Excerpt: Arcea

At last, with more ease than scaling the wall had taken, he hauled himself over the edge of her balcony and stayed for a moment seated on the edge, his legs dangling over it. Her window opened outward like a door, though it was mostly glass, but it was closed now. He could see her through the colored glass, her back to him, hunched over a desk. Writing her letter, perhaps. He stood up and knocked lightly on the glass.

She stopped what she was doing and looked over at him at once, her face showing shock and confusion and a little fear. That expression turned into something more like anger when she recognized him, and then she came to open the window.

"Remy! What are you doing?" she hissed at him as he began to untie the knot on his bundle of roses. His battered fingers were a little less nimble than usual, stumbling on the ribbon.

He pulled the ribbon off gingerly and took hold of the roses like a regular bouquet of flowers, then bowed deeply with a flourish, holding his hand with the flowers at his waist. "I hope you'll forgive this intrusion. It's no book, I'm afraid, but these belong to you." Rising, he thrust them out toward her, the grin on his face the same as it had been that very first evening, when he returned the book she had thrown at his head from her balcony, and her face mirrored the same frustration it had then. But then something changed, and she flushed slightly.

"Thank you," she said, and she took them carefully, wincing a little at the thorns. She brought them to her nose and inhaled their perfume, closing her eyes, and he caught his breath looking at her, her long lashes against her cheeks, her charming freckled nose over the soft rose petals, as soft and delicate as her skin. She opened her eyes again, deep warm brown like a doe's, and frowned a little. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He glanced away, taking the moment to brush his own hair away from his face – wishing she would instead, knowing she wouldn't – and tie it back with the ribbon. She was disarmed, for once. He smiled at her again, fond and genuine, until the smile slipped into a grin. "So are you pleased? You won't banish me? I thought you might, for intruding on your privacy and disturbing you." He rested his weight backwards against the railing, afraid that she might do just that if he came too close and frightened her. "And I would well deserve it, barging in on the bower of a lady such as you."

"Stop being ridiculous," she said, still somewhat red-faced. "It isn't a bower, it's a bedroom, and no, before you ask, you are most definitely not invited in."

"I wasn't going to ask," he protested.

"Good," she said, and then she smiled. "Roses or no roses, that would be a little strong even for you, I think." Still holding the bouquet in both hands, she cocked her head at him, the light from a candle in her bedroom spilling through the colored glass. "In that case, what did you come here for? Climbing can't be easy, and you could have waited until morning and avoided that altogether, so it must be important."

Hesitating a moment, he took her hands in his, pulling her close with a strong tug so that she nearly fell against him, her head tilted back up toward his, their eyes meeting. The roses fell to the floor, and he looked at the stars reflecting in her wide dark eyes, her hair gleaming in the moonlight, her cheeks red and her lips slightly parted in surprise. "Come with me," he said in a low, urgent voice, with a seriousness that surprised even him. "Run away with me, Claire. We can leave tonight and go anywhere, anywhere you want. I don't care where. Come with me and I'll go anywhere you lead."

He could feel her breath quickening, her chest brushing lightly against him as it rose and fell – distractingly warm, dizzyingly close. He dipped his head forward, leaning in toward her coral lips, so soft and inviting. His own eyes closed as he bent to kiss her.

A flurry of motion made him open them again. She had turned around and taken a step away, her body language tense and tight. "Stop it," she said, crossing her arms, her voice choked.

He winced, screwing up his face and rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

Claire dropped her arms, balling her hands into fists. "Don't do that again," she said. "Please, Remy. I know it's funny to you, but stop it."

He reached a hand out toward her, ready to protest, but she spun around, and the look of pain and anger mixed on her face silenced him in shame and guilt. He turned his face away, dropping his arm, and pulled himself together.

"What did you come here to talk to me about?" she asked, her face pinched. "Seriously, this time, and not a joke."

Remy closed his eyes. "Michael," he said. "The war. I know you told me not to rush it, Claire, but I've been thinking, I really have been. And I'm absolutely determined to accompany you, and no matter what you say, you won't be able to talk me out of it."

Claire frowned. "Why?"

Because I love you, Remy wanted to say, but he bit it back. "Well, the way I see it, you're a clever girl. If you say that we're in danger and something needs to be done, that's enough for me." He grinned suddenly, leaning against the balcony again. "Besides, if anything goes wrong, it's going to hurt my dad, and then what will I do? I can't in good conscience waste my days away, as you so often point out I do, if something goes wrong for him."

Claire raised an eyebrow. "For your father's sake, then."

Remy shrugged easily. "Yes, well, whether or not he wants to admit it, he's getting old. If anyone in our family's going to help out, it might as well be me. It's not like he needs me to help him here – he runs the inn well enough without me."

"You're not doing this because I made you feel guilty about it?" Claire asked, her voice worried, her eyes searching his face.

Remy shook his head. "No," he said simply. He hastily followed it up with more words. "Hearing you go on about the good of Arcea enough times probably didn't hurt. But no, this is my own choice. Besides," and he leaned his head back, smiling up at the stars,"how am I ever going to write songs about something real if I've never even left home? This is the closest chance I'll ever have to adventure, and heroes, and the stuff of legends and history."

Claire let out a low sigh. "If you must," she said. "But only if you really mean it, Remy. If you change your mind, I won't think any less of you."

"Good," he said cheerfully, looking back at her. "Then we leave tonight?"

She gave him a long-suffering look and shook her head, her eyes wandering from the stars to his face to the roses on the ground, which she knelt to scoop up. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "There are plans to be made still. There's no way we can leave on such short notice."

"Oh," he said, and suddenly he felt like a fool, his heart heavy.

"Can you ride a horse?" she asked, as though she didn't notice that his mood had changed. "No, don't worry about it. I'll work the details out, but you should think about what you need to bring." She counted things off on her fingers, all business. "Warm clothes. Good shoes for walking. Money, if you have any. And, of course, you can bring your lute too, if you don't mind carrying it."

Remy nodded mutely, thinking about the roses on his mother's grave and the bag he had been mentally packing on the way here and feeling almost crippled with disappointment. He deflated, the energy that had brought him across town and up a wall in the middle of the night fading away.