It was clear that he had been preparing for their eventual conversation, of all he wished to know and would have her answer.
And it became all the more apparent how she had hurt and frustrated him as she had tried to do as she had been taught and deny any who asked more than what the sages wanted for them to know.
She felt a pang of guilt for that even now. She did not want him hurt, either physically or otherwise, because of her. Even now, she worried for their futures, what would become of them when they returned. He was expected back, would be welcomed if he maintained the story that he had left behind, finished his task, and all went well.
But that would mean taking separate journeys on the return, to allow her to go alone and on foot, to bear all of the scrutiny, and, inevitably, all of the anger that she had broken so fundamental a part of her instructions.
“You look worried,” Grimult commented, a long finger coming and pressing at the line between her brows. “What are you thinking about?”
She took a breath, not certain she wanted to tell him of her concerns, but knowing they would need to form the plan together. She wanted him to be safe, needed him to be safe, and she also well knew that he would want to protect her at all costs, regardless of the risk to his own self.
“Going back,” she answered simply. “Of... what it means. For... me. For us.”
He must not have followed her thoughts to their gruesome conclusion, for instead his eyes softened into the tenderest of looks, and he was tugging at her, pulling her close. “I have thought of that as well.”
She tried her best to shove her own worries aside and listen to him, but there was a knot of dread in her belly that that did not quite want to loosen. “Really?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, his hand returning to her tresses, and she wondered if a day would ever come when he did not like to play with her hair. The thought of that made her sad. “Another question for those books of yours.”
She did not bother to suppress her groan. “I am surprised you would voice one. You did not like the answer from the last.”
He tapped her arm, humming in agreement. “That is true. So let us hope this is a better one, otherwise I will have to conclude that they are foolish books with little value.”
Penryn rolled her eyes, feeling strangely protective of her books. They were all she had for the longest time, the only glimpse into a life different from her own, and however sad someone else might see it, they were her friends.
He could not know what was in all of them, so it was hardly worth dismissing them as a whole because he disagreed with the contents of a few.
He tugged at her hair, a playfulness in the action that she took to mean he was testing to see if she was truly cross with him or if it was a temporary state, easily persuaded from her with touch alone.
Perhaps she should be ashamed of it, perhaps it was some failing to her self-governance that it worked so readily. She had wanted this, wanted a friend to not have to be so very serious with, where speaking came easily, and jest was a possibility. The sages had never much cared for it, when she had been young and quips had bubbled out before she could stop them.
But Grimult was more than a friend. She could see having others, if they were brave enough to attempt a relationship with her. Mara might have been, if circumstances were different. She could have seen them sharing stories of their loves, the qualities that they most admired as well as the ones that were less favourable. She had seen such things between the kitchen maids when she would creep along and spy, longing with all her heart that she could be one of them.
Grimult did not require she be someone else.
And that softened away the edges of the insult to her books.
“And what was this question?” she urged, truly wanting breakfast, but willing to play his game a little longer.
His fingers drifted along hers, and she wondered if he felt the same shivers at the sensation that she did, although he always appeared so remarkably composed, his eyes the only thing reflecting the state of him when she was brave enough to look. She had to bite her lip to keep back the whimper. How could he affect her so? He was not even touching something untoward, only the brush of his fingers as they traced along the delicate lines of her palm, then back again.
“Many marriages are arranged between parents. Did you know that?” He was not looking at her, instead his attention solidly placed on their hands, his fingers suddenly coming to twine fully between hers, satisfied with his exploration. “When they are not, a couple may plead to a sage and he will petition their families on their behalf.”
Penryn blinked, her heart suddenly beating very quickly, although she could not name why. “I did not know that was still the way,” she answered, her mouth dry. Tea would help, or even a sip of cool water, but she had been forbidden to leave just yet, and she was not certain her limbs would support her even if she had chosen to flee.
He had told her once that if they were different people, he would have petitioned for her. That he would have done things properly, or as things were done for his kind.
Their kind?
He was speaking, but she did not seem quite able to hear, her pulse flooding her ears and blocking away the meaning of his words, and she was forced to shake
