Aodan

Kitaryn's arms are crossed across her chest, her lips pouting. “You are stressing me, not work. You don't seem to understand the situation.”

Frosts, but she is cute. “The situation is,” I begin to say. I'm going to finish by telling her that we are two young, attractive people with a bit of time that needs well-spending. It's completely true, since her time is stolen, but vexing her is fun, and I like stealing her time.

No matter. Midway through my sentence, an orange tunic approaching on the footpath draws my attention over her shoulder. I try to hide my moment of panic. It's the corpse-suitor come to find her. “It’s time for you to go,” I tell her.

“What?” She's instantly indignant.

It sounds to her like that's the end of my thought. I don't have time to explain. I step forward and press her along by her shoulder. “Go! Go go go.” I hiss urgently.

“How dare you?!” she shoves aside my hand.

“No, Fyr-Ceann, it’s that guy you hate.” I grab her shoulders in both of his hands, pulling her toward, then behind me. “You need to go.”

“Aodan, I still need that recipe,” she whispers quickly. “It could be serious.”

“Come for dinner. Whatever day you like. Then you can ask my mho-mattan. Just go.”

I think I see her hood nod before she rushes away. It’s not a moment too soon, either. Her footsteps still scuff the earth behind me when the orange-clad suitor stops at my booth.

“You there! Barleyblossom, I’m told. Where did you take the Fyr-Ceann Willowbirth?” He speaks the words like a command, yet somehow they’re passionless.

“I didn’t take a Fyr-Ceann anywhere, sir.”

“Yes you did. You danced with her, and left with her.”

It's a bad time for the upper tier to learn to recognize one Cultivator from the next. “She followed me, striking me with question after question about my family’s new fertilizer,” I lie. I may have found her beautiful, and that with a rare mind and strong stubbornness, but she is a Fyr-Ceann. My flirting was a fantasy. The best I can do is disrupt her life as little as possible—cover for her.

“Fertilizers?” the elfman’s brow should raise, his tone should waver in disbelief, but he barely blinks. “What for?”

“She says they aren’t recorded. Since they were so effective, she wants them on record.”

“Mmm yes. That is reasonable. And why did you find it appropriate to dance with her, a Fyr-Ceann?”

“I could hardly deny her what she asked, sir. Lady’s choice and all that Tradition.” I stress the word, hoping that the straight-backed, polished-booted fellow will appreciate it.

“Yes, of course.” His dingy eyes swallow me, memorizing me up and down. Suddenly, the suitor seems to dismiss me entirely. I no longer matter. I'm a Cultivator; not competition. Not classy enough, educated enough, nor noble enough, for this quill-pusher to believe that the Fyr-Ceann might enjoy my company. Might make her eartips turn pink and lips arch into a becoming smile. 

That was my goal, but it still makes me seethe how easily I succeeded.

“I will ask her about this, and you better not have lied.” The guy doesn’t even look at me as he speaks, as though I'm not worth the effort of eye contact. “I expect I shall never see you again.” He nods farewell. 

The worst part is that it could be true. I could be a tool in a dance between nobles: used to snub a lesser noble, questioned for all I know, and then manipulated into giving an invitation in place of a proper writ.

It’s a terrible thought and I refuse to believe it. Kitaryn’s distress was genuine, as was her excitement when we danced. I shake the front of my tunic, hot chills prickling at my skin as I remember her face, the shape of her smile as she nearly screamed with laughter, her hair whipping in the wind as I spun her. My hands burn with the memory of her waist in them.

I shake myself. I need to forget her, if not for my own good, then for hers. In time, she will be the pinnacle of the House of Tradition. She doesn’t need me chasing around the fringes of her skirt. I look around, taking in the crowds. There are still hundreds of young women around. I release my tunic’s front and smooth it. If I make myself available, at least a few of them might ask me to dance, despite my display with a Fyr-Ceann. Then, when she comes for dinner, I might be able to face her and not flirt.

Maybe.