Cor had been going on and on in defense of his argument—to the point of tedium, and with more confidence than his argument merited—and Aravis was cross and weary of listening to him, since it appeared nothing short of the sun falling out of the sky would prompt him to cease—well, there was one thing, she realized; she had seen the signs for months now, though he tried to hide them from her—and had her father not always said with affection that she was too brazen for her own good?

Aravis caught Cor’s arm as they rounded the corner of a deserted hallway, drew him behind one of the pillars lining the corridor, and pulled his face down to hers, startling him into silence as she caught hold of the collar of his tunic and pushed him back against the pillar; it was a long moment before he pulled away from her, dazed, and started to stumble through a question.

Aravis placed her finger against his mouth, victory shining in her eyes, and she whispered, “I win that argument,” and he nodded mutely and drew her finger away from his mouth, catching her wrist and drawing her closer; she laughed and tangled her fingers in his hair and set to keeping his mouth too occupied to speak.