Free Summerfall by Claire Legrand Page B

Sometimes, when Alban would find Rinka on her way from the kitchens to the stables, or as she came in from the city with Leska’s favorite pastries, he would come up behind her, slide his arms around her until she began to laugh, tug her gently into the nearest empty room, and lock the door behind them.
    On these occasions, Rinka could never find the will to scold him, or think too hard on the risk they were taking. She was too caught up in this—in him, in them. The intoxicating boldness of it—overseeing meetings between faeries and humans who lived near each other on the border, designing shared villages that would accommodate both human and faery lifestyles . . . and then, later, secretly, finding each other, sliding into each other’s arms as if they’d been doing it for ages.
    A king, as it turns out, has no problem obtaining the keys to even the most unused, forgotten rooms in his castle. Like the old art gallery on the third floor, which had become a repository for unwanted things—sculptures needing restoration, paintings by artists who were no longer in vogue.
    It was into this art gallery that Rinka and the king stumbled one afternoon.
    “It’s eerie in here,” said Rinka, not really protesting, for Alban had half-fallen onto a huge wooden chest and was pulling her onto his lap.
    Alban kissed his way up from Rinka’s neckline to her lips. “I thought you would like it.”
    “Why, because it’s dusty and full of old things?”
    “Because it’s full of secret things,” Alban countered, and pulled back a nearby covering to reveal a painting rich with color and texture, a portrait of blessed Ebba, the sacred figure of faery legend. It was too ostentatious a style for the current fashion, but so full of feeling that Rinka felt something inside her stir in response. When she turned back to Alban, she saw how his eyes shone.
    “Is it considered tactless for me to say that even her beauty pales in comparison to yours?” he said.
    Rinka laughed. “Not tactless, no. A little overdone, maybe.”
    He frowned, and she caught his face in her hands, and kissed him.
    Then there was silence in this room thick with age and neglect, as Rinka held Alban to her and let him touch her. He untied the ribbons of her sleeves and slid them down her arms, revealing her white shoulders. He cupped her head, tracing his thumbs along the curving points of her ears with a wonder that had yet to diminish since that first day in the forest. They began to move in a way that had become familiar to them these past weeks.
    “Rinka,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I do love you. It isn’t just about this. I hope you know that.”
    “I know,” she whispered, and began to show him her own love, warming him slowly in the cold, forgotten gallery. It was easy to feel, in that moment, as though they were the only two in the entire world.
    *    *    *
    But soon there came a day when, during a meeting in the Great Room, Rinka was reminded in no uncertain terms that they were in fact not the only two in the entire world.
    That their world was full of people, and almost as many problems.
    That their increasing lack of discretion could not be ignored forever.
    Alban exploded into the Great Room, a leather packet in his hands. When he reached the table, he flung the packet down before the queen.
    Liane regarded him coolly. “Darling husband, why are you making such a racket?”
    “Henning,” said the king, low and dangerous. “Explain this to me.”
    Commander Henning blinked in astonishment. “Pardon me, my king, but I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “This. This report from your men, who have brought it from the west.” Alban gestured angrily at the packet. “Open it, and read it aloud.”
    As Henning reached for the packet, Rinka saw the queen’s eyes move to Rohlmeyer, to two of the other mages, and back to her husband.
    Rohlmeyer, gray-eyed, perpetually expressionless, raised one eyebrow.
    Rinka felt a sudden thrill