His ears were red from the cold, and he should have been wearing a hat, but he was too vain to cover his perfect hair.
Should I suggest it?
"How is it going for you so far?" I asked instead. "Are you getting what you thought you would?"
"Mainly, I came so I could be with you." He wrapped his arm around my middle. "But as far as the script goes, it occurred to me that a botanical expedition that finds what it's looking for makes for a boring story. On the other hand, a botanical expedition that encounters big-time trouble is interesting." He gestured grandly at the increasingly hostile terrain. "People love tension, drama, and impossible stakes. That's what I need to give them."
I lifted two fingers to my forehead. "Don't jinx it."
He chuckled. "When did you become superstitious?"
"Since everyone around me has been trying to convince me to turn back before I find what I came for."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Ignore them. They are just lazy. They want to call it a day before the day actually ends and still get paid as if they had worked for it."
"I thought you wanted to turn back."
"I did, but then it occurred to me that I didn't get anything interesting for my screenplay yet. I'm waiting for something exciting to happen."
"Please don't. Talking about trouble is like courting it."
"I'm just brainstorming my screenplay with you. It has nothing to do with the actual events of this expedition."
I shot him a sideways look. "I just hope that if something goes wrong, you'll care more about saving your life than taking notes."
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'm not reckless. I would retreat strategically while committing every detail to memory."
Smiling, I shook my head. "You really do have a way with words. You're wasting your talents on screenplays. You'd do splendidly in politics."
Gavon sighed dramatically. "Regrettably, I don't have the required pedigree."
He was right about that. As a distant relative of the Duke of Jermosa, he was considered minor nobility, which made him suitable for a position in court, to start with as a clerk and later as a courtier, or in the Elurian Defense Forces. He could also choose a career in the arts, research, or teaching. Commerce and industry were off the table for nobles, but even if they weren't, Gavon wouldn't have been interested in either.
Officially, Gavon had chosen the arts, and unofficially, he'd chosen the court as my paramour.
He didn't take himself too seriously, which was his greatest charm and, if I were being honest with myself, his greatest limitation.
Marriage between us was impossible, and neither of us pretended otherwise. In Tarina, as in most of the Federation's provinces, a princess taking a paramour was perfectly acceptable, even expected. My mother had maintained onebefore her marriage to my father, and the only reason she hadn't kept the paramour was that Father had won her heart in addition to her hand in marriage.
Gavon would probably remain in my life regardless of whom I eventually had to marry, and he was fine with having to share me one day. He got access to a world of privilege and connections that advanced his screenwriting career, while I got companionship.
Were we in love, though?
I loved him, but not with the all-consuming passion portrayed in literature and movies. He was beautiful, tall, and broad-shouldered, with blue eyes that photographed magnificently and a jaw that looked like it had been designed by a talented and opinionated sculptor. He also dressed the part, dedicating time and effort to presenting himself in the best possible light. I, on the other hand, couldn't care less about my somewhat plain looks. If I weren't a princess, he probably wouldn't have glanced twice my way. The women Gavon noticed at parties were the luminous ones, who floated through rooms like silk scarves on a breeze.
I didn't float. I strode.
To me, beauty was a tool, like money or influence, and I could wield it when necessary. My mother's stylist could transform my long brown hair into a work of art, and the makeup artist could coax my features into harmony they didn't naturally possess. The high cheekbones became dramatic rather than sharp. The dark eyes that people thought were too intense became striking. Even the slightly hooked nose became aristocratic with the right contouring.
But sitting still for two hours while someone pinned and painted me was a form of torture I reserved for state functions, and even then, I fidgeted so much that the stylist threatened to quit at least once during every session. After the events wereover, I couldn't run fast enough to my room to take all the pins out of my hair and wash all the gunk off my face.
Up here, with my hair gathered in its usual braid and my face bare to the wind, I was exactly who I wanted to be and where I wanted to be.
So what if being outdoors meant that I was tanned beyond my mother's approval, or that my hands were callused from garden work and climbing ropes?
I was finally closer to answering a question that had consumed me since I'd first read about the Silver Princess in an obscure text in the university's library three years ago.
If it existed, I would find it.
