simply asking her to call him by his name, but it was the most personal thing he had ever asked of anyone. Perhaps, he realized, he knew she could already see him. But after seeing him, he wanted her to accept him. As he finished wrapping the hair behind her ear, he could think of no good reason to keep his hand on her face. So, he reluctantly dropped it to his side.
Finally, his eyes, with nothing else to focus on, returned to her face. She was looking at him in her quiet way, taking him in. Seeing him. She gazed into his left eye and then switched, looking into his right.
Her arched lips curled into a smile. “Onric.”
He let out a long breath that seemed to carry the tension out of his whole body. His hands found hers, and he held them tightly as he leaned his forehead down to touch hers. “Thank you,” he breathed.
He brought her hands up to his mouth and pressed his lips to them. She had closed her eyes, but the smile was still on her face. He wanted so badly to twist his head down and capture her lips with his own, but something held him back. Even if she responded favorably, he needed her to know that she was the one who held all the power. He may be a prince, but he held her in higher esteem than he would hold a queen.
Chapter 18
Ashlin breathed in his warm, ambrosial scent. She had never noticed how crisp he smelled, as though he had just come in from a walk through the forest. She inhaled again, eyes closed as his forehead rested against hers. She felt a giggle rise in her throat.
