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AMbrOSE

In between picking apart every magical aspect of the nefarious candle that Ambrose was now convinced was the source of the library fire, crafting more coronation candles, and attempting to remember to eat and drink water, Ambrose was extremely occupied by one thought: Bessa.

He should have been focusing on infusing the right weight of wyvern scales to phoenix feathers and grinding into the wicks the perfect dosage of shavings from unicorn horns gathered at the base of trees where they rubbed up against. But all he could picture was her fiery stance when standing up to Gillian and the way her eyes blazed as hot as flames. Those were nearly bearable, but worse was when he pictured the curve of her shoulder and bared chest heaving with exertion as they worked ceaselessly to put out the fire or the taste of her on his tongue. She didn’t just smell like summer; she tasted like it, too. She tasted like honey and roses. These memories were not nearly as bearable. The mental image of some suitor’s meaty paw on her shoulder was abominable.

He went to the woods and his grove, trying to let the humming of his bees soothe him and center him. It had begun to help, but on his way back to his candle shop, Ambrose saw Rontu speaking with his retinue and he was all back out of sorts. He threw down his bag of foraged items, nearly impaled his hand on his iron tending fork, and even stubbed his toe. Next, Ambrose nearly pulverized a wyvern scale into powder without realizing it, the sharp edge biting into his hand and crumbling. And then, as if by thinking of her, he conjured her, Bessa strode into her shop, her arm outstretched to knock, but he was already there.

“Your majesty?” he asked, bowing.

If looks could kill, he would have dropped dead.