No.
Not Pendefyre.
He does not allow himself to count on me for anything.
Soren easily reads the truth from my silence. “Mmm. I thought not.”
“Feel free to keep your thoughts to yourself.”
He promptly disregards that suggestion. “If it is not the new king calling you back, whyever the rush to return?”
“Have you so easily forgotten the damage wrought on Fyremas? Even now, the city sits in ruins. There is much to rebuild.”
“And they require you to clear the rubble yourself, piece by piece?” He answers his own question. “No. Dyved has a large army capable of setting the court to rights without the aid of the Remnant of Air.”
Blood rushes into my cheeks. “I have other responsibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say stiffly, “but I’vebeen working with the Life Guild. Healing those wounded in the battle.”
“I suppose that explains the drab attire.”
I make a vulgar hand gesture to illustrate precisely how little I care about his opinions of my threadbare uniform.
Soren chuckles, more amused than offended. “While healing is a valiant pursuit, it’s been months since the battle. Most of the wounded have either vacated your infirmary or fled to the skies by now.”
“Regular illnesses and injuries still occur every day.”
“And you are the only one in Dyved with healing skills?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then your responsibilities are not, perhaps, as restrictive as you would have me believe.”
“You may presume to know everything about my life, but presumptions are only as strong as the actualities behind them.”
His fingertips dig into the fabric of his shirtsleeves, a reflexive indication of annoyance that does not show in his expression. “The only thing that can turn presumption into actuality is time,” he rebuts softly. “Something I rarely have with you.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, until the air grows charged with a thick tension that makes me look away. My eyes skate across the inner courtyard, tracing the twisting vines of jasmine, the sloping grace of the palm trees, the dizzying blue of the spring. The quartz bathing chamber at its heart is a striking sight in the light of day, though nothing can compare to its luminous beauty in the cast of the moon.
“Your home is beautiful,” I murmur, not certain why I feel so compelled to share that with him but unable to resist the urge all the same.
There is a pause. “I’m glad you think so. Though it pales in comparison to the rest of the capital.”
“Yes, from my balcony it looked…” Hearing the dreamy quality of my own voice, I swallow hard and clear my throat. “Anyway. I’m sure I’ll see more of it at midsummer when I return for Arwen’s wedding.”
To this, Soren does not reply.
I continue staring at the bathhouse. “You should take me through now.”
He says nothing.
When I finally glance back at him, he is standing there staring at me like I am a puzzle for which he cannot quite work out a solution. A lock of dark hair falls over his forehead, where a furrow mars his perfect brow. His eyes are the same shade as the sapphire spring water.
“Well?” I prompt. “Will you?”
“No.”