It was still raining.
Tasia said nothing when she came to wake Kiara, and she kept her expression carefully bland. Without conversation or criticism, the maid chose a gown, helped Kiara dress, and tied her hair back with a simple ribbon. Kiara opened her mouth to… to ask the matter, or to soothe, or to apologize, but because she couldn't decide which was most appropriate, she said nothing. With nothing having been said between them, Tasia curtsied and departed again.
Kiara glanced at her bow, but she felt too… peculiar to consider using it. She was so jittery and annoyed she was half-afraid she'd take someone's eye out for looking at her the wrong way before she could think better of it. Instead, she belted the knife Sebastian had given her around her waist, drank down the dregs of her lukewarm tea, and followed Tasia's lead. She wasn't certain what she was going to do or where she was going to go, but staying in her rooms wasn't the answer.
It would be too easy for Sebastian to find her there, and after her restless night filled with troubling, troublesome thoughts, he was the very last person she wanted to see.
Kinnon was the guard on duty outside her suite, and she felt a weight lift from her when he offered her a salute and a lazy smile. "My lady," he greeted. "Lovely weather we're having."
She snorted. "No one warned me about the rain."
"If we warned people about the rain no one would ever come," he said. "Still, you get used to it."
Kiara wrinkled her nose. "I had my fill yesterday. Indoor activities only, today, thank you."
Kinnon waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she laughed. It felt good to laugh.
"So," she asked conversationally, "are you guarding the door? Or are you guarding me?"
"You, my lady. Begging your pardon. Prince's orders." Kinnon rubbed at the bruise on his jaw and winced. "Well, Captain's orders. I think the prince would have ordered me to man the city gate, if he had his way. Alone. Possibly against some kind of vast, oncoming horde."
Baffled, Kiara asked, "The city gate?"
Kinnon shrugged. "Farthest post still under the jurisdiction of the palace guard. But no matter. Here you find me. Are we taking a stroll?"
She sighed. "You have to follow me around, then?"
He widened his eyes in an exaggerated expression of injury. "Why, my lady, with a tone like that you'd think you wouldn't want to spend your day with me. I'll have you know I'm charming company."
"Fine. You have to follow me around." She rolled her eyes and turned, heading deeper into the palace. She kept her pace just fast enough that Kinnon had to half-jog in his heavy armor to keep up. He did so without complaint, but when she paused at a junction she heard him breathing heavily and felt a pang of guilt at making him pay for her irritation with the weather, and Sebastian, and all of bloody Starkhaven. Turning, she offered him an apologetic smile.
"No wonder the Captain made us draw straws," Kinnon mused. "It's all becoming clear."
"He did not."
Kinnon grinned. "Funny if he did, though. Are we going some place particular, my lady? Or just taking a wander through the bowels of the palace for fun?"
"I want to see the pretender."
A shadow stole Kinnon's mirth. "He's still sleeping, my lady. No change. You would've been told."
"I know. I just…" she clenched and unclenched her hands, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. "I just need to do something."
"If you want to stare at a sleeping man, I'd be happy to volunteer."
She poked him sharply in the side, expertly finding the gap between breastplate and backplate. He winced and groaned. "You're a big baby under all that heavy plate, aren't you, Ser Kinnon?"
"Aye," he replied. "A soft and cuddly one." When she only gave her own groan in reply, he added, "Oh, very well. It's the right corridor you take to the dungeons. If you must."
"Would you rather I go practice archery in the rain?"
He raised his eyebrows and gestured for her to precede him down the righthand corridor. "The short straw, indeed."
Morven was still sleeping. Of course. She hadn't expected anything different, really. He lay on his pallet, nearly unmoving. She didn't think she was imagining that he looked… smaller, somehow. Kiara doubted anyone was painstakingly forcing him to drink bowls of broth drop by drop. Crouching down next to him, she peered into his still face. His eyelids fluttered, but she recognized the look of one wandering the Fade. She almost wished—no, no matter how much she wanted the information trapped in the man's head she wouldn't risk Amelle going into the Fade for one such as he, even if she were here to ask.
When she laid her fingers on his forehead, she found his skin oddly dry and far, far too hot. "When was the healer last here?"
One of the guards on duty saluted her and replied, "Yesterday evening, my lady. She… she comes two or three times a day, to dose him with the sleeping draught."
"Send someone to fetch her. He seems… too sick. Sebastian wants him alive if possible."
The guard saluted again and departed at once. Drawing near, Kinnon asked, "How do you know?"
"My sister's a healer. I've gotten used to watching her work. Fever's a strange symptom. He was clammy before, not feverish."
Kinnon pointed at the bandage wrapped around Morven's hand. "Infection?"
"Maybe. But I don't want to take my chances. What I wouldn't—never mind. We'll see what Jessamine has to say."
Kinnon nodded. "While we're waiting, I… was wondering something."
"So was I," she admitted, "but you go first."
"Those things you said before… about dragons and giant spiders. Was that some kind of… some kind of game you and His Highness were playing? To poke fun at me?"
She chuckled. "Would that it were. No, no, I'm afraid that was all true." At his wide eyes, she added, "I hear Kirkwall's a bit of a hotbed for that sort of thing, though. I'm sure you're safe as houses up here in Starkhaven. No giant spiders need apply."
"And you dueled the Arishok? Truly?"
"In single combat. With a bow. It was… pretty much the stupidest thing I've ever done, actually. But I'm told it looked awfully brave from the outside. I'm not sure I believe it. I seem to recall a lot of running. And hiding. And running some more."
Kinnon shook his head wonderingly. "Aren't you… forgive me for asking, but aren't you bored, my lady? With… this?"
He looked so bewildered she couldn't help her laughter. "I used to long for peace. I thought if I never saw another slaver or bandit or mercenary or giant spider again in my life, I could die a happy woman." The laughter in her voice faded, and she remembered the casual ease with which Lady Aileene had dismissed her. You are a brave little soldier. "The troubles in Starkhaven may not have blood magic or demonic possession or malevolent artifacts at their root—I hope—but they won't go away on their own, and people are dying. It's… tempting, Ser Kinnon, to sit back. But no, as long as there are people to save—people I can help save—I'm not bored." She huffed a sigh. "I could do without giant spiders, though. Honestly. They're horrid."
After a moment of silence, Kinnon said, "You said you were wondering about something too?"
One corner of her mouth tilted up in a brief smile. "What did you say? To make Sebastian punch you? He's not usually the hot-headed, short-tempered type. Well. Not without cause, anyway."
To her surprise, Kinnon didn't reply at once with the flip remark she half-expected. He went a little pale under his tan and ducked his head. "I said something… I deserved it," he mumbled. "I-I'd probably have punched me too, if I were him."
Kiara raised her eyebrows. "Goodness. Was it something terribly nasty about Andraste?"
Kinnon's paleness disappeared instantly under a blush. He still couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. "Something like that, aye. It… doesn't bear repeating. My lady."
Kiara lifted her shoulders in a shrug just as the door opened to admit Jessamine and the guard. Nodding her thanks to the latter, she turned to the healer and gestured at the prone pretender. "I think there's something wrong with him."
"He shows every sign of dying," Jessamine snapped so viciously Kiara flinched. "Of course there's something wrong with him. He ate enough deathroot to fell a bronto."
Kiara inclined her head to accept this, but added, "It's not just that. He's feverish."
Jessamine blinked and crossed the room at a jog. "Believe it or not… that may be a positive sign."
"How so?"
"I think it means his body, at least, is fighting the poison." Jessamine knelt beside Morven's cot, lifting one eyelid to peer beneath, and checking his brow for fever as Kiara had done. She hummed slightly under her breath, shaking her head, before searching in her satchel. The potion she retrieved was one Kiara vaguely recognized. She tended to avoid potions as a rule, unless Amelle was physically forcing one down her throat, but this one she'd taken before, on occasion.
"Stamina draught?"
Jessamine glanced over her shoulder and nodded. "To treat the fever would let the deathroot win. This, at least, might give him strength enough to buy the fever time to do its work." The healer sighed as she worked Morven's jaw open and dripped the potion slowly into his mouth. "I'm sorry, my lady. I know it seems as though I'm muddling through, but I've never—this is new to me. I am afraid I'm mostly making things up as I go along."
"You aren't the only one," Kiara replied, with a faint smile. Then, more seriously, she added, "I suppose that's your way of telling me you really don't know when he'll wake?"
"When?" Jessamine scoffed. "Try if. And no, I've no idea. He's held on this long. He may hold on longer. He may wake. He may die ten minutes after we leave this room. We've no way to know."
Kiara watched in silence as the healer worked. Jessamine clucked her dismay when she removed the bandages and found Morven's hand swollen. It was… illuminating, really, to watch the woman work. Amelle would have closed her eyes and the wounds to the hand would have been a memory; faint lines of scar tissue, if that. Kiara was fairly certain even the deathroot poisoning would have caused her sister little trouble.
They're killing people for being mages, Kiara, she admonished. Do not wish your sister here. Not for this. Not for anything. She's safe where she is.
When Jessamine finished—healing took a great deal longer without magic to aid it—she rose and brushed her hands on her blue robe, slinging the satchel of supplies over her narrow shoulder.
"May I walk with you a while, Lady Kiara?" she asked.
"Certainly. You… you haven't news from the courier yet, have you?"
Jessamine gave her head a weary shake. "It'll be another week at least before we can expect to hear anything, I'm afraid. No. I… I did want to speak with you, though." She gazed warily at Ser Kinnon, who only smiled and shrugged and fell back a couple of steps.
"Captain's orders," Kiara explained. "They don't want me wandering off. Or getting lost."
"Or getting killed," Ser Kinnon remarked. "But I suppose that's just a minor concern."
Jessamine glanced between them and hugged her arms tight around her body. Then, after a moment, she nodded to Kinnon and said, "Perhaps they have the right of it."
Kiara frowned, brow furrowing at Jessamine's dark tone. "Have you heard something?"
"Nothing one could base an accusation on, but… I hear troubling rumors, Lady Kiara. There are those who feel you… you are here to represent Kirkwall's interests. That you… that you are the one whispering into the prince's ear."
"I'd have to get close enough," she groused. "Or at least take my place in the queue."
Jessamine didn't laugh. Her steady gaze was unblinking and unamused. "You may think the things you do are beneath notice, my lady, but they are not. Everything the prince does is noticed, and remarked upon. If you disappear into his office for an afternoon, some believe it is because you wish to… influence him. I have… I have heard the word puppetmaster spoken."
"That's treason, Mistress Jessamine," Kinnon breathed. "To doubt the prince's motives… to doubt Lady Kiara when he has expressly indicated the punishment…"
Jessamine bowed her head. "They're not my words, Ser Kinnon. I only want Lady Kiara to know what is being said of her. Starkhaven has suffered through two bad princes; it does not want a third. Nor, I think, does it want the Champion of Kirkwall making decisions on behalf of a city that is not hers."
Kiara thought of making a joke about yellow-duckling curtains, but held her tongue. Both Jessamine and Kinnon looked entirely too uncomfortable for flippancy. "I'm not trying to influence Starkhaven politics," she said. "Maker, I actively avoided getting myself named Viscount of Kirkwall precisely because I wanted nothing to do with politics."
Jessamine looked sympathetic. "Forgive me for mentioning it, my lady. It seemed… important you know."
"I don't blame you, Jessamine," Kiara replied. "Indeed, you're right; it is important. I'm not sure what I can do to push back against rumors though. That's the kind of battle I've never had a talent for fighting."
Kinnon bristled. "Tell me who speaks them, and I'll push back."
"I'm afraid that would only look worse for me." Kiara sighed. Kinnon didn't look convinced, so she explained, "The only thing worse than having the local sovereign in one's pocket is having people suspect you also control the local military. I'll… be aware. I'll… keep a lower profile."
Jessamine curtsied deeply. "Again, forgive me, my lady. I do not speak to offend."
Kiara waved her hand dismissively. "I've never been one to shoot the messenger, Jessamine. I… I'll think of something."
You don't belong here.
Jessamine left them then, but Kinnon said nothing. Kiara found herself glad of the silence; she wasn't certain what to think about any of it. When she realized she was anxiously wringing her hands, she buried them in her skirts and forced herself to breathe until she no longer wanted to root out everyone who'd had the gall to criticize her and shout I only want to help! in their faces.
Halfway back to her chambers, Kiara and Kinnon were met by Garreth Grayden. He grinned and held his bow aloft. "It stopped raining, my lady."
"Thank the Maker," Kiara replied, with genuine relief. "I fear I'll run mad if I don't get to shoot something, and quickly."
Kinnon sent a slantwise glance her way, but she ignored it, choosing instead to smile and clap Garreth on the shoulder. His enthusiasm, at least, was infectious. "It's a pity I can't get my own bow, but Tasia will only pitch a fit and make me change into an archery gown if I try to sneak out with it now."
Garreth arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Isn't she… your maid? I think you're allowed to tell her what to do."
Kiara feigned horror. "Clearly you haven't met Tasia." Behind them, Kinnon chuckled knowingly. Flinging her arm over Garreth's shoulders, Kiara tried not to think about Jessamine's words, or their import. You don't belong here. "Let's go. It's not like I haven't shot an unfamiliar bow before. I'm sure the practice yard will have one to suit."
Perhaps shooting would do the trick. She could use a little quiet.
She feared it wouldn't be enough.
#
He heard the laughter even before he turned the corner. Kiara's he recognized at once, of course. Tasia stood at the doorway to Kiara's bedchamber, half-hidden, and she gestured for him to approach silently by pressing finger to her lips. Peeking over the smaller woman's shoulder, he saw Kiara standing on her bed armed with the fire poker and holding a pillow like a shield. Four little pages—he recognized the one who'd insisted on the wagered kiss—sat enthralled at her feet. The other servants had ceased even pretending to go about their duties and also watched.
"Then what do you think happened? The Hero raised her sword high—" Kiara raised the poker, "—and without hesitation she roared a valiant battle cry and flung herself straight at the heart of the Archdemon." Kiara leapt from the bed, over the heads of her enraptured audience, and stabbed her poker into the door of one of her wardrobes. The children clapped and cheered as Kiara theatrically battled her furniture. Beside him, Tasia's eyes widened; he imagined she was tallying the cost of repairs. Sebastian didn't care; he'd have paid for a hundred wardrobes to see Kiara so delighted.
"Then what happened?" cried the littlest page, his hands clasped and his voice filled with awe.
"The Archdemon let out a terrible roar heard by everyone in all of Denerim. The walls shook. Dust and stone began to fill the air as it writhed upon the battlements, pinned by the Hero's blade. Still she held. Still she battled, heedless of her own pain and injury. A great light filled the air and when it faded, the Archdemon was dead. And the Hero lived!"
"Wow," said the littlest page. "Did that happen for real?"
"For really real," Kiara intoned.
"Was she wearing a dress like you?" asked the sole little girl.
"Probably not," Kiara replied. "I imagine one goes to battle an Archdemon in very heavy armor. I'm certain even Mistress Tasia couldn't find a gown appropriate to Archdemon-fighting."
Tasia snorted lightly.
Another of the pages piped up, "And then did everyone live happily ever after?"
Kiara grinned. "Of course. Heroes always get to live happily ever after."
"Then do you get to live happily ever after?" asked the littlest page, utterly guileless.
Kiara's smile turned just a shade too close to brittle, but her reply was glib, "I'm no hero, little master Davin. Just a girl with a good shot who doesn't care for bullies and who doesn't suffer fools."
Another of the pages said, "I heard real heroes are all eight feet tall. And shoot fireballs out of their fingers. And ride griffons."
Kiara pondered this with an exaggerated scratch of her chin. "I'm certainly not eight feet tall," she said at last. "I can barely light a candle with a taper without burning my own fingertips, and I've never seen a griffon."
The boy Davin remained unconvinced, staring up at her, his arms crossed over his chest. "I think you're a hero," he said stubbornly. "And I'm going to be an archer just like you."
"Are you now? It takes a lot of practice. And you'll get lots of blisters on your fingers, but you still have to keep on practicing," Kiara warned lightly. Sebastian pushed the door open just a little wider, and her smile faded when she saw him. "Well, my little friends, it looks as though I have a very important guest just now, so you'd best all get back to your posts. I'll tell you another story later. Maybe one with Grey Wardens. I hear they have griffons."
The passel of pages jumped up when they saw him, scraping into their halting, childish versions of bows and curtseys. Davin nearly tipped over in his haste, but Kiara reached out and steadied him. Before he ran off with his companions, he turned and pressed his face into her skirts, throwing his arms around her legs. She yelped and nearly fell herself, unbalanced by the sudden hug.
"Thank you, Lady Kiara," he said. "You tell the best stories."
"Oh, go on, you flatterer," she replied, tousling his fine blond hair. "You'll give me a big head."
Davin frowned up at her. "I think your head is fine."
Kiara laughed and shooed him away. Sebastian noticed the other servants trailed the boy, leaving him alone with their mistress, and a glance at the door revealed it was now firmly shut. He wondered if Tasia still stood on the other side, ear pressed to the wood. He wouldn't put it past her.
Without so much as looking at him, Kiara bent and retrieved the fallen mock weaponry.
"They love you," he said.
Returning the poker to its holder at the hearth, and tossing the pillow back onto the bed, she replied, "Oh, children are easy. They like stories and adventure and jokes about bodily functions."
"Like Isabela, without the drink."
Wryly, she added, "And without the sex."
"I don't know," he replied mildly, "Young Davin seems inordinately fond of kissing."
"He'll be a heartbreaker," Kiara agreed. She glanced up at him then, meeting his eyes for an instant before quickly returning her gaze to the floor. "Do you need something, Sebastian? Or is this a social call?"
"I haven't seen you in two days. You come to dinner only to eat and you disappear before the dancing."
"Oh, you know," she said with false cheer, "I've been busy. Children to wrangle. Archdemons to slay. Never a dull moment."
"Kiara, please…"
Wheeling around, she jabbed a finger into his chest so forcefully he took a half-step backward. He didn't think it was intentional, but she'd managed to hit exactly the spot the sword had slid between his ribs and the old ache combined with the new was enough to set the world spinning a little. He blinked, attempting to clear the stars from his vision.
"What do you want me to say?" she snapped, all amusement, all laughter gone. "That I'm happy to be held behind your walls like a bird in a cage? I'm not. I think it's important for me to be out in the city, proving I'm not the mad puppetmaster pulling the new prince's strings. You're the one who won't let me defend myself."
"It's too dangerous. It is an unnecessary risk."
"Spoken like a politician," she spat, her voice heavy with derision. "And now I can't even help indoors, either, for fear the gossipmongers will think I'm whispering poison in your ears behind the closed doors of your office."
He felt his own ire rising to meet hers. "I am a politician. And I don't understand. You're… punishing me for caring about your safety? Who's saying you're whispering poison? If someone's said something to you—"
"Oh, forgive me, Your Highness," she interrupted. "What would you have me do? Trail about after you like a puppy at heel? Question your prisoners? Smile and nod and greet people as though I belong here? Dance? Help choose a bloody wife to go along with your duckling draperies?"
He gaped. "What are you—?"
"Do you think I'm stupid?" She clenched her hands into fists at her sides—he was certain it was to keep herself from hitting him again, but he had no idea why she was so angry. Or why in the Maker's name she was talking about wives. "Corwin and the Revered Mother and even the sodding servants… all of them keep hinting about it. I—it's so embarrassing. They're trying to prepare me." She paced away from him, stalking to the window. "To say nothing of that bitch—no. It doesn't matter. Look, I'm only waiting for a reply from Amelle. I want to be certain she's not on her bloody way here. Then I'll go. Just… please. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"Make what harder?" he asked. He took a couple of halting steps toward her, but the line of her back remained unyielding and unwelcoming, so he stopped.
"We're friends," she whispered, reaching out to twitch the draperies open. "We'll always be friends, Sebastian. But I need more time to be happy for you about this."
He heard her words. He knew what each of them meant. Yet somehow put together in the sentences she spoke, he could not understand her.
"It's not going to be that… wretched Lady Serie, is it?" Kiara visibly shuddered. Sebastian took another hesitant step toward her, but she recoiled. "I grant she's very pretty, but she's so… stupid. And her mother. Maker!Don't you see? You'd be so unhappy with a stupid wife. You need someone who'll stand with you, who'll challenge you, who—Oh… sod it, Sebastian. I can't do this."
"I don't understand," he said. His throat felt tight, and swallowing brought no relief. "Why would you think—?"
"You must marry," she interjected. "I… know that. Because you're prince now, and a prince must have heirs. Of course. Of course. M-mother always tried to impress upon me the necessity for heirs, and w-we're just a minor noble house. I-I know how much more important it is for you."
He shook his head. "It's… politics. But why would you think—Serie?"
"I saw you," she admitted. "You looked… intimate. Not that it matters. It's none of my business."
He remembered then, dancing with the pretty girl two nights earlier. He'd been calculating how many more dances he had to dance before it would be acceptable to ask Kiara again. At the end of the set Serie had risen to her toes and whispered in his ear—an invitation he had no desire to accept and no intention of following up with. He supposed from a distance it might have looked mildly suspect, but… and then Kiara was nowhere to be seen, and two days of silence and begging off and avoidance had followed. He'd thought it was entirely because he was so reluctant to let her wander the city alone. "Do you want it to be your business?" he blurted.
She faced him, lips parted, eyes flashing. Her breath was too quick; he could see the rise and fall of her breast above the embroidered neckline of her gown. Tendrils of hair curled around her flushed cheeks. She looked infuriated and beautiful and… and a bemused voice that sounded distressingly like Varric's whispered, She's jealous, you idiot.
Before his rational, thinking brain could catch up, he closed the distance between them and slanted his mouth over hers. Her lips, still parted, were soft against his. She made an inarticulate, half-choked little sound deep in her throat as he trailed his fingertips down her spine to rest at the small of her back.
And then she bit him. Hard.
Eyes watering in sudden pain, he did not resist when she put her hands to his chest and pushed him backward. Only pride kept him from falling entirely. Kiara dashed the back of her hand over her own mouth and scowled as though expecting it to come away stained with blood, but her retaliation had stopped just short of drawing it.
"No," she whispered, her voice ragged, breaking on the single syllable. He found himself wanting to hurt himself for causing her pain, for forcing her to sound so resigned and sad and disappointed. "No. You may be Prince of Starkhaven but you don't get to do that. I'm not—I know what they're whispering about me, people like Serie and Aileene, but they're wrong. I may not be a princess, but I'm not a—it's not who I am—I won't—not even for you."
"But I—"
Her voice rose. "Or is it like Morven said? Fine wine and fine women, the perks of being prince? I'm-I'm not a perk."
"Of course you're no—"
"How dare you treat me like… like…"
"Kiara—"
She shouted over his protest, "You can't just—"
"Maker's bloody balls, let me finish!"
Eyes wide, she clapped her hands over her own mouth, as if to assure him of her silence. He put his own hand to his forehead, shaking his head slightly. "Forgive me," he said. "I should not have… presumed upon you."
She made a distressed noise behind her hands.
"It was disrespectful. And does not reflect my… feelings for you. I am… heartily ashamed of myself, my lady." And he was. His chest ached and his hands trembled and he could not bear to see the condemnation in her eyes.
Just as he was about to turn and leave her, she lowered her hands slowly. After wordlessly opening and closing her mouth several times she finally managed weakly, "What… are they?"
"What are they?" he echoed.
"Your feelings. For me. What are they?"
She still stood near the window, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her pale eyes met his unflinchingly, but he could not read their emotion beyond knowing her question was a serious one. He thought of deflecting. He thought of saying nothing. He thought of falling back on friendship and respect and admiration.
He knew he would be lying to do any of those things. So he chose instead to speak the truth. "I love you."
She closed her eyes and bent her neck, shoulders curling protectively forward. He saw her arms squeeze tighter. A thousand years passed as he stood waiting for her to speak. He watched her collect herself; her breathing slowed, her shoulders straightened. After another age, she opened her eyes again. "Well, if you'd told me that before," she said, her voice still tremulous, "I wouldn't have bitten you."
His stomach turned over, and by the feel of things, decided to take the rest of his internal organs with it. "But then—so you—I didn't think you could—"
"I never thought I could compete with bloody Andraste, now did I?"
He swallowed around the knot of emotion caught at the base of his throat. "Maker strike me down for saying it, but you, Kiara Hawke, have been dearer to me than the Maker's Bride for quite some time."
When the Maker didn't send an errant bolt of lightning or open the ground beneath his feet, he extended his hand to her. She curved her fingers around his tentatively. Staring at their joined hands, she said, "It's not that I'm opposed to sharing you with her. She seems reasonable."
"Are you going to stop jesting any time soon?"
Gazing up at him through lashes still sticky with tears she shrugged one shoulder. "I don't think so. You know I joke when I'm uncomfortable."
"Are you uncomfortable?"
Her brow furrowed and her fingers tightened around his. "Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming. Tasia's going to shake me awake any minute and I'm going to punch her."
Running the back of his index finger over the curve of her cheek, he said, "Don't hit the servants, Kiara. It's not the done thing."
Leaning into his touch, she nevertheless worried at her bottom lip. "You aren't going to change your—"
"Kiara. Look at me."
She did; he could see the fears hiding behind her eyes. He could not even deny they were valid ones, knowing what she knew. He had broken vows, sworn new ones, and broken those too. He had nearly betrayed her out of thoughtlessness and his desire for vengeance. She had seen the worst of him. And stayed.
"There have been times when I've given you every reason to doubt the steadiness of my character, but I—"
She began to protest and he pressed his fingertip to her lips. Blinking, she fell silent once again.
"If I have learned steadiness, it has been your doing. I told you once breaking my vows would make me unworthy of you. I—part of me still believes it. That part of me… may struggle, for a time. But I will strive to be worthy, even if it is the task of a lifetime. And I… I thank you for giving me the chance."
"Okay," she said, a blush infusing her cheeks as she looked up at him. "You could, um. Kiss me again. If you wanted. I, uh, won't bite. This time."
Cupping her cheek in his hand, he bent his head. This time it was she who was not content with gentle, with chaste. Releasing his hand, she swept her arms around him, tangling the fingers of one hand in his hair, teasing his lips apart with the tip of her tongue. He groaned, pressing against her until her back was to the wall. She arched into him at the contact and he allowed his mouth to kiss a trail from her lips to her throat to the hollow of her collarbone. She shivered and he smiled against her, repeating the experiment. This time the shiver was accompanied by a breathy moan.
Before he could return for a third attempt, she raised one hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. "W-wait a second," she said, her voice still quavering with… with desire—and oh, how he wanted to—her pale throat beckoned; her lips were swollen and inviting and—but she shook her head and blinked and said a little more strongly, "I'm sorry. Y-you have to—I know you have to—and we just—Sebastian, d-did we just get engaged?"
He dropped a feather-light kiss to her forehead. "Not if you don't like," he said. "Though it would make Corwin very happy."
She laughed nervously. "Well, if it would make Corwin happy…"
"We needn't decide anything now." A second and third kiss followed, one to each blushing cheekbone. "However, were we to be engaged, we would be allowed to dance with each other quite a lot more and with others a great deal less."
"Sold," she said brightly, meeting his fourth kiss with one of her own.
