Chapter 30 Eight Words
Eight Words
Osric
Osric’s soul thrilled with a mad rush.
She was in his arms. She, whom he had thought gone.
She, whom he had entertained in fantasies and prayers, and dreamed of on purpose.
She, whom he had found in every piece of art, in the brocade of frost upon glass, in every sparkle of light on water.
She, who lingered like a sunspot he couldn’t blink away. She, whom he had thought lost.
She smiled at him, blossoms dancing at her feet and her dress a drift of white, mingling with the silky fog.
The little phrase burst between them among kisses—I love you, I love you—words so common, so well worn, they should have been shabby and frayed, but at that moment, in that place, they glowed like spoken stars.
Her lips traced the shape of his smile.
Aurienne Fairhrim, brilliant, silver-edged, sharp-tongued, was in his arms. She had always been like the moon herself: unattainable, bright, and pulling him in like a tide, and now she was here, and her cheeks were dimpled by smiles upon smiles, and she loved him, and he could hardly bear it.
If I’m to be happy, it’s with you.
This time, she had told him a fairy tale in only eight words.