Fairy Godmother

If The Tradition even allowed it. A formal wedding might bring down all sorts of horrible calamities on their heads.

But becoming lovers? Well, there was nothing in The Tradition against it, so far as he could see. Witches and Hedge-Wizards could, and did, take spouses and lovers. Sorcerers and Sorceresses took lovers all the time. 'Consorts,' they were called. And even the masculine counterpart to the Godmother, the full Wizards, were mentioned to have companions from time to time. No mention for Godmothers, but there was also nothing against the idea, either. And maybe that was because the Godmothers were all assumed, traditionally, to be Fae — or because they were simply very, very discreet.

But he knew that he was going to have to tread very, very carefully. His old ways were not going to work with Elena; she was not to be 'conquered,' not to be 'seduced,' and certainly not to be taken by force. And the truth was that he didn't want to do any of those things.

The truth was, he didn't want to change the slowly unfolding friendship that was building between them, especially now that he had some of her respect. He just wanted to add to it.

Well, he was going to try, tonight.

And with luck, he wouldn't find himself flat on his back in the stable, with a head like a ringing bell.

As darkness fell, Elena began rummaging among the things in the pantry, and Alexander, probably hearing the clatter, came wandering in with a wistfully hopeful look on his face. 'I don't know anything about cooking that doesn't involve spitting a bird over a fire,' he admitted. 'It's not the sort of thing that Princes are taught.'

'Well, it is the sort of thing that I had to learn,' she replied dryly. 'Or did I not ever tell you my sordid little life-history?'

'Actually,' he said, looking interested. 'No. Of course, I know now that all Godmothers and a lot of Wizards are out of failed Tradition paths, so I assumed you were, too. Which one?'

She told him as she rummaged up the ingredients for omelettes and began cracking eggs into a bowl. He listened with every evidence of interest, and when she thrust a knife and some mushrooms at him, managed to chop them without losing either the interest or the fingers. 'So you would have married a Prince?' he said, when he'd finished. 'How — odd. I can't see you in that role, somehow. Oh, maybe it would have been all right for you when you were sixteen or even eighteen, but not now. Crown Princesses don't really do very much other than the occasional Good Work, and I can't imagine you being content with being merely ornamental, wandering about the Palace gardens and posing amongst the peacocks, sitting for hours at your embroidery frame. It seems too passive.'

Well — my goodness! 'Why, thank you for that,' she said, carefully tending the pan over the stove. 'I believe that is one of the nicest things you have ever said to me. I must admit, I can't imagine you kicking about idly in your father's Court anymore.'

'No, neither can I.' He watched with interest as she slid the first omelette onto a plate. 'I swear, that must be some sort of magic of its own — turning things into food, I mean.'

'Hmm. Robin would agree with you.' She turned out her own omelette, and joined him at the table. 'Have you ever thought about how brave the first person to eat an egg must have been? Think about the way they look raw. I mean — eeeyew!'

They ate in silence, which she took as a good sign that she hadn't produced a dinner that positively revolted him. But after the food was gone, and the dishes left in the sink, an awkward-silence sprung up between them. It lasted long enough to become uncomfortable, until finally she stood up abruptly.

But so did he, at the exact same moment.

Somehow, either her feet got tangled up in the legs of the chair she had been sitting in, or she lost her balance a little; for whatever reason, she started to fall, and was just catching herself, when she found instead that he had caught her.

For a moment, in which she found herself strangely short of breath, they stood in a frozen tableau, faces mere inches apart, staring into each other's eyes.

She expected him, at that moment, to seize her as he had tried before; expected a hand to paw at her breast, and all the rest of it. Expected, in fact, anything except what actually happened.

'Elena,' he said haltingly, 'have you been dreaming of purple oceans?'

She nodded, speechless.

He sighed. 'Oh, good. Then may I kiss you?'

'Only if you do it the way you do it there' she replied without thinking.

And he did.

And it was better than in the dream.

They separated only when it became obvious, at least to her, that if they didn't, they were likely to end up naked on the kitchen floor, which was very hard and very cold.

He was breathing very heavily, as if he had been running. 'I — I wasn't intending — not like — I'm not — ' he said, 'Really. I swear. And I wouldn't — I don't — '

She stared deeply into his eyes for a long moment, then said, 'I think we should take this discussion to your rooms.'

He blinked. 'Why?'

'They're downstairs. They're closer. Randolf.' Not that Randolf couldn't watch them anyway, in all likelihood, but at least he wouldn't be in the next room.

'Ah.' He cleared his throat. 'Elena, may I invite you to my rooms?'