Noal inclined his head. “Should you need anything?—”
Mireille waved his comment away. “I have it well in hand, though I do appreciate your concern. You’ll recall, I am a princess as well. I’m used to waiting for selfish and stodgy royals with no regard for the schedules of others.”
He appeared to swallow a sound but Mireille could not quite make out whether it was one of humor or shock. She suspected a man like Noal could not be easily shocked.
“Well, then, I will leave you to it.” He gave a bow and walked from the room.
Hours later, Mireille still sat on a finely carved marble step watching as the sun began to set. Far in the distance, the treetops were tipped with a rosy gold. Her slippers were tucked neatly beneath her skirts, and well away from the ledge of the archway that opened into the coming night. Outside in the distance was a festival, its fae music drifting up to her on a jasmine-scented breeze. She would need to return to her rooms before midnight, but no matter how much the sound felt as if it were calling her, Mireille would not go. Not in the light of day when she had any choice in the matter.
Besides, if she stepped foot outside the castle, she would no longer be protected. The prince and his rules were all that was keeping her safe.
She was not certain how long he had been watching from the shadows, but when the sun had finally dipped below the trees, the last of its light a fading haze of color along the horizon, Mireille said, “It is quite a breathtaking view. I can see why you’ve chosen this as your sanctuary.”
A moment of stillness followed in which she was not certain he would reply. Perhaps he had not meant for her to notice him. Perhaps, like her, he had felt the stillness of time, there at the dying of another day, too bittersweet to break. But he came forward, on slow and silent steps, to stand by her side.
Mireille glanced up at him. “Is it a festival to celebrate the change of seasons?”
His gaze remained on the fires in the distance. “A festival, yes. Marking the coming of winter... no.”
She ran a hand over her bare arm. “I confess, it seems very strange to have stood in the Westrende forest where leaves seemed ready to fall and to experience that bite of wind, only to step through the wall to find, suddenly, surroundings like that of a hothouse. Will winter come for your lands soon?”
“One way or another, I suppose it will.” His dark eyes met hers, and he held forward a hand.
Mireille took it, her bare palm sliding against his glove. They stood for a moment before the balcony. Perhaps Mireille imagined the sense of loneliness from him before he turned, placing her hand inside his arm to guide her to their promised dinner.
He led her to a room that was as spacious as the one in which they’d dined the night before, but instead of a long table lined with seating, there waited only two chairs at a table even longer. And the chairs at opposite ends, no less.
After Mireille was settled into her seat, Alder strode to the taller, more elaborate chair, clearly meant for a prince of the fae, its back a carved tangle of wood that mirrored his crown, its arms wrapping solidly around him before disappearing like roots into the floor.
Mireille examined the table setting as a server poured thick red liquid into her goblet.
“It is… very formal,” she said to the prince, feeling the need to raise her voice to reach him at the other end. “This is surely not where you normally dine. Would you prefer to return to your usual dinners, with family and members of your court?”
“Most evenings, I do not dine with my… with anyone. This month, the celebrations, it is an unusual affair.”
She cocked her head in interest, but he did not go on. Clearly, he was not going to make it easy to get close to him, even when she had him relatively alone. “Where, precisely, do you dine, then?”
“My study.”
“Well, that sounds…”
He flicked a gesture at the wait staff.
“…cozy,” Mireille finished.
The prince took a sip from his goblet.
“Can you tell me about your court? I would love to hear how your days are spent?—”
The prince’s goblet returned to the table. “I will not discuss matters of the court or my duties to the palace. You are not yet privy to kingdom affairs.”
Mireille stared at him. He stared back. She said, “Noted. Are there any other topics that are forbidden?”
His expression hardened. She wondered if word had gotten back to him about their search in the library. She wondered if they’d gone too far on only their first day, revealed too much.
Alder waved the servers to proceed. The first two courses did not go any better. By the time they’d progressed to the third, both were speaking curtly, when they spoke at all, and it was clear the prince was itching to escape. He had likely expected her to give up waiting for him to meet her that evening at all. It may have been her fault that he felt pressed, but she could not be sorry for it.
“Dinner was,” she started at the same time he said, “Perhaps we should retire?—”
