She was grateful when Quill steered Bishop away to talk to several other chattering nobles and finally gave herself a moment to breathe in the stuttering candlelight. Now that he was gone, all energy drained from her, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down in the snow for a bit and let the cold overtake her. She looked down at her shoes, which now had red, blotchy spots blossoming on the heels where blood was seeping through the material. One of her ankles was starting to throb (perhaps an injury on top of the blisters?), and she wished very badly that Ann was nearby.

Could you please give me shoes that will cause less pain? she asked her muse tiredly, moving deeper into the garden. She knew only a few more paces down the path was a gazebo nestled in a bed of presently withered rosebushes, eager for the warmth of spring. The promise of a place to sit down moved her to motion and numbed her thoughts for the time being, and she pushed all aside to reach her destination.

Whispers from other nobles followed her as she struggled down the garden path. They dampened their voices as she walked past, but she could hear them mumbling about enchantments, how she was greedy for the Prince's throne and ensorcelling the High Speaker in the same night. Some talked about her pityingly, lamenting her forgettable presence, while others painted her a beguiling witch. Some even commented on the fur swatch she had carried around throughout the day— her calming token from Braum— and deemed it some device for witchcraft. None of the stories they told were correct, but Elodie didn't have the spirit, courage, or desire to disavow them. She opened herself to criticism the moment she stepped into this role, and her thoughts now only lingered on how these rumors might affect the others in the bear's court.

The edges of the gazebo came into view; its white wood glinted in the candlelight, and winter-blooming morning glories entangled with the stems from white lilacs in the web of lattice on either side of the structure. It stood lonely in the garden amidst several statues of bears, wolves, and historical figures blanketed with rime and snow. The voices of the gossiping nobles had faded away; most of them didn't venture this far into the garden, having turned around for warmer areas closer to the din of excitement. It was quiet, save for the occasional howl of wind through the hedges that rattled the leaves and sent them quivering.

She bit back a hiss as she sat on an ice-cold stone bench and held her feet in the air. Her heeled shoes melted away like wax pouring into a seal and were replaced with soft embroidered slippers that barely lipped her feet. Above her, she heard the faint patter of snow bolstering the roof, which seemed to drown out all else.

With the present privacy, she took her thoughts to trial, turning them over in her mind like evidence. Nadya, Braum, Bishop, Thalia. Each with their own agendas, their own desires. Where did she fit in the grand scheme of everyone else's machinations? Were they interested in her presence, or was she to be an observer in her own life? Maybe Thalia still plotted and schemed in the wooded corners of the world. She looked between the shadows of the hedges and pictured the fairy queen in their monstrous form, ready to pounce and drag her back to the fairy woods. She saw the possibility of Bishop Whitespire condemning her to the Vesper dungeons, his invitation a trap leading to her execution. Her mind ventured into life as Nadya's advisor, and sadness prodded at her sides as she saw herself hidden in the background of every scene, only ever watching Braum and Nadya from afar, never privy to the intimacy of whatever bond they shared. She had finally begun feeling like she was making progress with the other courtiers, only to have it snatched away in confusion and rumors.

It occurred to her then that her imagination was creating increasingly unrealistic scenarios, but wallowing as she was, she was utterly powerless to stop the deluge from flooding over. Hot tears began to fall from her cheeks as the feelings and loneliness swelled around her, interrupted only by stinging pain in her heels when she shifted one way or the other. She quickly tried to wipe the tears away, lest the frigid winter air cool them and freeze them to her face, but the more she wiped, the more her eyes welled over. It was like being buried underneath several layers of blankets, choking from the weight of them but unable to escape their tangle.

Stranger still, her muse spoke to her in this moment. It crept forward from the edges of her mind, nervous of its intrusion. Its voice lacked its usual chill and held tones that might have even been called gentle.

Orators have the power to change fates, even those that seem sealed by the three strings. The storm cannot remove your voice, no matter how loud the wind howls above it.

My voice? Elodie thought. The idea sat in front of her like a coal at the back of the fire, dim but glowing with a feeble light.

You have had much given to you, and more taken. A pen is heavy, but a voice heavier.

She smiled amidst her tears, sniffing sloppily to bottle them up. Are you trying to comfort me?

If warnings are a comfort to you, it responded listlessly.

You once said you could use my skills, Elodie asked, capitalizing on her muse's unusually talkative mood, Did you mean with magic, or with the other Orators? And does it have something to do with the sunbearer?

All in time, her muse said, cryptically as ever, The sunbearer is an old enemy and an old friend. One who is none too pleased with me.

When Elodie said nothing in response, her muse stretched itself in her mind, filling up the space with the reverberations of its voice. You have nothing to question? No further blathering?

Even if I did, I don't think you'd answer. Elodie swung her feet and pressed her hands into the cold stone of the bench. I'm listening.

That seemed to please her muse as it unfurled further, like a cat preening itself on a windowsill. A purr entered its tone, Then some advice: Be vigilant but remain present. I will know the sunbearer by his sign. He has a quorum, but will not call for a plenum because he is not entirely sure I am true. He cares a great deal about truth. Encased in ice, no harm will come to you.

The words danced around her like the pixies in the woods, but Elodie smiled, realizing the muse was trying to lift some of her burden in the only way it could. Being formless and voiceless, it had nothing to offer except the reminder that it would be present. Although initially wary of her muse, she had begun to understand it and even find solace in its perpetual presence. She would still have her powers taken away if asked, but simultaneously, she couldn't discount her muse's company. The world might be lonely and desolate, but she could never be truly alone. There was comfort in that.

She wasn't sure how long she remained there, but when she had finally emptied herself and her nose had clogged itself, a sound jolted her upright. Someone was yelling her name a few lanes over in the garden. Without knowing what else to do, she meekly called back. The seeker didn't call again, but she heard snow crunching, and whatever it was was getting closer. She pushed herself onto her feet, thinking it might be another dignitary or noble for which she needed to be more presentable. She brushed her skirts and then remembered with a dull gloom that it was a wasted effort because her coat was ruined.

Braum appeared at the garden's edge, his face red and puffy, his chest heaving with exertion. His black hair whipped around his head as he scanned his surroundings, and he only stilled when he spotted her laboring down one of the gazebo's steps.

The intensity of his gaze tunneled her vision and quieted the rest of the world. He moved toward her with a frightening speed. She had never seen him so panicked, and cold terror squeezed her heart. Where the High Speaker had seemed light and difficult to grasp, Braum was heavy and grounded. He transformed the space around him, molding it into his will. His dark form spilled into the garden as ink spilled across paper. He said something, maybe calling her name once again, but her ears thrummed with anxiety, and the sound went unheard. This was not a meeting she wanted to have.

He beamed across the garden at her, and the sight of it stabbed her. Rollicking feelings turned her stomach inside out, flopping around like a hose with too much water running through it. She tried to tidy herself, to wipe the red from her eyes as though the loneliness was something she could flick away and disguise. She wasn't sure which was worse, having to smile and nod as he told her about his new courtship or the idea of gathering the heap of herself together to trudge back to the crowd that hungered for her speech.

"There you are! I was looking for you," he told her, "I was worried you'd flown off with the fairies again." His lopsided smile was giddy, childish even. It looked like he had a great secret that he was dying to share but had promised to keep buttoned up. He stepped under the eave of the gazebo, finally close enough to touch. "It seems I need to get used to your habit of fleeing- Is that blood?" He stared wide-eyed at her shoulder, where the stain was fully displayed.

"I-I'm fine, it's only wine," she tried to recover, "I should have told someone where I was going. I-I'm sorry. Let's return to the others; I'm sure I've kept everyone w-waiting-"

She felt pain shoot up her shin like a lightning strike, and her left leg buckled under the shock. The Prince's smile quickly faded, and in moments, his hands were under her arms. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, and by his effort, she flew back to the bench.

"Stay put, little beast," he told her, and with a more sarcastic look, he added, "And for once, listen to me."

When he released her, her body went limp against the wood of the gazebo. His cloak billowed around them both, enveloping them in a dark, velvety shroud that seemed to offer some privacy from the rest of the world. He knelt before her and brushed her braids away from her face. The imagery of a devoted knight kneeling for a princess wasn't lost on Elodie, but she was too tongue-tied to comment as much.

Braum searched her face for an answer and looked to her body when he didn't find one. He quickly spotted the red splotches on her heels and looked at her accusingly. "And is this wine as well?" He knew full well it wasn't.

Elodie turned away and began to protest, but when he turned one of her heels, she let out an involuntary squeak.

He made a move to remove her shoes, and Elodie gasped, "Wait, wait!"

He looked at her with languid resistance, not releasing her leg but not prying further. She regretted the confusion and worry she saw in his eyes but seized her moment to intervene. "What are you doing?"

Now, he looked unsure. "You're bleeding. I'm-" Irritation flickered in his eyes, but she sensed it was inward, not outward. "Should I not?"

"Please don't," she whined. When he pulled a ribbon scarf from his collar and reached for her foot again, she wiggled it away out of his grasp, even though it hurt her some to do so.

Softness returned to his cheeks. They were still red even though he was no longer running. Snow drifted in from the sides of the gazebo onto his dark hair, melting and getting lost in the tangles. "You're vexing, you know that? You're injured."

"I was trying to collect my thoughts in peace," she retorted, feeling suddenly defensive.

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Amusement struck his face, and he crossed his arms. "Can you collect them while I wrap it?"

She sucked in a breath and then let it out slowly. The squeamish source of her fear was the unknown explanation for his arrival, and she knew that she was making it more difficult for both of them. Timidly, she reached down to remove her slippers and offered her injuries up to Braum's examination. With a knowing look, he gingerly lifted one of her ankles. He was gentle, and his hands were deft.

Perhaps because of her feelings of isolation or her muse's encouragement, she told him about Thalia's visit and her day at the festival. She spent far too long debating her error with the cookies and then complained about her embarrassment about that, too. When she was quiet about a subject, he would ask a well-placed question, and the words would continue to flow. Despite her usual meek demeanor, everything came spilling out. His gaze was too piercing, his presence too comforting not to. He only nodded occasionally or made a soft noise between his teeth, but she knew he was listening and carefully considering each of her words by how he furrowed his brows.

"And- And I'm happy for you and Nadya," she blabbered, "But I really wish one of you would have told me instead of running me around the festival until my heels bled! I'm- I'm sure Nadya will make an excellent queen! You really must be the very best to her; she is ... well, she's ..." There was that strange feeling again, echoing in her chest like a songbird shaking at the bars of its cage. Her face twitched in confusion for just a moment, and she examined the feeling with an investigator's curiosity. Had it been a disappointment in their secrecy, or was it something else? Maybe deciding to call it something as thickly consequential as "betrayal" was too hasty. Yet despite racking her brain, no alternative presented itself.

In the small moments she took to question herself, he had already pulled her from the bench, tangling her into his arms. He supported her weight completely and buried his nose in her hair. The metal facets on his suit pressed a little cold shock into her face. Stupefied as she was, she heard the rhythmic pounding of his heart, and the sound calmed her, each beat like the patter of one of the snowflakes around them. Her cheek brushed against the soft furs of his cloak.

"I'm sorry," he murmured barely above a whisper, tickling the skin on the ridge of her ear. "It seems like I made you feel anxious ... and caused some misunderstandings." Even amidst her frozen stupor, the evenness in his voice was like a light post in the dark, soft around the edges and guiding. "I wasn't trying to court your sister." He said it as though it was the plainest thing in the world. "I sought her opinion."

Hazily, in the back of her mind, she knew that she should act appalled or embarrassed or any other number of emotions a lady of her rank should feel. The bird in her chest wanted to fly away, to flee this scene lest anyone discover them. Yet all she did was tilt her head enough to speak.

"Opinion of what?" Elodie was muddled, torn between his attention and the warmth of his chest. Her legs wouldn't take her away, and it was as if they were the only two people in the world so there was nothing to hide.

"It's a matter I've been too reticent to approach." One hand sunk into the small of her back to better hold her, while the other clasped her head tightly to his chest. Each motion seemed painstakingly chosen as if he were delaying some monumental task. "About you."

Those two words were like a bucket of cold water dumped atop her head. Her spine tingled with new panic. The tumultuous emotion in her chest turned to a springy fear, like a deer bounding away from a hunter. Had she made a mistake? Had Nadya defended her character from some crown punishment? Was her character somehow an obstacle to their courtship? Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure the Prince would hear it.

His knuckle brushed her cheek so lightly it barely touched her skin. The pad of his thumb pressed into the round of her cheek, and his broad fingers spread to cup her jaw. The sudden temperature change caused her cheeks to warm, and she could smell the coniferous scent he carried. The look in his eye was deadly serious, like he was about to address doomed soldiers on a battlefield, and she couldn't look away no matter how much she wanted to.

The internal turmoil she felt must have been written plainly on her face because he gave her the space to pull back. She didn't take it. He reached to his belt, unhooking a clasp holding the icicle crown she had seen him with before. Up close, it was even more beautiful than seeing it from a distance. What she had previously thought were pebble stones now took shape as delicate gems that had been intricately woven in patterns to give the appearance of icicles. The horns were carved with complicated, swirling designs that led to silvery points at the end of their tines. It was a work of art and must have taken weeks to assemble, and she hadn't known him to be so artistic.

"You see, Lady Elodie," he began, his voice as soft as crushed velvet, "Court advisors can't receive courtship proposals; they can only give them. But there's nothing to say that a person can't gift a yule crown, regardless of who they are or their station." He ran his fingers over the edges of the tines, and Elodie finally recognized the emotion that bloomed over him like a fog. He was nervous. Elodie had never seen the Prince nervous before. The panic within her relaxed into curiosity. She wanted to know what other expressions he could make.

"But Nadya isn't an advisor?" Elodie asked with a tilted head and an innocence that broke Braum's heart in the best way.

He stifled a laugh, brushing back his cloak with a flourish. He rocked her back until she could sit on her own, and then, like in a fairy tale, he pressed the crown into Elodie's hands. He wrapped her fingers around it, his thumbs running over hers. He agreed with a toying, affectionate grin, "No, she is not. But perhaps you know someone who is? I've spent quite a good deal of time today searching for one in particular, but she always seems to run off."

Elodie's fingers relaxed on the crown. Shock hung her mouth slack-jawed. "Oh," was all that came out. Then again, "Oh."

A yule crown was an unmistakably romantic gift, reserved only for one you deeply loved. In Orsin's storybooks, after a long and bitter war between the glacial courtiers, the winter king gave up his lonely throne to forever share it with the snow maiden, whom he had previously spurned. Every winter, they fended off jealous fey together and celebrated their love with lights on the darkest, longest night of the year as though taunting their enemies to come closer. The symbol of their marriage was a crown he split in half, which they shared in a confidential glade of moonlight. It was a tie made in the old woods ruled over by nature, much older than laws or any human's declarations.

Braum's gift wasn't a title or a wayward comment, an Ostara band, a bouquet, jewelry or any other gifts that Elodie could have waved away as a gift from a prince to his subject, or in gratitude for her work as an advisor. It wasn't a drunken admission or a coerced political order. It was a declaration of love, the depths of which she couldn't plunge without him. It was just like him to be clever enough to find a loophole around his kingdom's laws while still giving her the power to decide for herself.

He pulled the crown from her hands and placed it upon her head. It was a perfect fit, but he still worked it into her hair so that it would stay snugly and wouldn't pinch into the skin around her ears. Every place his fingers touched lit her skin on fire, a tiny beacon of awareness. He was no longer a prince, a noble, her savior, or even a friend. She saw him now as a man with feelings for her, which was new and not a bit frightening. The skin on her forehead tingled as he breathed on it. She became acutely conscious of every blink of his lashes, every compression of his chest as he breathed out misty white air. She saw some strands of hair fall into his face, barely hiding a blush beneath them.

She contextualized his previous conduct anew: his insistence on her court position, her rescue from the forest, that wave in the courtyard, the walk he wanted to finish. Just how long had he felt this way? She felt stupid for not noticing.

The air between them had changed, and when he ran a hand through her hair to make the final adjustment, the gesture was more personal, more intimate. She swore for a single heartbeat the snow hung suspended in the air like it, too, was holding its breath. Her gaze lingered on his lips, which curled in a smile becoming increasingly familiar to her. His free hand covered the smile, keeping it to himself, hiding it from the world.

Of all the things she should have said at that moment, she asked, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

She pointed to his mouth. "When you smile like that, you cover it."

He looked down at his hand and examined it as if a new tattoo had appeared or as if he had never seen it before. "Do I?"

Feeling a new boldness she'd never felt before (and immensely enjoying the feeling), she pulled his hand and nestled it between her own. She didn't say anything, but the warmth of his hands pleasantly leeched into hers. Sheepishly, he smiled again, and she felt his hands twitch. He wanted to cover his smile again, but now that he'd become aware of it, all he could do was snicker. Elodie joined in, the giddiness overtaking her and easier to focus on than the larger question. They were two children sharing a secret, and two adults navigating a timid conversation.

"You don't have to respond now," he told her with a voice that yearned without demand, "Or ever. You can do whatever you like with the crown. I won't touch you again like this without your permission. I just- I-" Elodie could see the confession pained him by how steeply his eyebrows bent inward. "It's been unbearable to be near you and say nothing. I couldn't miss my chance this time. You may think yourself unequal to the task or that I am disingenuous because of my throne. All I have is the promise that I have wanted you by my side so long I cannot remember being any other way."

Elodie had never been confessed to before, nor had she ever daydreamed about being confessed. She hadn't expected it to be so poetic or so magical. Nadya had always been the beauty of her family, the one men and women flocked to for courtship, and any time she'd described the event it was always with an airy boredom. Not at all like this. Braum's vulnerability blindsided her in a way that sent her nervousness to battle with her desire. In the onslaught of emotions, it was difficult to determine one from the next. She hadn't the faintest idea how to respond to a confession except with the absolute, honest, and unflinchingly brutal truth.

"I had no idea. I don't... I don't know what to say."

A bittersweet smile rippled his features. "Then say nothing. Take what time you need to consider it." The fondness in his eyes scared Elodie, and she readily believed he would wait forever. "No matter how much time passes, my feelings won't change."

By the time he squeezed her hand back, Elodie had reached her limit, flustered by the deluge of affection. Her face turned bright red, and she barely felt the chill from the snow as she was sure each snowflake was melting upon hitting her sizzling skin. She looked away as though he might disappear momentarily if she willed it hard enough. If she could have some space to think and breathe, maybe she could sort out everything she was feeling. Then, she could give him a proper response. As though her feelings could be sorted as easily as her precious books with enough time and space.

Her muse took that moment to chime in forlornly, Is this your command?

The sudden, jarring reminder that her muse was listening caused her to sputter, but Braum only looked on with amusement and affection. Fen was probably seething up in the castle with a stomachache from Elodie's whiplashed emotions. The ground was beginning to take shape underneath her once more, reality seeping back in. The gap between them called, and the snow fell again. The intensity of Braum's feelings didn't fade as an aura around him, but she settled into it like a woman sitting down in a hooped dress couched by the ripples of fabric and frills. She didn't doubt Braum's patience; he had shown her several examples of his genuine desire to see her forge her own path.

"But wait," Elodie asked, suddenly turning to him, "If not courtship, what did you talk to Nadya about?"

Braum opened his mouth to respond, but another voice filled the space. Ann called from the darkness a few hedgerows over, and it was enough of a sound to knock sense into Elodie. Braum was hit with the same cudgel of reason, and they both stood and reassembled themselves, albeit with some reticence from both parties.

When she stumbled on her injured leg, he instinctively moved an arm to support her side, and Elodie caught him struggling to conceal an oafish smile. She considered whether or not to hide the crown, lest Ann immediately jump to conclusions, but she knew Ann wouldn’t be fooled by any hasty disguise and instead sighed in resignation at her fate.

Ann rounded the corner with a blue overcoat slung across one arm, and her brown peacoat waved around her frantically. "Miss!" she called as she caught Elodie's eyes. Her eyes flashed in recognition of Braum, and she nearly doubled herself over in a full bow immediately. When Braum released her with a quiet word, Ann shot up and quickly put the coat over Elodie's shoulders, pressing it into her collar to hide the stain. As Ann deftly snapped a clasp into place, Elodie could see her eyes were full of curiosity, worry, and a troubling brooding. None of it was judgmental, nor would she jump to conclusions as she was, and would forever be, a perfect aide.

She said nothing in response to the situation thrust in front of her except to shoot Braum a daggered glance before turning back to Elodie. "I'm sorry to have lost sight of you, miss. I heard what happened from Mr. Whitespire’s aide, and I've arranged a change of clothes."

"I should go," Elodie told Braum, leaving a thousand unspoken words between them.

"Can you walk?" he asked apprehensively.

Ann followed his gaze to Elodie's ankles and the scarf wrapped around her heels. Elodie could see the woman mentally taking notes on things she would ask Elodie about later.

”Let me at least walk you both back to the pavilion garden. I’m sure Lord Alden can point me towards several dozen people I need to speak to from there.”

“Thank you for taking care of Lady Auclair in my place. We would be honored,” Ann said, bowing slightly as though she could pull Elodie down from the clouds with the motion. It worked some.

"Ann can assist me. Thank you for ..." Her voice trailed off, and she was unsure which part to thank him for. Did one typically thank another person for a confession? Her mind drifted back to Thalia and how thanking a person in their woods meant you were bound to them. She understood a little better now what it meant to be left in someone's debt, the kind that you could never possibly repay.

"It's no trouble. It never has been."