Page 43 of Seducing the Sorcerer
“That’s for you. If you want it,” Fenn said.
Morgrim looked as baffled as the kitten, which crouched on his hand like a confused explosion of soot, but he remembered his manners and said, “I...thank you?”
“Can take it back if you don’t,” Fenn added.
Morgrim moved the kitten closer to his chest as if by instinct. “No. I want it.”
Aramella said, under her breath, “A kitten. Genius.”
Fenn shot her a look, wondering if she was making fun. But she looked genuinely impressed. To his great surprise, she tipped him a wink.
“For the rats,” Fenn said.
Of course, the real reason was that he’d thought Morgrim might like a cat, but rats were practical and practicalities were a damn sight safer than feelings. Then he wondered if it had been coarse to mention vermin in front of such a personage.
“Er, begging your pardon, your majesty,” he added.
“Yes, of course. But no need for titles. Honestly, Aramella will do.”
Fenn nodded. He’d never be able to call her that in a hundred years. He’d have to call her nothing and hope she didn’t notice. She offered her hand to Squab to smell. It gave her a cursory sniff and licked her leather wrist guard.
“Behave,” Fenn hissed at it.
“May I ask how you get it to fly?” she asked.
“No expert. Only done it twice. But it seems like I put him at an obstacle. He takes it, see, but he don’t come down. And there we are.”
“Fascinating.” Aramella took a step back. She still wasn’t laughing or making fun. She sheathed her sword and cocked her head, hands on hips.
“Seventeen two?”
“Aye.”
“Hocks. Bit high.”
She was giving the articles in question a look Fenn knew well: critical, interested, forgiving, absorbed. She knew horses. And it was a good point. But with this horse, he felt, it was a bit of an illusion.
“But no hooves. Account for that,” he said, cautiously.
“Mm. Fair.”
Were they really going to do what he thought they were going to do? Surely not. And yet, somehow, he hoped they were.
She took a step to the side, and it seemed they were going to do it, because she added, “Tail. Bit ratty.”
They were definitely doing it. They were having a proper conversation about the points of the horse. Even though it was made of sacking and maybe not really alive, she was taking it seriously. Fenn’s heart was fit to burst because it was what any sensible person would do. And they were doing it.
And he liked her for bringing up the tail. He could trust a person who’d do that because it was honest, impartial. No flummery. No lies to sop the vanity. With that one comment she’d made it clear: there could be truth between them, if he would accept it.
“Aye, like an empty sleeve,” he agreed.
She glanced at him, eyes candid, smiling a little at the analogy, then turned her attention back to the horse. “Good head. Nice carriage.”
“Mm. Good depth in the girth, too.”
“Mm. How do you like that hogging?”
“Wouldn’t’ve done it myself.”
