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“Who would be asking for you?”

“I’ll tell you tonight.” Because Brook knew the value of a little intrigue.

When Brook returned early that evening, Aisling had her stall shut up and her dough for tomorrow covered. She pulled her apron over her head, leaving her delightfully askew, and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

She looked lovely, happy, but also tired. Brook hesitated, bottle of summerapple wine in hand. Aisling woke every morning before the sun to bake most of her goods for the day, then toiled in that hot little stall for hours. Brook’s plan had been to keep her up all night. It suddenly struck her that this idea would not be in Aisling’s best interest.

“Brook!” Aisling waved. “I’m almost done here.”

Brook held up the bottle and waved it.

Aisling laughed and ducked beneath her counter.

By the time Brook got to her door, Aisling was closing it behind her. “I closed a little early.”

Brook felt a small pang but had to admit, “You deserve a break.”

“I do.” Aisling nodded and then stuck out her little chin. “Shall we?”

They started toward the campground, falling into step easily, though Brook had a much longer stride. Aisling moved like she worked, like she did everything; efficient, neat, and with a little bounce in her step.

Brook wanted to eat her up just like one of her pretty little cakes.

“Tell me about growing up in Emberleigh,” Aisling said.

Very well, then. It had to come out sometime. “I go by Brook more often than not, but my full name is Britheue Fyreham-Graymalkin. If that tells you anything.”

Aisling’s brow knitted. “Fyreham. Like Fyreham-Aethelan?”

Ah, yes, so she did know about Emberleigh royalty, then. That was Prince Aldian’s surname. “Yes. We’re the Graymalkin branch of the same family.”

“So you’re royal.” One of Aisling’s eyebrows rose, now.

Was that a look of disbelief or… no, Aisling was certainly not impressed. Not that Brook expected her to be; Gearwickians more often thought royalty was a silly concept. They weren’t wrong, either.

Brook nodded. “In a manner of speaking. We’re royal cousins.”

“Ah, no wonder your mother is after you to marry. Isn’t that how you all grow your social circles?”

“Effectively. Otherwise, we’d just sit in our magnificence and decay, I imagine.” Brook snorted. “I will say that for the marriage market, it keeps the blood moving through the centuries.”

“I knew those leathers were too nice for a regular elf.” Aisling smiled a little, though.

“What’s a regular elf?” Brook wondered.

“Me.”

“You are not the least bit regular.”

“Ah, you won’t get out of it that easily,” Aisling said with a little cluck of her tongue as they entered the campgrounds.

It was quiet in the still-bright early evening, orange light glistening on the jumping surface of the Braleigh River to their right and the smooth Glaesflod off to the left. The two came together at the southernmost point to form the Portage River, which went all the way to the southern sea. It felt right, somehow, that the birthplace of their people—the stone monument at the central shrine in the marketplace—should be in such an important place for commerce, life, travel, being.

“Tell me what it’s like to be from an old, royal Emberleigh family,” Aisling prompted.

“Irritating,” Brook admitted.

“I wondered. Seeing as you developed your magic escaping nannies and such.”