Page 45 of Spearcrest Prince

A low laugh slips from me. “We do.”

“Of course.”

“I think you’d like Château Montcroix. I’ll take you there sometime.”

“I wouldn’t dream of such an honour. Like a modern Cinderella.”

“You’re not Cinderella, trésor. You’re the rich forest witch who lives with the bears and the birds.”

“If only.”

Rolling her eyes, Anaïs leans into her canvas and resumes painting. Watching her is quite fascinating. Her face, which is normally like the smooth, unmoved surface of a lake, comes alive when she’s painting. She widens her eyes, tilts her head. She purses her lips, bites them, chews on the insides of her mouth.

Glimpses of emotions appear and fade on her features. Surprise, affection, annoyance, sudden realisation, satisfaction, confusion. I wish I had my camera to capture and immortalise each expression, collect them like trophies.

“What are you painting?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Her eyes don’t move away from her canvas, but she sits back and purses her lips in thought. She taps the handle of her paintbrush against the little cushion of her mouth. “I’m… not sure yet.”

“Hm.” I take another sip of wine. “Another reason photography should win the debate, then.”

“Oh, really?”

I nod, even though she’s still not looking at me. “Whatever you’re painting can’t be completely truthful if most of it is straight out of your head.”

“Because thoughts are lies? Imagination is deception?”

“I’m not saying that.”

She finally looks up. “What are you saying, then?” She takes the bottle from my hand. “Go on, I want to know. If you’re going to win the debate fair and square, then you’re going to have to work harder.”

She takes another swig of the wine. Her head tilts back as she drinks, exposing the graceful line of her neck before it disappears inside her hoodie. When she’s done, she wipes her mouth with her sleeve but keeps the bottle in her hand. “Well?”

I lean towards her. “Are you really picking a fight with me? On the one time I’m being nice?”

“I’m not picking a fight.” She gives me a nice, false smile. “You might not know this, but I’m not the kind of person to pick fights.”

I ignore the obvious reference to our little scuffle on the forest floor—it’s not somewhere I want my mind to go right now.

“I did not know this, no,” I say instead in my sweetest voice. “I don’t know much about the kind of person you are. We might be strangers for all I know about you. It’s a wonder we’re even engaged at all, isn’t it?”

She chuckles, a surprisingly girlish sound, almost coquettish. “You make it sound like you’re engaged to a stranger. That sounds very old-fashioned—practically mediaeval.”

“I even hear there’s going to be a display of a bloody bedsheet in the grand hall of the Montcroix family home.”

She takes another sip of the wine and hands me the bottle back, shaking her head as she swallows. “Don’t joke about that. I actually wouldn’t put it past your crazy family. Aristocrats are unhinged.”

“Hey, now, come on.” I smirk. “We’re the modernbourgeoisie, a true feminist institution, don’t you know.”

“There’s not a feminist bone in your body.”

I shrug. “You might think I’m the devil in disguise, but even Satan would admit all genders deserve equal political and social rights.”

Plopping her brush into its plastic cup of milky water, she rests her hands on the balcony floor between us. She leans her weight on her arms as she leans closer, peering into my face.

“Is that the line that gets all the girls into your bed?” she asks in a low, mocking voice.

I can’t draw away from her because my head is already resting against the wooden posts of the balustrade, but I have no desire to. Her proximity isn’t unpleasant; I can smell that delicate French summer scent of hers, the fragrance of wine on her breath, the chemical smells of her paints and varnish.

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