It’s late when Una, one of the librarians, finds us, tucked in a quiet reading nook overlooking the library’s central chasm. Each of us are buried in our own little world of cushions and words, surfacing only once in a while to make passing comments. None of us notice the hours slowly ticking away or the little sunlight which reaches this far down fading away into nothing. The whole day was blissfully peaceful, unhurried, almost… natural. I’m still not sure if Fionn fits simply because he hardly says anything or if we are actually getting along. Either way, the look of surprise on Gilroy’s face when the prince asked him to recall a reference was pure gold.

“I’ve been sent with a message from the King, Your Highness,” Una informs us with a little glint in her eyes, obviously suppressing the urge to giggle.

“Oh?” I quirk my eyebrow, setting aside my studies, wondering what on earth my father could want. “And what was that, Miss Una?”

“He’s, uh,” she bites her lip, an embarrassed blush spreading across her pretty freckled cheeks. “He told the messenger… who told me..”

I give her a little “go on”, trying to encourage her to continue. She must feel awkward repeating whatever it was my father said to me.

“...he said that he is more than a little upset that all three of you missed dinner, but that… um… he hopes his daughter will at least give him a goodnight kiss before he has to give her away tomorrow.”

I suppress the urge to curse, instead exclaiming, “Is it that late already!?”

Una nods quickly. “I’ve, uh, been sent to fetch you, Your Highness.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m coming. Thank you, Una. I hope we weren’t too much trouble to find.”

She doesn’t respond, so I assume that means we were. Shit. I wonder how long ago Father sent the messenger. Gilroy starts helping me pack up: stacking books, capping inkwells, tying together loose quills. “Do you want me to come with you, Your Highness?” he asks.

I am just about to say “yes” when Fionn looks up from his book in a daze. “Oh, are we leaving already?” he asks sleepily, almost looking cute with his glassy eyes.

“Yes, my prince. Gilroy and I are going to wish the King goodnight. Sorry, you can’t stay here alone,” I coo as if I am a mother hen urging a child to bed.

“Right, of course…” he starts placing his ledges in a cloth sack for carrying, but then he halts. “Actually, Advisor Ailin, could I beg a moment of your time? Privately?”

Gilroy blinks at the prince, obviously taken aback. “Of—of course, Your Grace,” he stutters. “You go on ahead without me, Your Highness.”

Oh.

It hits me all at once that tomorrow I am getting married. Suddenly, I desperately don’t want to be alone tonight. I don’t want to be alone with my racing thoughts, because I know, no matter what, I’m not sleeping tonight. So, I want to be with Gilroy. I want to be able to look over when everything threatens to overwhelm me and see his sleeping face. I want to hear his peaceful breathing. I want to feel his warmth comforting me.

“I guess, I’ll—I’ll see you in the morning?” I ask him with hopeful eyes. Does he understand I mean I want to see him right in the morning? First thing in the morning? I try to send him a message with a look, knowing I can’t ask him to come to my room in front of Fionn and Una.

He smiles at me, a small lopsided smile which does nothing to calm my nerves. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning, Your Highness.”

My heart twists at his words, half-hoping, half-desperate. I notice Fionn watching our interaction closely, expectant eyes darting between the two of us. I sniff away my pleading and turn my attention on him. “Goodnight, Your Grace,” I dip my head just to be polite even if my station does not require it. “I had a very nice time with you today.”

“As did I, Your Highness” he says without any change of expression. “I hope we may return here together often.”

I laugh nervously. “Well, after we are married tomorrow, we will have our whole lives.”

His eyes narrow slightly into an unreadable expression. I have no idea what goes on in that man’s head, but eventually he murmurs, “Yes, after tomorrow.”

I nod, satisfied that this conversation is quickly going nowhere I want and decide to make a speedy exit, but not before I hear him say a bit louder, “Goodnight, Your Highness.”

I lie in bed that night, waiting.

Father scolded me when I went to bid him goodnight about not only missing dinner, but also seeing my groom on the night before the wedding. Apparently it was considered bad luck in Crismond. He joked that he is going to disown all three of us and adopt Prince Alec, who apparently was an absolute delight during dinner. He asked how Prince Fionn and I were getting on, to which I responded—honestly—that I did not know.

I have no idea what to think of the prince’s behavior today. On the one hand, he seemed at ease conversing with us and comfortable asking for help, whether for clarification on a certain legislation or simply finding a particular volume. However, everything about the day felt… sterile. Detached. Almost as if he was treating us like business partners. There were no flirty looks or smooth innuendos.

Not like last night. Not like when we had danced. When we were pressed so close together he couldn't suppress his cute blushes. When our eyes locked as he dipped me with smoldering intensity. When I saw him smile. A real smile, full of unexpected warmth.

Gilroy told me while we danced afterwards that he had only seen the prince smile like that when he first saw the entryway of the Royal Library.

I felt so confident after last night. So sure that we were making progress. But more than that, I felt myself opening up a bit, allowing myself to feel things. More than just simple attraction sort of things. More than just thinking about fucking him or him fucking me. I started to imagine that maybe… just maybe… I could grow to like him.

Now… I'm not sure. Gilroy seems pretty confident that the mind is the way to Prince Fionn’s heart, so comfortably studying with him all day is a good sign. Right? And yet, there was no real connection. No deep conversations. No laughter. No excitement. No sharing of souls.

Where is Gilroy? Why hasn’t he come to me yet? What could Prince Fionn have possibly wanted to say to him?

I stare at the ceiling of my room, tracing the stonework over and over. I count the bricks, trying to calm my mind. I start in the southwest corner working to the northeast, making a mental note of every hundred, even if I know perfectly by now the exact stones in this particular sequence that marks one hundred, two hundred, three hundred…

When I reach the nine-hundredth and thirty-seventh stone, I start over, going backwards from the northeast to southwest. This time I count in multiples of seven, a pattern I haven’t done in a while. When I have six stones remaining at the end which don’t fit neatly into my pattern, I know I’ve counted correctly. The asymmetry of it pleases me.

I’ve never told anyone this, not even Gilroy, but the number of bricks on my ceiling is a prime number. Logically, there should be only nine-hundred and thirty-six stones on the square surface, a nice multiple of four, but one extra is wedged oddly between two others near my window. I like it that way, even if I can’t explain why. Even if I know it makes me sound neurotic.

As I start over my counting, my mind inevitably drifts to thoughts of Gilroy. Did he not understand the subtext of my words? Maybe I was too subtle. Maybe I should just go to him. If I’m caught late at night in the hallways, it might cause a few eyebrows to raise. I wouldn’t really care if the servants saw me, most of them already know about me and Gil or they know I’m a complete insomniac. However, we are hosting more guests than normal and Gil’s room is two hallways down in the men’s quarters... near my father’s rooms. Plus, there is the pesky matter of his valet who lights his fire and brings him breakfast in the morning, and the possibility of running into Fionn on that side of the castle.

I sigh, rolling out of bed. I pace my room, counting my steps for several minutes, before I just decide to fuck it. I cross over to my bedside table, trying to decide whether to bring a bit of oil and protection, but I abandon that thought when I remember Gil keeps all that in his room. Not for me, obviously, because we mostly keep to my room for sex, but I’m not Gil’s only partner. I’m not even his kinkiest.

For a moment, I worry he may be entertaining someone else right now. Some of his partners—like that librarian, Una—are disgustingly “normal” and they don't know about us. Did he invite her to his room tonight? Is that why he is not with me? I don’t usually get jealous, but tonight I need him. Not for sex. Just… for support. I shake away that worry. He wouldn’t do that to me. Have sex with some other girl on the eve of my wedding. Right?

I peek out my doorway. It’s very late now, and the coast looks clear. I pad down the hall, taking a sharp left turn at the end of it towards his room. My heart stops when I think I see a dim lamp light around the corner, but, as the light fades, my breath comes back to me. When I reach the men's quarters, I keep nervously glancing over my shoulder. I really shouldn’t be here. This is really stupid.

I halt just outside of his door, unsure what to do. I try to gently, just barely, super quietly knock. Of course, no one answers. Shit. I don’t want to wake any of his neighbors by knocking louder. I turn the handle, easing his door open gently.

Gilroy is sprawled out in his bed: propped up by several pillows behind his back, a low writing table set over his lap, a quill still clutched lightly in his hand resting at his side, head slumped over, glasses still perched on his nose, eyes closed gently in sleep, mouth hanging open, soft snores breaking the silence every few seconds. I stifle a laugh and tiptoe closer. By the light of the dim moon, I look down at what he was writing.

“Sersh— I want to tell you—” Nothing more, but several crumbled sheets lie around him. I pick them up carefully, smoothing them out to read his discarded drafts. Most of them are very similar.

“I don’t know if it is a good idea to come,” one says.

“I’ve been feeling insecure all day and I just want to be with you, but not in the usual way,” another says.

“His Grace was acting very odd after you left. I worry he may suspect us. Maybe we shouldn’t meet tonight.”

“You should just try to sleep tonight. Big day tomorrow.”

“I’ve never written a love letter before—” I crumble that one up before I can read the rest. It is by far the longest of all the discarded notes.

What was he thinking writing something like that? Then to leave it out? Where anyone could find it? My heart twists and explodes at the same time. I gather all the loose sheets of paper, suddenly very grateful that I decided to check on him. I take them to the waste bin behind his desk. Manifesting a tiny divine flame on the tip of my finger, I burn each letter one by one. I hesitate on the last one—the one with the “L” word at the top—but that one is the most dangerous.

When I am finished, I return to him. I gently pull the quill from his hand, setting it on his writing table. I cap his inkwell and remove the table from his lap, setting it down in the corner. I gingerly remove his glasses from his face, causing him to sniff lightly in his sleep. My heart melts a little at the sight. Finally, carefully, oh so slowly, I ease him down into a better sleeping position with a hand on the back of his neck and under his shoulder.

He grimaces slightly in his sleep, his breath stalling for a few seconds, before it resumes its steady rate. Letting out my own held breath, I climb into bed next to him. He instantly curls into me, pulling me closer so my head rests on his chest. "Sersh," he mumbles in his sleep. I sigh, finally content as I lightly kiss his collarbone, sending him all my love in his sleep. Finally happy, I relax into him fully.

I haven’t counted Gilroy’s ceiling tiles in a while, but I don’t even make it to ten before sleep takes me.