Page 118 of Stealing Tink

Acel says nothing. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because, as always, her presence has stunned him into silence.

“You’re here,” says the princess. There’s no mistaking the surprise in her tone.

“You knocked,” is all Acel can think to say.

“Yes, well, I didn’t think you’d actually open,” says the princess. Acel recognizes the defensiveness in her tone, the way she gets when she’s embarrassed. “Well, are you going to continue to allow me to be pelted by the rain, or are you going to let me in?”

Acel considers the former, mostly because he already can’t bear the sight of her, the disappointment and hurt in her gaze as she stares at him as if he’s a complete stranger. What she must think of him for having left without explanation.

He lets her in.

Her cloak is sopping and leaves puddles on the floorboards. Acel will mop them up later. Right now, his gaze is transfixed on the princess.

“You’ve been holed up here the whole time, then?” says the princess, that last word tense as she plucks off her wet gloves.

“No,” says Acel.

“Well, that’s a relief. I would have hated to think you’d abandoned me for solitude.”

Acel swallows, and does the only thing he knows to do—folds his hands behind his back.

“Are you well?” he asks, his voice stiff.

A huff of air exits forcefully from the princess’s nostrils. “You’ve been away?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The princess does not correct him. Does not tell him to use her name. Someone may as well have slipped a blade through Acel’s chest.

Instead, she stares. Pensive.

“I’m to be wed by week’s end, you know.”

Acel does not gasp. He is not prone to such outward signs of emotion. It does not keep the air from being sucked out of his chest.

This is worse than the princess being wed. Her, being here, unattached and within his grasp. Acel is not one to drink, but he does not know how he will get through the wedding day otherwise.

“Who won your hand?” he asks.

“No one. Yet,” says the princess.

He hates how short she is with him. Of the two of them, he has always been the one of few words, happy to let her ramble on and on about her day, drinking in her every thought.

Acel waits.

The princess sighs. “You really have been gone, haven’t you?” There’s something in her eyes that seems to make a calculation before she continues. “The competition for my hand in marriage—I’m assuming you know about that since it was announced the night before you left. It’s to take place this week.”

“And do you have hopes for who will win?” Acel asks.

The princess taps her fingers in succession against the handle of her teacup. Lets out an exasperated huff. Then closes her eyes forcefully. Swallows. “There are ways of transferring coin from the royal treasury. Ways that would go unquestioned.”

Warmth spreads up Acel’s neck. Delight sings through his veins, but he reins it in. The Sister warned him that this would not end with the two of them together. That this road would lead to there being no more Princess of Irethden.

It hadn’t stopped him from considering it. Just for a flicker of a moment when she first mentioned the competition. He has the money required for the medallion, stowed underneath the floorboard.

It might kill him, but he speaks the truth anyway. His voice is dry. “I fear, just this once, I will have to deny you, Your Highness.”

“Just this once?” The love of his life says it so wryly. She does not cry. She is much too proud for that. Instead, she looks off to the side and takes a sip from her teacup. “I should not have come,” she says, pushing to stand.