—Jiah
The Singing Cove
April 1, 477
What a beautiful day.
Today is Irriona’s betrothal celebration. Her father is hosting a grand dinner to welcome Montigo to Chroma’s legacy. He is much older than her, but handsome—tall, with dark hair and deep brown eyes, a striking contrast to Irriona’s gold braid and moonlight smile. The square is full of music and laughter and warm wishes. As they dance, Irriona and Montigo look radiant together.
I walk slowly through the square, watching the dancers swirl like petals on the wind. And then I see him.
He is unpacking a box near the steps of the meeting hall. He lifts something wrapped in cloth, sets the wrapping aside, and holds a red vase—vivid and glowing—in the sunlight. His face changes as he looks at it. The joy in his smile... it takes my breath away.
Then he looks up. He catches me staring.
The square is still bustling, but for a moment, the sound fades. He sees only me. I feel the flush rising in my cheeks and try to turn away, but I can’t. My feet won’t move.
He crosses the space between us, unhurried, his smile wide and disarming.
“I’m Jiah,” he says.
I try to smile, but my lips barely move. “I’m Ismene.”
“I’m from White Wood,” he adds, sweeping his hand through his light brown hair. “Montigo commissioned a vase for his bride. That red one—it’s my best work.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, breathlessly. My heart is racing, loud in my chest. I feel like such a fool. “Did you make it yourself?”
“I did.” His smile brightens. “It took weeks to get the shape right. I’m still learning to blow glass. But Montigo seemed pleased.”
“So you’re just here to deliver the gift,” I say, and immediately regret how disappointed I sound. Of course he doesn’t live here. White Wood is miles away. That must be why I’ve never seen him before.
He notices. “I haven’t been this far up the mountain since I was a boy,” he says lightly, filling the pause. “All my friends say the women of Chroma are unusually lovely.” His gaze lingers on me. “Now I see they’re right.”
I blush again. He is so bold, but not arrogant. Not like others. He reminds me of Izin—easy with people, good at drawing smiles—but quieter, more careful somehow.
“I brought other pieces to sell,” he says. “Would you like to see them?”
My heart leaps. I nod. “Yes. I would.”
He offers me his elbow. I hesitate for only a moment before resting my hand there. He leads me up the meeting hall steps, back to the crate. We kneel beside it, and he picks up another bundle. A piece of straw clings to the cloth, and he flicks it aside.
Then—of course—Izin appears.
He bounds up the steps like a child and gasps, “Ismene! I’ve been looking everywhere. I saved you a dance!”
