"Daine."

"Numair."

"Please."

Daine crossed her arms. "I already told them we were going to go. We can't back out now."

Numair looked mournfully at the robe she thrust at him. "You didn't ask me for my opinion! I would have known enough to say no." A thought occurred to him. "You didn't necessarily say that I was going to be there, did you? After all, something might have come up with my schedule that you didn't know about when you made the commitment."

Daine glared. "If I have to get dressed up and make conversation with diplomats and the conservatives, you are not making me go alone."

"You couldn't think of any excuse?"

Daine huffed. "You know how Jon is! If he wants to convince someone of something, he just fixes you with that I'm-the-king look, and you're done for."

He snorted. "Especially if it's impressionable young women."

Daine just rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable. I can't believe I'm in love with you. I can't believe I'm showing up to this gala with you."

"Subtle, Sweetling, but you aren't going to make me forget that I hate things like this."

"As if I don't!" Daine sat on the bed and began attempting to comb her hair. "Besides," she said almost absently, "you know they're just going to laugh behind my back about my bad grammar."

"They will do no such thing."

"Oh," she said, with a strained smile, "they are. They're going to notice my accent and take heed of all those rumors about the bastard Gallan girl that the king elevated to his court."

"Nonsense," said Numair, "if they notice you, the only thing they're going to talk about is the minor event of you saving the entire world."

She groaned. "That's even worse. But," Daine stood and smoothed the skirts of her green satin gown and looked at Numair pointedly, "I'm still going. Gallan accent and bad grammar and past heroics and all. You, who speak like you ate a library and look like you were born to woo high-born ladies, can certainly put on your gods-cursed black robe and make polite conversation."

Numair took the robe but didn't put it on. "You're beginning to make a convincing argument. But I'm hardly fit to go to a gala now. I mean, look at me."

"Numair, dear." Exasperation stained every part of Daine's voice. "You look wonderful. You always look wonderful. I cry myself to sleep every night wishing I had hair that fell the way yours does, and you are never in anything but the most perfect physical condition. Even if you weren't, I might add, you had plenty of time to get ready. Now put the robe on."

"Well, if you put it that way."

Daine stood before the mirror and patted her hair into place. "I'll wait."

"Come help me with the buttons on this thing."

"Of course. I wouldn't want you to look anything less than perfect. They might think I'm a neglectful wife. There, perfect."

"If you say so."

"I do." She grabbed his arm. "Now let's go! We're already late."

As Daine closed the door behind him, Numair looked up. "How did I get talked into this again?"

"Persuasion, dear," said his wife. "And effective utilization of your vanity."