When Mirelle drags Caden over to them, Lord Garran takes the boy's hand in both of his and holds it, the way he held mine, and says nothing.
From him, this is a blessing with full honors.
Princeton hugs his brother with detached politeness, thumping him on the back with practiced pride.
It's exactly how brothers should act.
I look for Torgan.
He's watching his baby sister laugh and cry into her betrothed's shoulder. His expression is complicated, like a man watching good weather he doesn't trust.
Then he sees me looking from across the clearing.
He crosses through the celebrating crowd to me.
"Four for four," I say. "That's every sister. You know what this means."
He chuckles darkly. "It means there's a dress order coming that will bankrupt a small nation."
"It means there has to be another masterpiece." I've been sketching it in my head for weeks. I can admit thatnow. "Threads from all three of the others woven into the fourth. Ysolde's leather, Brynna's poetry, Saskia's silver. The Oakenshade women stitched together in one gown. Mirelle's will be the best thing I've ever made."
"I believe you." He looks down at me, lantern light in his eyes and the noise of two families rolling around us. "Dance with me."
"There's no music. They're all busy proposing to each other."
"Then don't dance with me." His voice drops. "Walk with me instead."
Oh.
"Yes," I say. "That."
18
LISSY
We slip out between the trees while everyone sings. Nobody stops us, and only Grammy sees us go. I catch her eye across the fire. She looks at me, looks at him, and turns back to the orc grandfather's mead like a woman minding her own business.
That is the greatest gift she has ever given me.
The dryads raised guest pavilions along the stream, tents made of canvas and living branches woven together. Each is lit by a single lantern. Torgan holds the flap of his aside, and I step in.
Then he lets the flap fall, and it's just us, the lantern, and the sound of water from the stream.
Neither of us pretends we came here to talk.
Then it's like a dam breaks, and he rushes toward me.
He kisses me. It's slow, like the way he kissed me in the courtyard, but nothing underneath it is careful anymore. His hands find the buttons down the back of my dress. I made the unfortunate choice of wearing one with dozens of tiny buttons. He works them loose one by one without hurrying.
Making me wait makes me impatient for him. "You could just?—"
"You made this dress," he says, his lips finding my shoulder as he works another button loose. "I'm not damaging it."
"I can fix a dress, Torgan."
"I know." Another button. His mouth follows the opening fabric down my spine, and I shiver against him. "I'm not hurrying either way."
When the dress finally pools at my feet, he steps back and looks at me in the lantern light. All of me. Long enough that I fight the urge to cover myself. Nobody has ever looked at me like that. Like the dress was wrapping paper and he has just uncovered a gift.
