Page 75 of Heart of the Summer Queen

The bartender finishes serving the patron next to us and then turns our way. “What’ll it be then? Ale or whiskey for you folks?”

“We’re not here to drink,” Elaric says, though I wouldn’t mind a drink myself. “We only require a room for the night.”

The man scratches his beard. “We’re down to just one empty room, I’m afraid.”

“There’s only one left?” I blurt.

The barkeep’s eyes shift to me. “That a problem, lass?”

“Of course not,” Elaric interjects smoothly, “don’t mind my wife.”

I struggle not to flinch at that word.

Elaric barters for the room, but I’m unsure whether we’re being overcharged. Having never stayed overnight in an inn before, I’ve little way to gauge if the rate is reasonable. They aren’t the sort of place young ladies are supposed to frequent. My only visit to one ended with Orlan dragging me away from the gambling table and Father confining me to my chambers for three whole days.

“Is the kitchen still serving food tonight?” Elaric asks, passing several coins across the worn countertop.

“For another hour at least,” the barkeep says, taking our deposit and giving us a tarnished brass key in exchange. “We can have meals brought up to your room if you’d prefer?”

Elaric turns, eyeing the crowded tables behind us. “We’ll eat down here.” His gaze settles on two empty seats tucked near the fireplace. “We’ll take that table.”

“One of the girls will bring your meals over shortly,” the barkeep says.

As we start over to the table, Elaric says to me, “It is quite peculiar being amid such a large crowd.”

I suppose the few times he’s ever been in a room with so many people were during the Midsummer Balls and even then, he sat at a great distance from everyone else. Having lived in solitude in for so long, perhaps the laughter of all the drunkards around us sounds even louder to his ears than it does to mine.

“Is that why you wanted to eat down here instead of in our room?” I ask, noticing how his eyes sweep across our lively surroundings.

“Partly,” he admits, pulling out a chair for me as we reach our table beside the hearth. “But mostly for the fireplace.”

I glance at the blazing flames, watching as the amber plumes dance, stirring the surrounding shadows. With his presence usually extinguishing all heat, it must be so long since Elaric has ever stood this close to a fire.

“Can you feel its warmth?” I ask, settling onto my chair. The legs squeak beneath me as I shuffle closer to the table.

“I cannot,” he says. “My skin recognizes neither cold nor warmth.” He raises his hand and edges nearer to the fire, watching as the light washes over his pale skin. “Yet there is still comfort in sitting so close to it. Perhaps it is only a figment of my imagination, formed from my memories of what warmth used to feel like.”

“You’ve felt no warmth for three whole centuries?”

“No, except . . . ” He pauses. “Except for yours.”

I look down at the table and fiddle with a crack running across the wood, recalling how warm I too felt in his arms.

A moment passes. The silence is unbearable. Fearing everything will turn more awkward if we dwell in it for too long, I say, “Would your skin burn if you put your hand in the fire?”

Maybe that isn’t the most artful of conversation changes, but I don’t know what else to say.

At least it brings a small smile to Elaric’s lips. “It shouldn’t. Or at least, I don’t think it should.”

“Maybe you should try.”

“It would be an interesting experiment,” Elaric says with a chuckle, “but I wonder what everyone else would think if I stuck my hand in the fire. And even more so, what they would think if I did not burn.”

“Half of these men are too drunk to remember their own names,” I point out, “much less take note.”

“Perhaps, but the staff are very much sober. Most of them, that is.”

“I suppose.”

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