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“She does, Your Highness,” the guard reassures her with a nod, her hair lifting in the wind. “She has not been doing it much lately, for some reason. But Her Highness would stay out here with His Highness by the benches.”
“By the benches,” Elara whispers, her gaze drifting ahead to the two seats positioned across from each other along the central walkway of the garden.
The rest of the riders mount their steeds, adjusting for their upcoming patrol. The guard smiles at Elara. “I will take my leave now, Your Highness.” She mounts her caramel-colored steed.
The gates open, and the riders exit one by one. Elara looks down at the pendant in her palm, tears welling in her eyes again. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath of air. Forcing herself up, she makes her way toward the right side of the palace, where the gardening tools remain beside a wooden bucket.
She does not bother wearing an apron and picks up the watering can. Moving toward the fountain, she fills the vessel with the fresh, flowing water. Watering the flowers and bushes, Elara gives particular attention to the pink lenten roses while making her way toward the opposite side of the large garden. She fills the can once more, tending to the foliage there.
This part of the garden has fewer pink lenten roses blooming, yet the deep color of the red winter roses enhances its vibrancy. Stepping toward them, Elara lets her gaze rest upon the petals. She reaches for an old, dented steel can resting near the fountain, filling the worn vessel to water the roots.
A sudden awareness of an imposing gaze sends a shiver down her spine. Expecting Queen Maereth, she looks back, only to find Cael standing at the edge of the garden.
Good morning, Cael signs comfortably.
“Good morning,” Elara murmurs, her eyes drifting back to the golden pendant. It feels far too heavy in her hand for something so small.
Cael takes the watering can from her and guides her toward the stairs, his hand resting on her shoulder as he lowers her onto the second-to-last step. He returns the tool to its rightful spot and walks back, taking a seat next to her. He leaves a wide distance between them, as if they had not been embracing each other the past few nights, as if neither quite knows how to cross the space after spending those dark hours so close.
Elara leans her head against the cold railing, keeping her eyes ahead. She presses her palms to her forehead, seeking the chill of her skin to soothe a sudden warmth. A swallow brings a raspy ache to her throat, her breaths turning shallow while she stares down into the courtyard.
Movement beside her makes her open her eyes. Cael has completely closed the distance between them. He guides her head to lay on his shoulder and places the pink rose coat around her shoulders and arms, warming her frame.
Elara is too tired to question him, so she wears it. She sits up and pulls the thick material down over her legs, no longer feeling the cold stone. The coat fits her perfectly, as if it were stitched and made precisely for her. She keeps her head on Cael’s shoulder, though the coldness starts to numb her bare hands. Tucking them inside the coat does not warm them enough.
Cael removes his light gray leather gloves. He slides one over her right hand, and the other over her left. The material inside is thick and warm, and it feels new, unlike the gloves that usually conceal his calloused, scarred hands.
Looking at Cael’s bare hands resting over her gloved ones, Elara smiles. “Thank you.”
A smile touches Cael’s lips as he raises his hands to sign. You are forgetful. You always leave your coat behind. Do you think it is summer?
Elara chuckles, relieved that she begins to understand his movements. “It is not a habit of mine. Back in Veyrenn, our winters do not possess this level of frost. I bore the chill of my kingdom without needing these thick layers to protect my arms. I am unaccustomed to the northern cold, which is why I hide under the thick blankets within my quarters.”
Cael’s eyebrows raise with surprise. No coat?
“No,” Elara looks ahead, exhaling a breath. “I do not know why we did not have enough winter clothes. Yet I did not complain. I believed the blankets offered enough of a shield.”
He inclines his head. For a second, nothing passes between them except comfort. Then, Cael brings his hand to adjust the coat’s collar to shield Elara’s bare neck. Something inside her stomach flutters. She whispers. “Cael, do you ever grow weary of me?”
No, my Petal, Cael signs.
Elara’s heart warms at the endearment, remembering how the symbols looked on the pages of her guide. Every time he addresses her as his petal, a soft blush stains her cheeks.
Cael reads the uncertainty that makes her shoulders tense. He shifts on the stone step to face her, lifting his hands back into the space between them. He keeps his movements slow, using the specific signs she has been studying with him over the past few nights. You are not a burden. Your presence does not tire me, Elara. Taking care of your frame is not a chore. It is the only peaceful refuge I possess in this palace.
Elara studies his hands as they settle against his lap. There is something painful in the tenderness of his answer, because she has spent years believing that her presence is something others endure rather than something they seek. She turns her gaze toward the path, uncertain how to respond. Would allowing her heart to believe his words cause her grief in the future?
Cael watches her face. His signs melt her defenses, her heart racing with thoughts she cannot comprehend. He lifts his arms once more to continue. I choose to remain by your side because I want to, he signs, his expression softening. I want to be here. I want to ensure you feel secure within these walls, and nothing will change that resolve.
He lowers his hands and takes her gloved palm. His thumb traces a circle over the gray leather, drawing her against his shoulder while the winter breeze passes over the garden.
Looking down at their joined hands, Elara almost whispers her question. “What happens when I do not need a shield?”
Then I will simply sit beside you, Cael signs.
Leaning closer to his frame while enjoying his warmth, she asks a question she has held in her mind since yesterday. “Cael, why do you refer to me as a petal? Why not the common names like sweetheart?”
Cael’s smile fades into something more thoughtful. He looks toward the garden before returning his gaze to her, as if the answer is something he has carried for much longer than he has ever intended to explain. Such names are overrated, my petal. He signs.
