Episode 31 I Think It’s Magic
I Think It’s Magic
Arisanna leans near Cerian’s pointed ear, though why she needs to is a mystery since they appear to have the practice arena all to themselves. It just seems like the sort of thing one whispers, so she does. “I think...I think it’s magic.”
“What’s magic?” His eyes are closed, and his voice is breathy.
Arisanna studies him in confusion. What did she do to him?
And why does he smell so sweet? Almost like—she sniffs him again—juicy ripe strawberries.
He did just eat a bunch of berries, but it’s not coming from his mouth.
At least, not only his mouth. It’s as if the fruity scent is seeping from his pores.
She leans closer to get another whiff. His eyes snap open as she hovers over him, trying to take in more of that sweet scent emanating from his skin.
“What are you doing?” He stares up at her with that furrowed brow he’s mastered so well, and she freezes.
Every made-up explanation she considers telling him sticks in her throat until she gives up and tells him the truth. “I was smelling you.”
“You...what?”
She hurries to put some space between them. “You smell really good. Like fresh—”
“Berries,” he finishes for her. “It’s my plant magic.”
Magic. They were talking about magic.
He smells like that after using his plant magic? Stars above. It’s delightful. She sways toward him again before returning to her senses. She can’t just curl up beside him and bury her face in his neck and drink him in.
Can she?
Of course not. That would be...extraordinary. She shakes her head. Extraordinarily inappropriate.
Does he taste like berries, too?
Her eyes grow wide as she tries to pretend she didn’t just ask herself that.
At least she didn’t ask him. Good heavens.
She pushes against the startling urge to flee whatever he’s doing to her by lying there looking so absolutely perfect while he smells so good.
She’d probably trip over her magic skirt if she ran.
Her magic skirt. That’s what they were discussing.
“I think my dress is magic,” she blurts out.
For goodness’ sake. He’s definitely going to assume she’s addled now.
His gaze travels over her as he studies the gown, and heat floods her at the appreciative look in his eyes.
“Where did you get it?” He glances away as his own cheeks redden. What is he thinking? Does she even want to know?
“From your wardrobe. I wasn’t sure if it was meant for me or if it belonged to...to...”
His eyes snap to hers. “To...?”
Why did she say that part? He didn’t need to hear that. She can’t take it back now, though.
“To someone else,” she whispers, afraid to meet his gaze.
He doesn’t respond at first, and when she looks back at him, he seems to be weighing his words. What does that mean?
The gown feels hot against her skin, mocking her. She shouldn’t have put it on. Why did she put it on?
“There is no one else,” he finally says. “If you found it in my wardrobe, someone put it there for you.”
Her mortification threatens to swallow her whole, and when he takes her wrist, she jumps. What is he doing? He gently turns her arm as she watches, trying to remember how to breathe.
Oh. There’s a note pinned to the underside of her sleeve. How did she miss that?
“I think I know who it’s from.” He unpins the paper and hands it to her as her whole arm burns where he was touching her. “Can you read Elvish?”
“Some. It’s...difficult.” She tries to make sense of the Elvish runes, but it looks like a child’s scrawl.
“Here.” Cerian holds out his hand for the note, and Arisanna lets him have it. He studies it, his brows knit in concentration, and then his face flushes again. “It’s from Viala. Her written Elvish is...still improving.”
Viala gave her a dress? A magic one? A magic fae dress? Arisanna leans toward him to try making out the words again. The rune for prince seems to be repeated a couple of times if she’s reading it right. “What does it say?”
Cerian suddenly looks very uncomfortable.
“Tell me! If you don’t, I’ll go ask Tharios.”
What possessed her to say that? But Cerian stares at her in horror, and she almost laughs.
“Tell me,” she says more softly this time. “Please?”
“It...says...”
She leans even closer. He still smells so good.
“Yes?” she whispers.
“She...hopes you’ll grow to love your elven prince as much as she loves hers. Or something like that. And that he’ll love you as much as Tharios loves her. And maybe the dress will help.” Cerian says it so fast Arisanna can barely understand the Elvish words.
He looks like a cornered animal, panic written across his face, as if he wants to flee.
But he’s not running.
“Do you need some space?” she asks while Viala’s words play over and over inside her head.
Her elven prince.
Cerian nods. Then he shakes his head before nodding again.
What is that supposed to mean?
“Shall I—”
But before she can finish her question, he’s on his feet and gone, leaving her gazing at the empty doorway he passed through.
He ran. Again.
Elowyn smiles back at Rominy before hurrying up the stairs to the railcar awaiting them for their journey to the mountains. She stops short inside the door. This is not like the train they rode from Feressa. Instead of benches, it has a small sitting room with two upholstered armchairs.
“It’s one of our luxury cars,” Rominy says from behind her. “We’ll be on the train overnight.”
Elowyn glances back at him. “Overnight?”
He looks away and nods, and she gazes at the armchairs again. The benches in the other car would have been more suited to sleeping.
And the space is so small. This is a luxury railcar? It defies logic.
“So we get this little room to ourselves for the night?” She puts on a smile. What an adventure, regardless.
“What? No. This is...”
When he doesn’t finish, she tilts her head as she studies him. “This is what?”
He breathes out slowly, and rather than respond, he steps toward a door on the other side of the tiny room, and she follows him.
As soon as he slides it open, the train lurches forward, and they both lose their balance.
She tumbles against him, and he stumbles through the door, falling backward onto.
..a bed? She lands on his chest, and they stare at each other, not saying anything.
On a bed. On a train.
His heart picks up speed along with the locomotive, and hers pounds to match.
There’s only one bed in here, though the fact that there’s a bed on the train at all is fascinating.
“Are you all right?” His voice is almost too quiet to hear.
“Yes. Elves are sturdy creatures, remember?”
He nods. “So...”
“So...?”
“I...you...are you—”
Whistling wind. She’s still on top of him.
She scrambles to her feet, bracing herself against the wall as warmth spreads through her.
He quickly rises as well and gestures to the bed, which takes up most of the small room. “So that’s the...right.”
“Right. The bed.”
“Yes.”
She meets his gaze, and for a moment, neither of them says anything.
Then the corner of his mouth twitches, and Elowyn covers her own mouth to hide a smile before laughter gets the best of her.
He runs his fingers through his hair and leans his head back as he joins her mirth. “That was—”
“Awkward.”
He laughs again and nods. “To put it mildly.”
“So we have a special railcar for sleeping? How clever.”
“Yes. I wasn’t sure which one we’d get. Some of them have separate beds. I think my father is plotting against us.”
Elowyn smiles at that. “I see. Well, I’m glad he seems to like me.”
“Yes.” Rominy draws out the word. “So, you can sleep in here, and I’ll—”
“Don’t be silly. There’s plenty of room for us both.”
He stares at her, his heart thundering again.
“Unless you’d rather sleep in a chair,” she continues.
He shakes his head.
“Then it’s settled. It will be awkward, but we’ll do our best to manage.”
He opens his mouth, but no words come, and eventually, he nods.
“So, what do you do on trains to pass the time?” she asks.
It takes him a moment to find his tongue. “There are some games we could play.”
“Sounds delightful. I will warn you, I am quite competitive.” She smiles up at him, and he manages a half-grin in return.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”