“It’s dinner,” I said with a modest shrug.
“With candles.” Lilia arched her brows.
“Better than eating in the dark,” I said with a grin.
Lilia gave me a look, one that I sensed meant she saw through me, but wouldn’t call it out. For now.
She inhaled. “It smells so good.”
It did indeed. Genevieve had prepared a roast with vegetables from the garden and freshly baked bread. I’d selected a bottle of burgundy from the long-neglected cellar.
I tried to remember how to act as a gentleman would and pulled out her chair for her.
“Thank you.” She sat and we began to eat.
Now what was I supposed to do? Converse. It had been so long that I’d sat with anyone across the dinner table that rust had formed on those vocal cords. I typically ate something quick on my own that Genevieve had prepared for me.
I took a large gulp of wine. “Did you return to the library today?”
She nodded. “I did. Spent some time in there and then tried to identify some plants in the gardens.”
“Did you have any luck?”
“Yes. With some.” She tipped her head. “But not one that fascinates me. Do you know anything about the tree with silvery leaves in the courtyard?”
I paused to think. “Only that it was a gift from my father to my mother. He planted it on their wedding day as a symbol that he’d always love and protect his mate.”
“Huh,” she replied, her brow furrowed. “I wonder…”
When she didn’t answer, I prodded, “You wonder what?”
“It seems—extraordinary. I sense magic that I don’t recognize.”
I exhaled. “That’s your field, not mine. I always thought it was just a pretty tree.”
She nodded, still appearing lost in thought. “I tried to find it in the books, but nothing.” After a quick breath, she added, “But there were so many other fascinating books. Many that focused on magic. One passage mentioned channeling natural energy through a living medium, like a plant, specifically. Something that grows at the boundary between cultivated and wild ground.” As she spoke with her hands, getting more animated, her speech quickened and her eyes brightened.
I’d forgotten what this felt like to sit across from someone who was excited about something they wanted to share.
She paused, and her expression turned more serious. “Maybe we can try it. The two of us.” She motioned between us.
I’d been so caught up in just watching her that I didn’t know what she’d said.
I furrowed my brows. “What do you mean?”
“About the channeling of natural energy through a living conduit. A theory that certain energies didn’t dissipate; they transferred. And that under the right conditions, something dormant could be reawakened.” She set her fork down. “I want to try it. Tonight, after dinner. With you.”
I went still. “Oh.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “You’re going to say it won’t work, and maybe it won’t, but we won’t know unless we try. What I read about—the gargoyle’s connection to stone, to protect. The boundary between what is wild and cultivated, it sounds like you.” She met my eyes. “Like us.” She paused and then lowered her voice to say, “Like something we might be able to do together.”
The room fell silent as she waited for my reply. I didn’t know what to say. Something about how she’d used the word us had landed deep in my chest in the same way her smile had done earlier, and I didn’t know what to do with these new sensations.
“Fine. After dinner,” I said at last.
She smiled and reached for her wine. As she took a sip, my gaze locked on the sheen on her pink lips.
We finished the meal leisurely. She asked me about Valgarde, about whether I’d grown up here. At first, I’d answered with simple answers, but she had a way of drawing words out of me. And soon I surprised myself by telling her about how life had been here once upon a time, with my family, with my soldiers. It had been full of life, full of warmth—full of something I hadn’t realized I’d missed so much—until now.
