Chapter 18

"Madame Elena," said Rose, in a rather strained voice. She peered into the doorway of Elena's study, to which Elena had been "banished" when Lily felt that she had done more than her share of apple-picking. "The Prince has returned. I think you had better see him."

Elena looked up; Rose looked as if she had seen something she still could not believe, yet dared not disbelieve. She looked shocked, rather than smug, but shocked as in having her own view of the world turned upside down, rather than if something truly dreadful had happened to the Prince that even she was appalled by.

So. He's returned in triumph, I suspect! Elena took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh of relief, all of her tension going with it. It was over, and it had gone well. Alexander had passed the trial—and apparently managed to do a great deal better than merely pass it.

Behind his curtain, she heard Randolf chuckle with immense satisfaction. Rose did not even glance his way.

"Very well, I'll come down," Elena said, setting aside the chronicle she was reading. Rose turned and was gone by the time she reached the door onto the staircase.

She went down the stairs and passed through the parlor and the library, and noted that most of the books had left the parlor, though whether the House-Elves had moved them or they had moved themselves, she could not say. What mattered was that the new library room must have opened up in the night. I shall have to look into that in a bit, she thought, hastening her steps at the sound of voices in the kitchen.

There she found all of the House-Elves, Rose included, and Alexander. They were standing; he was sitting at the table, dressed in hunting-gear, cradling a cup of ale, and looking bewildered.

There was no doubt why Rose had reacted to the sight of him in the way that she had. The amount of magic about him was matched only by the magic that had swirled around Octavian when it was time for him to return to Kohlstania. But that could have been explained away—what could not be explained away was the forms that had been laid over him, and that was what had given Rose her shock.

The same forms had been laid upon Elena, though she had not known it, when she was accepted as an Apprentice. The Elf-Queen's mark was on the Prince, in the form of a crimson bird with flaming wings, the sign of the Protector, laid over his head and shoulders, visible to those with the eyes to see magic, and— yes, the Elf-King's as well, a circlet of emerald fire around his brow that raised a narrow, mild-eyed head at her approach and showed itself to be, not a circlet at all, but the emerald serpent, the symbol of Wisdom. Both would fade in time, probably by morning—but the mark upon the spirit was there for all time.

There it was. The Elven Royalty had accepted him. If he chose to remain here, he could not be turned away. Small wonder that Rose had been shaken.

Alexander looked up at the sound of her footstep, and it was very clear from his expression that he was utterly bewildered. She knew how he felt; to see magic itself, raw and primal, for the first time, and not to know what it was—he must think himself going mad.

"It's all right," she said, immediately, and sat down beside him, patting his hand. "You're not moonstruck. The Elves marked you, and when they did, they opened your eyes to see magic.

You must have some magical ability of your own, or they wouldn't have been able to do that. It means that not only did you pass the trial they set you, but they've accepted you as a kind of—of Knight of Magic. Like I am, actually. You have to be able to see magic to use it with finesse. If you can see it, you can do more with a very little ability than someone with more ability, but unable to see."

"It's—very disorienting," he said carefully.

"Just want it to go away," she told him. "These things answer to the trained will, and I know you have that; all that military training you had must have given you discipline. At first, it might help to close your eyes before you concentrate on making it go away. Then, when you want to see magic again, want it to come back. It's probably the easiest of all of the magic powers to control."

He closed his eyes and opened them again, and relief spread over his features. "It's gone!"

"I told you it would be." She patted his hand again. "I don't think you heard me the first time—you've passed your final trial, Prince Alexander, just like your brother. Would you like to go home?"

That last cost her to ask, but the offer had to be made. And if he said yes, she would have to honor his request.

But he opened his mouth, then closed it again, without saying anything. Then opened it again.

"I'm a magician?" he asked, instead of answering her.

They all nodded, even Rose. "Now that you can see magic, even though you don't know how to use it yet, aye," said Hob. "And seeing it, you'll train up right quick."

He looked thoughtful. "How powerful am I?" he asked, this time looking to Elena.

She shook her head. "I don't know for certain," she cautioned, "but I would guess, not very.

No more than a country Witch or a Hedge-Wizard. If you were more powerful than that, you'd have come into your powers earlier, and you'd at least have felt them— every day, all the time, as if there was something you should be doing, something amazing that was going to happen to you, though you didn't know what it was."

He rubbed at a scratch on his cheek, absently. "What about now and again feeling like there was someone looming over me, watching me?"

"Hedge-Wizard," all the Brownies chorused at once, with Rose looking relieved. "That's just the sense that the power is there, lad," said Hob. "As it was, of course; it looms over everyone born royal, from time to time. Now—huh. I've a thought—"

He glanced at Elena, who nodded encouragement.

"Well," he said slowly. "It's been a long, long time since I've seen such a man, but it's also a long time since anyone wizard-born was also warrior-trained—it comes to me that you don't need a lot of magic to be a Champion."

"A what?" asked Elena, but she was drowned out by a chorus of what sounded like fervent curses from the other three House-Elves.

"Now why didn't I see that coming?" Lily said aloud, throwing her hands up in the air. "Of course!"

"It would be nice if someone would explain this to both of us mere mortals," the Prince said, but so plaintively that it would have been impossible for anyone to take offense.

"You've heard of the Green Knight? The Knight of the Black Rose? Sir Gavin the Hawk?" At each of those names, Alexander nodded vigorously. "Well, they was all Champions. The Great Fae have 'em among them, of course—warriors with a bit of magic—but sometimes they see a mortal they think worthy, and make him one, too. 'Specially if they think he's the kind to go charging in without regard for his own safety seeking justice, protecting the innocent, defending the virtuous, all that knightly sort of thing."

For some reason that Elena could not fathom, Alexander blushed, but nodded.

"Thing is, you see—now, you know not everything that comes out of Faerie thinks kindly of mortals, eh? And some of those things just laugh at ordinary swords and arrows and what-all."

Hob waited to see if Alexander was following him, and as the Prince nodded, he went on.

"Now, of course, you know that there's magic swords and so on that can take such an enemy down, but a Champion don't need a magic sword, or arrow, or spear, because whatever weapon he has is magic when he chooses. You see? You may not be able to channel much magic into your weapon, but any magic is enough to make it bite, and bite as hard as you can hit."

Elena felt her eyes widen, and Alexander's mouth formed a silent "oh."

"Ye see?" said Hob with satisfaction. "You mind Gavin the Hawk? That's how he got through the Scorpion King's black armor."

"How do I learn to do this?" Alexander asked, eagerly.

"We-ell, I'd say to go look in the Chronicles to be sure, but I think you'll find you don't need to learn it," Lily put in. "I think once you can see magic, it's more a matter of will and instinct than learned. And practice. Lots of practice, with someone who can see magic to supervise."

Now Alexander turned to Elena. "You said I can go—" he said, hesitantly. "But may I stay instead? Just until I understand all this," he added quickly, flushing. "But there's probably not anyone in all of Kohlstania who could help me, and, and—" he averted his eyes"—well, Father's got Octavian back. They don't exactly need me. And I would be truly, deeply grateful if you could help me. I don't know why I was given this thing, but I can't see having it and going off to kick my heels at home and not use it."

Elena looked at him gravely. "Prince Alexander, you do realize what it means if you take this on yourself? Being a Champion is not—not—"

"I know it means my life won't be my own," he replied, and now he looked up to meet her eyes again. "But it never was, was it? It's just trading one set of responsibilities for another." Then an altogetherly unexpected bitter tone crept into his voice. "At least I'll have real responsibilities, and a real job that no one else can do."

She was taken aback by that for a moment; in fact, everyone in the kitchen seemed to be.

And strangely enough, it was Rose who answered him.

"That's no less than the truth, Prince Alexander," she replied, and for once there was no half-hidden scorn or irony in her voice. "Become a Champion, truly, and there'll be no second-son make-work for you."

"Then that's what I want," he said firmly, and looked back at Elena. "May I stay?"

But she looked at the other four. "It's not only up to me," she said. "You only play at being servants here, when all's said and done. You have as much say in this as I do. I have never, ever heard of a Champion in the household of a Godmother before."

"Be damned useful," Hob said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"Can't think of anyone else to send him to," observed Robin. "And I can show him what to do, I think. It can't be much different than using a wand."

"I'll get his things," said Lily, and "I'll make up the guest-suite," said Rose, both at the same time.

"Well, then, it's unanimous," Elena said, trying not to show her elation. "But I will insist on one thing. You must inform your father that you are well. Whatever else you tell him is up to you. I can arrange to have the letter to him by nightfall."

He grinned. "I'll use the things in the study, shall I? Or will you require me to write it in blood?"

She aimed a blow at his ear, which he ducked. "In the study with you, your highness," she said, and still grinning, he obeyed.

Oh, me, she thought, looking after him, half in pleasure, half in dismay. What have I bound

— and what have I unleashed?

The letter went off, carried by one of the wise old white ravens that hung about the place, which were fed from the leftovers carefully saved from meals. As Arachnia used bats as her messengers, so Elena, as had Madame Bella before her, used the clever white ravens. And she watched in Randolf's mirror as King Henrick, and Prince Octavian, read the letter, sighed a great sigh of relief, and then went on with their lives.

So there it was; Alexander had been right. All that had awaited him in Kohlstania was make-work, cooling his heels, and no real responsibility.

And she—she had a Champion-in-Training in her household, and she did not know whether to be glad of it. Champions could be called out to any need, at any time, to right any injustice, fight any good fight—

And so can Godmothers.

Champions' lives were not their own.

No more are Godmothers'.

But he was busy here, and, she thought, happy. Robin was making good on his promise to teach Alexander the channeling of magic power, which was coming harder for him than it had for her—yet another proof, had she needed one, that he had not been born with the ability of a full Wizard.

That was a relief to her, for if he had been a Wizard he would, eventually, been given responsibility for Kingdoms of his own, and he would have had to set up his own household in the midst of them. Now that she knew what to look for, she had gone back through all of the Library books and the Godmother chronicles, and had found Champions after all. She had paid little attention to the mentions of them before this, partly because she had been under the mistaken impression that they were just a different sort of knight, and that their ability to slay the terrible creatures of the Black Fae and those enslaved by Dark Sorcerers was merely that somewhere along the line they had gotten hold of those rare magical weapons. It had never occurred to her that they were magical weapons in and of themselves.

Silly of her, now that she came to think of it.

Still, in all of it, she never came across a reference to a Champion attached to the household of a Godmother. To Sorcerers and Sorceresses, yes. To Kings, certainly. Most of them seemed to wander about, singly, or with a group of adventurers, looking for trouble to eliminate. She was put in mind—which would, at this point, not be the thing to tell Alexander, even though it was awfully funny—of the bands of traveling rat-catchers, with their rat-charmers, rat-trappers, and ferreters, who went from town to town getting rid of pests of all sorts.

It seemed that no matter what, she would have him with her, undisturbed, through the winter at least, for as the season turned, it became quite clear that magic did not answer readily to Alexander's hand. The last of the harvest was gathered in, as the leaves turned and fell from the trees and the cruel November winds began to blow, and only by that time was he getting the knack of directing power into material objects and having it remain there. He did turn his hand to the household work without being asked—but Elena had the distinct feeling that there was a lot more being harvested from the orchards and gardens than could be accounted for by only overt work of the six members of the household. She had a shrewd guess that the Brownies were now using more of their magical powers than they used to. But of course, by The Tradition, that sort of thing had to happen in secret, where and when no mortals could see, so she just averted her eyes from the huge stores of apples, vegetables, and nuts in the cellars and went on about her business.

There was still an abundance of magical power looming over the household; not pushing, as she was accustomed to feeling The Tradition, but just—hovering. If a mountain could "hover"

that is, for that is what it felt like to her. The Tradition was clearly nonplussed by what was going on here, but as she was operating completely outside of any Traditional path, it didn't quite know what to do with her and Alexander. For the moment, she was not going to argue; it kept her personal stores of magic topped up, and provided extra for all the things that the House-Elves were doing.

Meanwhile it appeared that Hob and Robin were calling in favors from Fae outside the household. Piece by piece, armor was appearing, wonderful stuff as light as cork, but stronger than steel, and fitted to Alexander exactly. He had a bow already from the hunting-lodge; Hob found him a sword and an axe and shield, and Robin made him a lance.

He was a proper part of the household now, and even the house responded by opening up an entirely new suite of rooms, uncompromisingly masculine and suited to a warrior, complete with an armor-stand and a big, empty, barnlike room in which he could practice. The windows looked out into some other part of Faerie than the hunting-lodge did; his rooms appeared to have been built in the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking the sea. It gave Rose vertigo; she had to leave the cleaning there to Robin or Lily.

It was not an amethyst-colored sea under a sky with two moons, though. Elena expected him to comment on that—but he did not. In fact, even though the delicious, frustrating dreams continued, he said nothing.

He treated her with respect, with honor, with courtesy; in fact, he was acting in the most Knightly fashion possible. It was utterly maddening. Not that she didn't want respect, honor and courtesy; but—

But she also would not let The Tradition turn this into a bedroom farce. Or worse. She would not let it undo all the work she had done to help him become someone that the Great Fae—the Great Fae!—had been willing to make into a Champion.

She would not allow all of that to be wasted, no matter what it cost her. On that, she was determined.

Even if all she got out of this was respect, honor, and courtesy....

Alexander stood quietly, looking out of the window of the library at the road to the cottage, which was disappearing under a thick snowfall as dusk fell. The House-Elves had gone to bed—or at least, they had gone to wherever their private quarters were, leaving the house quiet.

Elena had sent them off early tonight, insisting that they could and should take a kind of half-holiday. "We can manage dinner for ourselves," she'd said.

He hadn't objected, though she had looked at him oddly, as if she had expected him to. This fit in altogether perfectly with some half-formed ideas of his own, and even if he had to eat stale bread and rancid cheese tonight, he wasn't going to discourage anything that left the house empty for once.

Because having the Brownies around was, frankly, awkward. You never knew when they were going to just pop in a doorway. And he was very tired of awakening in the morning with his groin aching from one of those delightful and frustrating dreams.

He had decided that he was going to court Elena. Court, not seduce, because his intentions were ultimately honorable. That is, if Godmothers were permitted to wed. Mind, if the bedding preceded the wedding by quite some time, he wouldn't object; it wasn't that he objected in the least to a wedding, but—well, he had the feeling that the wedding of a Godmother would turn into an Occasion that would be the talk of a dozen Kingdoms and possibly the center of news for a dozen more. He knew what weddings were like in a single Kingdom—bloody hell, you had to plan the wretched things for months or even years in advance, and the celebrations generally stretched on for a month or more, which tended to make things a great deal less than comfortable for the newly wedded couple. And the wedding of a Godmother? He rather fervently prayed that he was wrong. Because there were old, old stories that described wedding celebrations between very great heroes and important Princesses that carried on for a year and a day, and—

—no. No. He could not manage to perform—for "performance" would be what it was—for an audience of thousands, every day, all day, for a year and a day. And he didn't think that such a thing would really appeal to Elena, either.

If The Tradition even allowed it. A formal wedding might bring down all sorts of horrible calamities on their heads.

But becoming lovers? Well, there was nothing in The Tradition against it, so far as he could see. Witches and Hedge-Wizards could, and did, take spouses and lovers. Sorcerers and Sorceresses took lovers all the time. "Consorts," they were called. And even the masculine counterpart to the Godmother, the full Wizards, were mentioned to have companions from time to time. No mention for Godmothers, but there was also nothing against the idea, either. And maybe that was because the Godmothers were all assumed, traditionally, to be Fae—or because they were simply very, very discreet.

But he knew that he was going to have to tread very, very carefully. His old ways were not going to work with Elena; she was not to be "conquered," not to be "seduced," and certainly not to be taken by force. And the truth was that he didn't want to do any of those things.

The truth was, he didn't want to change the slowly unfolding friendship that was building between them, especially now that he had some of her respect. He just wanted to add to it.

Well, he was going to try, tonight.

And with luck, he wouldn't find himself flat on his back in the stable, with a head like a ringing bell.

As darkness fell, Elena began rummaging among the things in the pantry, and Alexander, probably hearing the clatter, came wandering in with a wistfully hopeful look on his face. "I don't know anything about cooking that doesn't involve spitting a bird over a fire," he admitted. "It's not the sort of thing that Princes are taught."

"Well, it is the sort of thing that I had to learn," she replied dryly. "Or did I not ever tell you my sordid little life-history?"

"Actually," he said, looking interested. "No. Of course, I know now that all Godmothers and a lot of Wizards are out of failed Tradition paths, so I assumed you were, too. Which one?"

She told him as she rummaged up the ingredients for omelettes and began cracking eggs into a bowl. He listened with every evidence of interest, and when she thrust a knife and some mushrooms at him, managed to chop them without losing either the interest or the fingers. "So you would have married a Prince?" he said, when he'd finished. "How—odd. I can't see you in that role, somehow. Oh, maybe it would have been all right for you when you were sixteen or even eighteen, but not now. Crown Princesses don't really do very much other than the occasional Good Work, and I can't imagine you being content with being merely ornamental, wandering about the Palace gardens and posing amongst the peacocks, sitting for hours at your embroidery frame. It seems too passive."

Well— my goodness! "Why, thank you for that," she said, carefully tending the pan over the stove. "I believe that is one of the nicest things you have ever said to me. I must admit, I can't imagine you kicking about idly in your father's Court anymore."

"No, neither can I." He watched with interest as she slid the first omelette onto a plate. "I swear, that must be some sort of magic of its own—turning things into food, I mean."

"Hmm. Robin would agree with you." She turned out her own omelette, and joined him at the table. "Have you ever thought about how brave the first person to eat an egg must have been?

Think about the way they look raw. I mean— eeeyew!"

They ate in silence, which she took as a good sign that she hadn't produced a dinner that positively revolted him. But after the food was gone, and the dishes left in the sink, an awkward-silence sprung up between them. It lasted long enough to become uncomfortable, until finally she stood up abruptly.

But so did he, at the exact same moment.

Somehow, either her feet got tangled up in the legs of the chair she had been sitting in, or she lost her balance a little; for whatever reason, she started to fall, and was just catching herself, when she found instead that he had caught her.

For a moment, in which she found herself strangely short of breath, they stood in a frozen tableau, faces mere inches apart, staring into each other's eyes.

She expected him, at that moment, to seize her as he had tried before; expected a hand to paw at her breast, and all the rest of it. Expected, in fact, anything except what actually happened.

"Elena," he said haltingly, "have you been dreaming of purple oceans?"

She nodded, speechless.

He sighed. "Oh, good. Then may I kiss you?"

"Only if you do it the way you do it there" she replied without thinking.

And he did.

And it was better than in the dream.

They separated only when it became obvious, at least to her, that if they didn't, they were likely to end up naked on the kitchen floor, which was very hard and very cold.

He was breathing very heavily, as if he had been running. "I— I wasn't intending—not like—I'm not—" he said, "Really. I swear. And I wouldn't—I don't—"

She stared deeply into his eyes for a long moment, then said, "I think we should take this discussion to your rooms."

He blinked. "Why?"

"They're downstairs. They're closer. Randolf." Not that Randolf couldn't watch them anyway, in all likelihood, but at least he wouldn't be in the next room.

"Ah." He cleared his throat. "Elena, may I invite you to my rooms?"

"You may," she replied, suppressing the urge to giggle. "And I accept your invitation."

It struck her that nothing he was doing or saying would have fit in with any Traditional path—not a bawdy song, not a tale of seduction and abandonment. Was he deliberately trying to break with The Tradition, or was this purely by accident?

Whichever it was, he gravely led the way to his suite, bowed her in with just as much gravity, and then looked as if he was at a loss for what to do next.

She made up his mind for him, by sitting down on the hearthrug (which was the skin of a bear bigger than anything she had ever seen; it must have been the size of a draft-horse when it was alive). The fire didn't need poking up, but he did it anyway, then sat down beside her.

She was trying to think of something to say when he spoke. "Tell me about your dreams, will you?" he asked. "Do you have them every night? Are they always the same?"

"I've been having them most nights, and they're never exactly the same," she said, staring into the fire, leaning back on her elbows. "They always start when I find myself in a—a very odd place. I'm on the shore of some large body of water, and it's night, but very bright, bright enough to see colors."

"Because there are two moons in the sky," he said instantly. "And the sand is purple. So is the water."

"It's sweet, too, not salty," she put in.

"Is it? I never tasted it," he replied, a little surprised. "When my dreams start, I'm usually right at the water's edge."

"So am I, but sometimes I'm wading in the water up to my ankles." She raised an eyebrow at him. "And I don't seem to be wearing very much to speak of."

"Ah—" he flushed, and couldn't look at her for a moment. "When I was very young, I had a book of tales, and that's the sort of thing the Fairies in it wore. Of course—" he continued thoughtfully "—they also looked like ten-year-old children. Which you don't."

"Especially not in that" she said dryly, and he flushed again. "Apparently we're having the same dream."

"Does that mean something?" he asked, and ran his fingers through his hair, nervously. "Is it significant?"

"I wish I could tell you." She turned her gaze back to the fire. "What I can tell you is that I—like you, in the dreams and out of them. Very much. I didn't, before, but you're a rather different fellow now than you were when I turned you into an ass. I wouldn't do that now."

That made him laugh, which pleased her. "And if you were to meet me now, what sort of animal would you turn me into?"

"I wouldn't," she replied, and turned back to look at him again. "Because you would treat the poor old woman well."

"Like Julian." He nodded. "Yes, I would like to think that I would, even without knowing all I know about trials and Questers now. But I would not go offering you every crumb of food I had!"

She had to laugh at that. "There is such a thing as being too generous," she agreed. "And frankly, I like you rather better than your brother. He's blissfully happy with his milk-and-honey princess who is only too delighted to be ornamental."

"And I prefer the sort of lady who—who can drive a flying chariot pulled by dragons!" he said.

"Are you sure?" she asked archly. And she would have said something else, except that his lips were in the way.

It was different from the kisses in the dreams, and even from the wildly passionate kiss in the kitchen. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, not exactly gentle, but not torrid, either. He cupped one hand along her cheek, the fingers just touching her hair, and his lips moved against hers. She closed her eyes and moved closer to him, until they were no more than a few inches apart. Her heart began to beat a little faster, and she felt a warm glow on her cheeks.

He parted his lips a little, and insinuated just the tip of his tongue between them. She opened her mouth beneath his, then gently nibbled his lower lip. He moved his hand behind her neck, playing with her hair, then drawing her closer until there was no space at all between them. She let herself sink into the bearskin so that she could put both her arms around him.

She was acutely aware of every nerve, every bit of skin, and when his hand began to slip from her neck down to her shoulder, she felt his fingers leaving trails of exquisite sensation where they passed, places that ached to feel the touch of his fingers again. He traced the line of her collarbone, pausing in the little hollow of her throat for a moment, then drew his fingers down, into the cleft between her breasts while her breath quickened and she felt a flush spreading from the point where they rested.

His hand slipped inside her chemise, and she was wildly glad that today she was in her simplest garb, with no corseting to get in the way—then his fingers touched the nipple of her breast and she thought she was going to explode with pleasure. Her hands tightened in the fabric of his shirt, and she gasped at the sensation, which was so much more intense than it had been in her dreams that there was no comparison. His fingers toyed gently with it, and each tiny movement seemed to send a shock straight to her secret parts; her womb tightened, and yet, the feeling made her legs move apart as if of their own will.

He took his hand away, and she groaned with frustration and opened her eyes—only to see and feel that he had removed it just to unlace her bodice. Evidently he'd had plenty of practice, because he did it faster than she could....

He slid the chemise down off her shoulders, freeing her breasts, then, as in the dream, he licked and nibbled his way down from her neck until his mouth touched the place where his fingers had lately been playing, and she uttered an involuntary cry of pleasure. Every tiny movement sent a shudder through her, and a tidal wave of urgent desire, until she thought she could not bear it any longer.

And then—he stopped. Her eyes flew open, and she glared at him.

He had the most peculiar expression on his face that she had ever seen, a mixture of tenderness, something she was sure was pure lust, and a touch of surprise.

"Elena," he said, "I—bear with me a moment. I've just had the most extraordinary flash of memory—"

She licked her lips, and nodded, though she wished that he would stop talking and go back to doing what he had been.

"It's the custom among my people for young men of my rank to be—ah—initiated—by ladies of experience." He blushed. "There's a slightly crude saying in Kohlstania; 'two virgins in a bed is one virgin too many.'"

Fine, so he wasn't a virgin—as if she hadn't figured that out a long time ago.

"And I've just recalled a certain set of instructions that lady gave me regarding this situation.

So I'm going to do something you might find rather peculiar, but it's for a reason."

She had no time to ask what on earth he meant, for he went right back to where he'd left off, and it wasn't until he'd stolen up her skirt and suddenly his head was—good heavens! What was he doing between her legs—

She might have tried to push him away, except that she couldn't—because all she could do was melt away as his clever tongue probed all those parts of her that had been longing, aching, for something, and she hadn't known what it was—she had never felt anything like the excitement, the pleasure, and she moaned, wanting more—

And then the world exploded. Her entire body spasmed, and she cried out, something between a gasp and a scream.

When it was over, she lay there panting and spent, and opened her eyes again to see him grinning like a boy who has just stolen an entire cake.

"What—exactly—did that lady tell you?" she managed to get out.

He resumed the place beside her that he had temporarily abandoned.

"She said, 'Someday, you will find yourself with another lady, an untried lady, whether your new bride or your new lover, and she will be a lady you wish to make as pleased with her first experience as you were with yours. Now, that is not possible in the conventional sense, but I will teach you the unconventional, so that she will know, truly and completely, that there is very great pleasure waiting for her, once the pain that is sadly inevitable for an untried lady is over.'"

"Oh." She thought about that for a very long moment. Plenty of kitchen-tales about "first times" flashed through her mind. The maids had seemed to take as much glee over telling them as they did over tales of childbirth that went on for days. So now she knew what she could expect once the whole painful business of "deflowering" was done with.

Furthermore, she had no doubt he'd do this again until they were good enough at the other to make it equally pleasurable for both of them.

"Is there any way I could thank her?" she asked at last.

He chuckled. "Perhaps someday. Oh, and she also said, 'the only woman who will thank you for spoiling her gown is the one you are buying a better gown for.' So—since I'm not in a position to buy you a better gown—" He tugged at her skirt, and raised his eyebrow suggestively.

"Ha. Turnabout is fair, and you've got less skin showing than I do!" she said, a spirit of mischief rising in her as she grabbed for his sleeve and pulled.

It became a rough-and-tumble game for a little while, as clothing got pulled off piecemeal, a stocking there, a shirt here—a game that got more heated when she tried some of what she recalled from her dreams and some of what she'd watched covertly when kitchen-maids trysted with stableboys, and parlor-maids with footmen.

It actually ended in his bed, where he picked her up and tossed her, surprising her with his strength. And by the time they both fell asleep in a tangle of limbs and blankets, she was almost embarrassingly grateful to that unknown lady with her uncommonly good advice.