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“Don’t turn!” he hisses, looking at me like I’ve gone daft.

“Why not?” I grin, intrigued. “What’s back there?”

He shakes his head, and his blush darkens. “Just…don’t look.”

It’s just the three of us at the table for now since Henrik found an aged commander to speak with when we first arrived. Leave it to him to find the oldest person in the room to spend the evening with when at least a dozen women have been vainly trying to catch his attention all night. Not that I’m complaining.

But Lawrence and Ayan are fortunate Henrik didn’t want to take part in their wager. He would have surely won.

With Bartholomew acting oddly moody, I have nothing better to do than pester Pranmore.

“Is it a woman?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

When he doesn’t answer, I decide I’m right. “Is she pretty?”

Pranmore’s frown turns into a full-out scowl. “Three women. They’re staring at my antlers.”

Unable to help myself, I take a look.

Sure enough, the young elven women sit at the table behind us, eyeing Pranmore. Though I think it’s more thewholeof him that they’re taken with and not just his antlers. They giggle, nudging each other innocently. The bravest will likely end up at our table soon.

“Is that a problem?” I ask, doing my best to conceal my amusement. “They’re nice antlers, after all. The grandest in the room, no doubt.”

Pranmore’s eyes go huge, and he looks at me with horror—like I propositioned him or something just as awful.

Startled by his reaction, I sit back and laugh. “What did I say?”

“You can’t just…” He clears his throat. “Lady Clover, you can’t just say things likethat. I am a man with feelings and intellect. There is certainly more to me than my…myantlers.”

“Pranmore…” I begin, only to pause to rearrange my thoughts. “Is it possible that mentioning a Woodmore’s antlers is similar to talking about a woman’s—”

“Yes,” he says sharply. “It’s very rude.”

“Forgive me,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I swear I didn’t know. I assure you, I’ve never looked at them that way—”

He gasps, his dismay growing by the second.

“Not that I don’t think they’re nice!” I quickly amend.

I jump when a hand lands on my shoulder. Swallowing, I look up into Henrik’s amused eyes.

“You should stop while you’re ahead,” he advises.

Snapping my mouth shut, I nod.

Apparently, Henrik’s arrival is the elven girls’ cue. They show up at our table, hovering like deer are prone to do. Like Woodmores, the Prendora elves have antlers, though the men’s and women’s are about the same size, with only a single point.

I have no idea whether they’re sensitive about them or not.

All three of the elven girls have pretty smiles, smooth olive skin, and dark brown eyes. Their hair ranges from brown to true black, and they wear it long.

They’re easily the prettiest girls in the tavern, and that hasn’t failed to catch Lawrence or Ayan’s attention. The two men look over from the bar, appearing stupefied—and less than pleased.

“Care if we join you?” the tallest elf asks Pranmore, shifting nervously.

Pranmore, who’s usually so polite, merely shakes his head, not quite meeting their eyes. “I wouldn’t make good company tonight.”

The girls look devastated, and I take pity upon them—it’s not easy to work up the courage to say hello, after all. And though Pranmore might be touchy about the subject, I don’t think they were merely ogling his antlers.