She nods and looks away.
This isn’t just a story to her. Something about it has cut too close.
“What’s wrong?”
For a moment, she doesn’t answer.
Then she says, “It’s my family’s story. The dressmakers are the Sunfells. The women keep their mothers’ name because their grandmothers are the only constant in their lives. My mother was the dressmaker. My father was a lord from a small village about a day’s ride north of here. His best friend killed him. And me...”
“You were raised by your grandmother,” I finish, thinking of the woman I met today. “Who lived the same story.”
“Yes.”
There is a difference between a fable and a life. There has to be.
“Lissy,” I say, my throat dry. “It’s just a story.”
“Not to me. It’s my story. My family’s story. It’s why...” She clears her throat, and for a moment I think she might cry. “It’s why I don’t let myself hope for a wedding.” She gestures vaguely around the pavilion. “Nothing like this.”
She looks broken right now. There is a terrible, helpless expression on her face, and all I want to do is take it from her so she never has to look like this again.
“Your life isn’t decided by a fairy tale.” I cup her cheek. “You can write your own story. Or sew it, in your case.”
She laughs despite herself. “It’s hard to believe that when every woman in your family has followed the tale from beginning to end.”
“Lissy.” Her bottom lip trembles as she turns back to me. “Listen to me. How much of that story is real, and how much has your family forced to fit because they already believed it? Maybe putting it behind you would do you some good.”
“But what if...”
Then I understand.
She’s talking about us. She’s afraid whatever is happening between us will become another chapter in the story. That loving me means the same ending is already waiting for her.
I won’t let that happen. I refuse to believe everything between us has already been written by a story that has never met either of us. A story isn’t going to keep us from being happy.
I kiss the back of her hand, pressing my lips to each knuckle.
“I’m not much of a lord,” I tell her. “And you’re a dressmaker, but you’re also the person Mirelle talks to when she needs sense. You gave Ysolde the confidence to stand tall. You understood Brynna like a scholar and made Saskia into exactly the warrior-bride she wanted to be.” I kiss her palm. “And you’re my lady, although you have been decidedly very unladylike tonight. And I want more.”
Her breath shudders against my hand. “You are a strange man, Torgan.”
“That makes sense.” I pull her toward me. “I’m not a man. I’m an orc.”
I bring her back down to my mouth, and several more rounds make us late to breakfast hours later.
We’re not the only ones. The wedding camp wakes in stages around burnt-out fires. Dryads are already up in the branches, while orcs emerge from their tents groggy from mead. Saskia and Mikka don’t emerge at all.
Grammy isn’t at the long table either.
Lissy notices before I do. She stops with a piece of bread halfway to her mouth and scans the camp. “Where’s?—”
Grammy comes up the path from the pavilions.
From the far side of the pavilions.
Her good gray dress is yesterday’s dress, and her hair is messy but pinned up.
My grandfather walks beside her, carrying her shawl folded over one arm like a squire.
