Chapter 22
The restaurant had turned out even better at night.
During the day, it had been elegant.
By evening, beneath lantern light and the softened hush of the garden beyond, it became something else entirely.
The building itself sat half-embraced by greenery, its structure refined without trying too hard to impress.
The indoor space glowed warmly through tall windows and open doors, polished wood and lamplight softening into gold.
Outside, the terrace extended into the evening air beneath a wide overhang twined with flowering vines, the outer edge framed by low lanterns and carefully placed planters that gave the seating space shape without boxing it in.
Tables had been arranged with enough distance between them to allow privacy without feeling sparse.
The chairs were simple in line, elegant in finish, cushioned just enough to reward people for remaining longer than intended.
Which, Dara thought, they should.
Music drifted lightly through the space from a small ensemble seated within view but not in the center of attention—strings and flute, gentle enough to blend into the evening rather than dominate it.
Servers moved smoothly between tables with the practiced rhythm of people who had been drilled thoroughly enough not to disgrace themselves on opening night.
Good.
That part mattered too.
Dara slowed at the edge of the terrace and looked across it all in one measured sweep.
Occupied, but not crowded. Lively, but still calm. Beautiful enough to feel like a continuation of the garden instead of a separate, lesser attachment to it.
The kind of place people might come to and then fail to leave at a reasonable hour.
Perfect.
Valerius came to a stop beside her and followed her gaze. “You’re inspecting it.”
“Yes.”
He sounded amused. “Before sitting.”
“I’m not going to sit somewhere disappointing simply because I’m tired.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
A server approached at once and bowed, posture admirably steady despite the fact that one of the evening’s guests was the Crown Prince and the other was the woman who had likely spent the last several weeks terrorizing every staff member into competence through standards alone.
“Your Highness. My lady. Would you prefer indoor seating or the terrace?”
“The terrace,” Dara said immediately.
There was no question.
If she had wanted walls, she would have stayed home.
The point was the garden. The evening air. The lanterns. The sense of being inside the thing she had built rather than merely adjacent to it.
The server bowed again and led them toward a table near the terrace edge, where the garden remained fully visible beyond a low decorative border of greenery.
From here, the pond caught the lantern light in broken threads of gold, and farther off the flower corridor glowed softly where lamps had been placed carefully enough not to flatten it.
Dara approved of the view.
When they were seated, another server brought menus.
They were exactly as she had intended: not too large, not too sparse, varied enough to suit different appetites without descending into culinary confusion. Proper meals. Lighter plates. Desserts worth saving room for. Fruity drinks, chilled teas, sparkling refreshers, wine, spirits—and cocktails.
Dara was immensely pleased by the existence of cocktails.
This world had taken a while to become civilized, but it was getting there.
She set down the menu after only a brief glance. She already knew what was good. That was one of the privileges of funding something personally.
Valerius, meanwhile, was still reading.
Dara folded her hands lightly and waited.
He looked up after a moment. “You are not deciding?”
“I already decided.”
“Of course you did.”
A server returned. “My lady?”
Dara looked up. “I’ll have the berry-citrus cocktail. The chilled one.”
“At once, my lady.”
The server turned to Valerius.
He glanced once at the drink section again, then said, “The citrus herbal wine.”
“Very good, Your Highness.”
When the server withdrew, Valerius looked at her. “You seem pleased.”
“I am.”
“With the restaurant.”
“With the evening.”
“With the cocktail list,” he said.
Dara met his gaze calmly. “Yes.”
That was obvious.
The music shifted gently into a slower piece. Lantern light warmed the terrace. Somewhere farther out in the garden, a burst of laughter rose and softened again almost immediately, distant enough not to intrude.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
Dara found that she did not mind.
That, too, was becoming familiar.
Their drinks arrived first.
Her cocktail was served in a stemmed glass with slices of bright fruit set delicately at the rim, the liquid itself a deep jewel tone somewhere between crushed berries and sunset.
Tiny bubbles rose through it in faint, elegant streams. His was paler—golden, herb-bright, cooler in appearance, more restrained.
Valerius looked at her drink.
Not openly. Not rudely. But with the same quiet, curious attention he had once given her boba, her popcorn chicken, and several other things he had probably not expected to encounter in one woman’s company.
Dara noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
She lifted the glass. “Do you want to try it?”
Valerius looked at her.
Then at the glass.
Then back at her.
“You are offering.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause long enough to become mildly entertaining.
Then he said, “You ask that as though the answer should be obvious.”
“It is obvious.”
“To you.”
“You’re the one staring at it.”
His mouth moved faintly at one corner.
That was essentially confirmation.
Dara extended the glass.
Valerius accepted it carefully and took a measured sip.
Then another, smaller one, just enough to understand it properly.
He lowered the glass and regarded it with a look of quiet surprise he did not bother to hide completely.
“Well?” Dara asked.
“It’s very good.”
“I know.”
He handed it back.
Dara accepted it without ceremony and took a sip herself, perfectly content.
Valerius looked at her for a moment. Then said, “You offered that more easily than most noblewomen offer conversation.”
“That’s because most noblewomen make terrible conversation.”
He exhaled softly through his nose.
Not quite laughter. Close enough.
Dara considered him for a moment, then lifted one finger slightly to summon the server back.
When the man appeared, she said, “Bring him the orchard cocktail.”
The server blinked once. “Your Highness?”
Valerius looked at her.
“The orchard cocktail,” Dara repeated. “You clearly want one.”
“And you know that for certain?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then Valerius inclined his head toward the server. “Very well.”
The server nodded and turned to Dara. “And another one for my lady?”
Dara looked down at her own half-finished drink, then back up. “The pomegranate one.”
The server bowed and retreated.
Valerius watched her. “You ordered yourself a second drink.”
“Yes.”
“That was immediate.”
“I’m having a nice evening.”
That, apparently, was as much explanation as he was going to receive.
Good. It was enough.
The first courses had not yet arrived. The night still felt suspended in that pleasant stretch between arrival and settling, where everything remained possible and nothing had yet become too full or too final.
Dara rested one hand lightly against the stem of her glass and looked out over the lantern-lit garden.
Then, because this was the right time for it and because she genuinely wanted to know, she turned back to him and asked, “What do you think of it?”
Valerius did not pretend not to understand her. “The restaurant?”
“The garden.”
His gaze shifted outward, following the line of her own.
For a few seconds he said nothing.
Dara let him take the time.
“It feels…” He paused, as though selecting the correct word mattered. “Complete.”
Dara’s brows lifted slightly. “That’s not the word I expected.”
“No?”
“No.”
He looked at her. “You expected beautiful.”
“I assumed you might be predictable.”
He ignored that.
“It is beautiful,” he said. “Obviously. But that’s not the part that stays.”
Dara leaned back slightly in her chair.
No deflection rose to meet the words. No instinct to dismiss them. Only attention.
Valerius continued, gaze returning to the garden.
“It feels as though it was made by someone who thought carefully about how people move through a place. Where they stop. What they look at first. What they see next. When they sit. When they stay.” He glanced back at her. “It feels easy to remain here.”
That landed more quietly than she had expected.
Easy to remain.
Yes.
That had been part of it.
Not as strategy. Not as spectacle. Not as some refined theory of public enjoyment.
She had simply wanted a place that made leaving feel like poor judgment.
Dara looked out toward the flower corridor again, glowing softer now beneath the lanterns.
“It turned out as I wanted,” she said quietly.
Valerius’s gaze lingered on her for one beat longer than necessary. “I’m glad.”
The answer pleased her more than it should have.
Their second drinks arrived then, saving her the indignity of examining that too closely.
Valerius’s orchard cocktail was cooler in color than hers, pale gold with faint green clarity at the edges and a slice of fruit resting against the rim. Dara’s second drink came darker, richer, jeweled red beneath the lantern light.
She looked at his. “You’ll like that one more.”
“And you know this.”
“Yes.”
“You seem very certain of my preferences for a woman who did not know I was the Crown Prince until recently.”
Dara picked up her new drink. “I knew you were particular.”
He accepted that with suspicious ease.
Their food followed soon after—light plates first, then fuller dishes.
Soft breads. Savory pastries. A herb-laced meat dish for him, a lighter arrangement of roasted vegetables, delicate fish, and seasoned grain for her, along with a smaller plate of fried bites she had no intention of pretending she had not specifically requested.
Dessert menus were set aside for later with the proper seriousness such things deserved.
The conversation turned naturally after that.
Not with effort.
Not with the strange strain of people trying to fill silence so it would not become meaningful.
It simply moved.
Dara asked, after a pause between courses, “What is the capital like now?”
Valerius looked up from his drink. “Now?”
“Yes.”
“You remember it differently?”
“It’s been a few years since I’ve visited,” she said. “I was wondering how much has changed.”
The capital existed in her mind only through fragments that were not her own—formal visits, larger streets, wealth arranged more aggressively, buildings made to be seen, not loved. Too much distance had passed since those memories for her to trust them entirely.
Valerius leaned back slightly.
“It’s larger than you would remember,” he said. “Busier. More crowded in certain quarters. The outer districts have expanded. Some parts have improved. Some have merely become more expensive.”
Dara nodded once.
That sounded like a capital.
“And the palace?”
His gaze shifted over the rim of his glass. “That depends on who is asking.”
“I am.”
“Yes,” he said. “That was the problem.”
Dara set down her drink. “You can answer normally.”
“I am answering normally.”
“No, you’re answering like a prince.”
“That is often how it happens.”
That, unfortunately, was fair.
She let him have the line.
Valerius considered for a moment before continuing.
“The palace is much the same in structure. Less so in the atmosphere. There are more visitors. More petitioners. More movement than there used to be. Some halls remain quiet. Others do not.” His mouth shifted faintly. “The kitchens have improved.”
Dara blinked.
Now that interested her.
“In what way?”
“The pastry cooks are more competent.”
That was an excellent answer.
Dara took another sip of her drink and regarded him with renewed approval.
“Well,” she said, “that’s something.”
“It is.”
“And the gardens?”
Valerius looked momentarily surprised by the question. Then, almost immediately, thoughtful. “The palace gardens are well maintained,” he said. “More formal than this. More symmetrical. Less…” He glanced outward. “Human.”
Dara absorbed that.
Less human.
Yes.
That sounded like the sort of flaw capitals mistook for refinement.
She looked again across the terrace, toward the lantern-lit garden beyond, and felt an odd, quiet flicker of satisfaction at the comparison.
Then the thought arrived, as thoughts often did when evenings went too well and one was foolish enough to notice it.
Eventually, he would leave.
That should not have mattered. But it did.
Not sharply. Not painfully. Only in the calm, factual way one noticed the existence of an absence before it had happened.
His presence had become normal.
The last few weeks had done that with an irritating amount of efficiency.
Dara did not care for the realization. So naturally, she asked the question. “When are you planning to leave Ambervale?”
Her tone was even. Light enough to pass. Casual enough not to be embarrassing.
Valerius looked at her.
Not startled. Not wary.
Only attentive.
For a moment, the music carried the silence between them.
Then he said, “That has not been decided.”
Dara held his gaze.
That was vague. Deliberately so.
“You haven’t decided,” she said.
“No.”
“Or you won’t say.”
A pause.
“Yes,” he said.
That was aggravating.
Also, somehow, funny.
Dara looked down at her drink. “I see.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”
That drew her eyes back to him.
There was no smile on his face. No obvious provocation. Only that same composed steadiness he wore when he meant something and had no intention of making it easier.
Annoying man.
The music shifted again, softer now. Lantern light moved gently across the terrace, warming glass, polished wood, and the line of his hand where it rested near his untouched second drink.
Dara took a sip of her cocktail and looked back out toward the garden she had made.
Behind the lanterns, beyond the terrace, Everbloom breathed quietly in the dark—lived in now, inhabited, real.
Beside her, Prince Valerius remained.
For tonight at least.
That, she decided, was enough.