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I smirked at the ground, her words filling me with amusement and wistfulness. We had not spoken since yesterday morning, at least not regarding matters of substance. During training last night, she’d practiced mechanically, rebuffing my attempts to acknowledge the shift in us.

Lyrik jerked his stubbled chin my way. “Fetching tresses, Sir Aire. You look like a pomegranate holding a sword.”

My creativity lacked theirs—as in, I’d invested little, only permitting Nicu to color my hair pink with one of the squatter’s brews.

Lyrik shoved his torch into a lantern at the colony border, then held it aloft for us. We pressed our own staffs into the fire, and as they ignited with hum and a spark, my eyes caught Aspen’s within the blast of orange light.

It gratified me that she turned away first. She and Nicu skipped ahead, their free arms linked like a pair of forest nymphs. We quested into the woods, nests of flames, a globe of moon, and the laughter of a pixie boy and lumber maiden brightening the way.

If fairytales existed and held merit, this sector of the wild emitted the safest essence of it. Less dire, less intense. This area enabled passersby to bask in history and legend without hindrance.

Speckled mushrooms popped from the earth in clusters. The boughs seemed to grow larger, their limbs thickening, wide and robust enough to hold up carriages or wagons.

I watched, hypnotized as Aspen flounced ahead, her loose mane flapping like a banner. My steps faltered, an unusual experience. It happened the moment she threw her head back and howled with mirth, the smoke of her voice drifting down the route.

Awe and irritation swirled inside me.

Look at me. Give me that laugh. Give me your dishonest mouth.

She was not avoiding me so much as subtracting her emotions, interacting with me on neutral territory. She’d resurrected that infernal frivolity from our original acquaintance. Yet she had not uttered a single wanton comment about our communion up against that tree, testifying that it had affected her more than she admitted. She had taken our embrace seriously enough to safeguard the majority of her thoughts.

Nothing with her went as anticipated. I’d hardly intended to divulge my past, to revisit the day when I’d lost Robin. Yet I had confessed, unraveling like twine, yearning to share myself with Aspen, for her to know more of me, more of my heart...for her to understand. Doing so hadn’t been as daunting as presaged. In fact, I’d felt a release of sorts.

Regardless, her behavior since then disquieted me. She acted as though I’d discussed the weather with her that morning. Did she not appreciate what I had imparted? Was she so concerned with her own self-preservation that little else mattered?

I loathed holding a grudge, foolishly expecting her to feel its grip. Nevertheless, I pursued this need. For pity’s sake, why?

She and Nicu broke apart and ascended the branch platforms, hopping from one to the other and hallooing each other. They waved us up. Lyrik groaned but obliged, and I found my legs doing the same.

We traversed the boughs, cavorting at opposing levels, while Nicu sang into the abyss. My head flung backward as I sucked in a breath of Mista. My cloak flared at my sides, and I sensed Aspen’s precious stare, and it felt magnificent.

I hadn’t given her what she wanted from me, yet I longed to take this night from her, to own her attention.

How discourteous of a knight, how disloyal of a friend. I curled my digits, tucking my ring closer, and then splayed my fingers, forcing myself to release this toxic impulse at once.

It abated as we reached a winding lane of pumpkins, the gourds’ wombs pumping with candlelight, a blushing makeshift path guiding us to a bonfire meadow. The melody of pan flutes—one girl tinkered while perched on the exposed ground root of an oak—lutes, drums, an instrument filled with pellets, and rhythmic clapping greeted our company.

People had dressed as black cats, turkeys, and scarecrows. They spun with partners, performing a common hamlet dance, synchronized yet with increasing animation.

Ale, mead, and cider sloshed from tankards. Metal vessels held apples floating in water, villagers plunging their faces into the depths, trying to catch the bobbing fruit with their teeth.

The crowd proved so dense, as for us to blend in seamlessly.

Aspen beamed. Her crimped locks caressed the beauty mark above her lip, while my own mouth compressed, not only because of her attributes, but because she’d garnered the attention of a male litter. The boys—farmhands or apprentices, all her own age—saw her and fancied the view.

She did not discourage them, giving her audience a saucy grin and a wave.

I had no right, yet the exchange snatched the air from my lungs and burned the tip of my tongue, censorship of thought be damned. I slid in front of the salivating bunch, blocking them from her. “They’re fledglings.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, thanks.”

“I would advise you keep those waving fingers to yourself.”

“Frequently, I do,” she purred, peeking on tiptoe over my shoulder. “But on special occasions, it’s nice to have an extra set of hands, especially flesh ones. They reach more places.”

My swords were newly sharpened, I reminded myself.

If this were only about protection, I could cease fretting.