Rowan bared his teeth at the princess, who only glared back, unrepentant. Her hair, pulled into a plait, hung over one shoulder as she shivered in the morning chill, even with the sunshine moving across the stones of Mala's ancient temple.
Good.
"Shift."
"No."
Rowan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and glowered at her. Come on, you stupid girl.
She raised an eyebrow. You'll have to do better than that.
Humor me.
An evil little smile flickered onto her face, and Rowan knew today wasn't the day. He almost sighed. Maeve's task of training the princess was getting rather tiresome, and he was too tired to really get into it with her today.
He stood up, and made to go back to Mistward. "Go chop wood then."
She snarled, and, with his back to her, he allowed himself a smirk. He had made her chop wood yesterday, too.
"If you're going to be this pissed off at the whole damn world," he called over his shoulder, "And waste my time by not shifting, then you might as well do something useful."
.
Sorscha gazed at the spot where the prince had been, where he had sat in her workroom and asked her questions.
It almost felt like a dream. Never before had he looked at her with such intensity, such interest.
He didn't seem to know, though. Didn't seem to realize that those words on his hand, the hand she had bound with bandages and smothered in salve, were her words.
It made sense, she supposed. A prince would be asked that question - not even a question, just a title said in an inquisitive manner - everyday. Of course he wouldn't look around at every single servant who asked it.
It still hurt, though. Just a little. Like Sorscha's heart had reached for a rose, and had been beaten back by its thorns.
Prince Dorian was quite a beautiful rose, though.