Baron watched her silhouette against the stars. She’d curled in on herself.
“Not you?” he prompted.
She looked away.
After another moment, Baron tugged at the reins, pulling Einar to a stop. He dismounted, then reached up to offer Aria a hand.
“Walk with me?”
Once she was on the ground, he gathered the reins for both horses in one hand. The other he kept wrapped around hers. They both wore gloves against the cold, but his heart raced all the same. She was near enough he could make out her features,the soft curve of her neck, the opposing curve of her cheek, the vulnerable prick of stars in her eyes when she looked up at him.
Softly, he said, “You very often criticize yourself. I noticed it early in your letters—apologies for questions, calling it unfortunate I had tosufferyour conversation. You seem to think every normal behavior a misstep, but only for your own feet.”
She’d urged him not to respond to her letter, and Baron had told himself to view the situation with logic, with a lifelong perspective rather than the rush of the moment. But stepping closer to her, all he felt was a rush. He released her hand and gently cupped her face.
“Aria, I have never seen you hold anyone else to this rigid standard. Why should the rest of us be exempt while you are condemned?”
She pressed her fingers to his, leaning into his hand like it was the only steady shore in a growing tide.
“I’m the future queen,” she said. Her voice was so quiet, he strained to hear it. “I must beperfect, because any mistake I make could doom the entire kingdom.”
Baron recognized a little of that same burden. He’d seen it in the worried lines of his father’s face as the man cared for a hamlet. He’d felt it himself while fretting that he only caused danger for his brothers.
And Corvin had pecked him on the head for it.
Since her eyes had fallen, Baron tilted her head gently upward, lifting her gaze.
“If perfection is measured in caring,” he said, “then you are perfect already. If it’s measured by any other standard, then it has no purpose. If it damagesyou, then it is something to be avoided as far as I’m concerned.”
She stared up at him, a swirl of starlight in her dark eyes. He found himself wishing he could trace every line of her face—smooth the worried furrow of her brow, feel the softness of hercheek. Before the joust, he’d held her bare fingers in his for the briefest moment, and the memory of it lingered with him still. His hands felt too warm within his gloves.
Unable to resist, he stroked his thumb across her cheek, and he thought he saw her shiver. She’d said she loved him. Could that really be true?
If he removed his gloves, would she shy away from the danger, or would she lean further into his hand?
“For years,” Aria admitted, “I’ve kept track of every mistake. I write a mark for it in my mind. I know it’s foolish. I know I’m not even marking the right mistakes sometimes. Exaggerating some, blind to others. I want to stop ... but I don’t know how.”
The corner of Baron’s lips twisted wryly. “It seems there are marks on both of us, of a different kind, but damaging all the same.”
“How do you ...” She drew in a shaky breath. “How do you walk forwardknowingyou’ll get it wrong? How do you forgive yourself for that?”
“Me personally? I watch the twins, and I remind myself I’m at least not shoving family into walls.”
As he’d hoped, she gave a tiny burst of laughter. Her lips remained parted, and with effort, he kept his focus on her eyes.
“Weallget it wrong,” he said, voice softening, “so perhaps the answer is simply mercy. Mercy for others, and mercy for ourselves. Besides that, walking forward is an ongoing path that doesn’t end at a mistake. There’s time to mend what can be mended, to improve at the next opportunity. You’re strong enough for that; I’ve witnessed it.
“Tell me this—if I presented to the king tomorrow, if I stood again in the throne room and did everything the same, would you say anything differently?”
“Yes,” she whispered without hesitation. “I’d argue for your place in court.”
His heart lifted in his chest, drawing him forward, and he leaned in ever so slightly, captured by her warmth in the dark.
“But Iknowyou now,” she protested. “It isn’t an improvement in myself, it’s simply—”
“It feels like mercy to me.”
She gripped his hand. Lashes fluttering, her gaze dropped to his lips, then rose again, the question as easy to read as any penned in a letter. Everything within him begged to answer.
