It was customary for the princess to retire from the betrothal feast early; after all, it was only her first day out of the Architect’s chambers. The events of the night would no doubt be overwhelming, and no one knew this better than Garrin’s mother. She approached the head table at the end of the feast, smiling beatifically and reaching out for Arya’s hands.

“You have done so well tonight, my dear,” she beamed. “But I know how tired you must be. Come, I will take you to your chambers. Leave the rest of the night to the men.”

For half a second, Arya hesitated. The look she shot Garrin was so brief it was hard to read, but he thought he saw dismay on her face. Before he could react, she eased her fingers into Queen Olyssa’s palms and returned her smile. “Thank you. It has been a long day.”

The queen squeezed her hands. “I know, dear, I know. I will make sure you have some tea before bed. I can have a maid sit with you as well, if you are afraid to spend the night alone.”

“No,” Arya said, a little coldly. “I am not afraid.”

Garrin’s mother laughed. “There’s no reason to feel embarrassed. It’s only natural to feel a little afraid when you’re alone in a strange room. But it will not be strange for long, and in a few short years you will wed and never have to spend another night on your own.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Garrin muttered. “I’m sure she will be just fine.”

She gave Garrin an indulgent smile. “Of course. You needn’t concern yourself with our silly talk. Enjoy your night, my love, and we will see you in the morning.”

Silly talk? Settling the princess into her quarters for her first night in existence hardly seemed silly, but they left before Garrin could think of a suitable response. He would have rather gone with them than stay here to entertain the guests, who had now been drinking for much of the night and were eager to dance and gossip. Perhaps he could start the dance and sneak out afterwards—there were so many people that he could hardly be missed.

There were too many guests to utilize the space in the Great Hall for dancing, so Garrin directed them back into the courtyard for the rest of the evening. Servants had already cleared away the chairs, kindling fires along the outside of the yard for warmth and light. The court musicians began a song as soon as Garrin exited the Great Hall, and he was immediately called upon to start a dance. After it ended, Prince Senjay thrust a cup of wine into his hands and demanded a livelier dance, one with more parts for couples and less time as a group. Reluctantly, Garrin acquiesced, but when Senjay called for another at the end, he told the Thiyaan prince that he was welcome to lead the next dance himself.

The night wore on, and Garrin’s hopes for leaving the dance early went unfulfilled. Noblemen and council members kept him surrounded, plying him with wine and well-wishes until the early hours of the morning. He was obliged to stay until the last of them wandered away to find their lodgings, and by then Garrin was in no mood to do anything other than sleep. His feet hurt and his head swam, so much so that he could not even appreciate the sight of Senjay, too drunk to walk on his own, being dragged away by his manservant.

Away from the fires, the chill of the night wormed through Garrin’s cloak and settled over his skin, urging him to his bed. He took a longer route back to his room, hoping to avoid guests, so by the time he reached his chambers he was shivering and ready to put an end to the night.

When Garrin opened his door, he found Jakin loading wood into the fireplace. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing. “I have a brick warming in the coals. Can I take your cloak?”

“Did you have to wait up for me?” Garrin asked guiltily.

“Oh no, sire,” Jakin said. “The servants had a feast as well, down in the kitchens. I’ve just come up from that.”

Garrin shrugged out of his clothes and passed them to Jakin for cleaning. “Was it an enjoyable feast?” Garrin asked.

“Very. I think it is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.” Jakin passed Garrin his nightclothes and turned back the heavy blankets on the bed, smoothing them out while Garrin dressed. “Shall I put another brick in the fire?”

“No,” Garrin said. “One should be enough.”

He held aside the open curtain on his four-post bed, crawled beneath his blankets, and sighed as Jakin eased the hot brick into the sheets at the foot of the bed. “Thank you,” he yawned. “That will be all, Jakin.”

Jakin bowed, showing an enviable lack of fatigue, and left the room. Garrin eased back onto his pillow, pulling the curtain closed and settling into the darkness. He wanted to sleep—was desperate to sleep—by every time he closed his eyes, her face appeared in his mind.

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Arya.

His princess.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and the only emotion he could summon when he thought of her was confusion. His only frame of reference for how a princess should act was his mother, and Arya was nothing like the meek queen. Not to him, anyway. She’d played her part well enough when there was an audience, but in private... He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, wishing he’d thought to check for cuts before going to bed. If she was willing to bite him in front of witnesses, what might she do when they were alone?

Whatever changes the Architects had implemented to add his requests on such short notice had to have done something to her mind—made her violent. But surely he wasn’t the first prince to realize that some adjustments must be made after the initial betrothal? Perhaps he could go to Aremus in the morning and explain what had happened, give him a little more time to—

A click and a thud brought Garrin upright in bed. It sounded like the door, but no one would dare enter his bedchambers so late. Garrin eased his covers off, reaching through the curtains for the whittling knife he kept on his bedstand.

He held himself still, listening, but the only noise was the crackling of the fire. After a few moments, Garrin forced himself to relax and chided himself for being foolish. He had no enemies here. The castle made strange sounds all the time. He started to put the knife back, but the whisper of a footstep stopped him short. There was a brush of fabric as someone drew aside the curtain on the other side of the bed, a sharp intake of breath...

Garrin threw himself across the bed and pressed his knife to the intruder’s throat. With his free hand he reached for the attacker’s wrist, hoping to intercept a weapon, but his fingers closed around something slim and soft instead. Silky hair fell into his face as he flashed upright, filling his nose with the scent of roses and honey.

“Well,” a quiet voice said. “I guess you’re not asleep.”

“Arya?” Garrin released his betrothed, leaning back in the bed and lowering the knife. “What are you doing here? I could have killed you!”

The curtains on his side of the bed blocked the firelight, so Garrin couldn’t see her face—but the chuckle she let out made him consider raising the knife again. “I did not know you were so skittish,” she laughed. “What would you have done against a real attacker?”

Garrin clenched his jaw and replaced the knife on the bedstand, just in case she provoked him past his endurance. “How did you even get in here?”

“The side door.”

Garrin reached for the curtain to bring some light into the bed, but paused when her words sank into his exhausted brain. “The what?”

“You know. The one connecting our rooms.” The mattress shifted as Arya climbed onto the bed, pulling his blankets aside to tuck her bare legs into their warmth. In the faint light from the fireplace, he saw that she was dressed in only a thin nightgown and an open robe.

He looked away, making a show of adjusting the curtain while she settled in beside him. “What—what door? There’s not a door connecting our rooms.”

“Yes, there is,” Arya said. “The room next to yours used to be a nursery, so there was a door connecting them. It’s covered by a tapestry now, but it’s still there.”

How could he not know about an extra door in his room? She had the benefit of all the knowledge he’d requested for her, but he should have at least known about that. “Arya,” he said sternly, and waited until she turned her shadowed face toward him. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes flicked away. “I was... exploring.”

“Exploring.” He sat back down on top of the covers, despite the chill that tried to urge him in beside her.

“Yes. Exploring. Or did you forget I’ve only seen a handful of rooms in my life?”

“You were so curious you had to explore now? In the middle of the night?”

“When else am I supposed to do it?” Arya asked.

“Just... go explore on your own then,” Garrin said, exasperated. “Let me go to sleep.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Arya said.

Garrin looked at her—curled up in his bed, under his blankets—and felt himself flush. “Fine. Stay here if you want, I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“We’re betrothed,” Arya reminded him, propping herself on her elbows. “What are you afraid of?”

“Maybe that you’ll bite me again?” he grumbled.

She laughed. “I should apologize for that, I suppose. It was impulsive. Probably not the way you wanted to experience your first kiss.”

“That wasn’t my first kiss,” Garrin said.

“Oh?”

He cursed himself for being baited so easily. Even with all her knowledge of him, she could only know what the Architects knew—and they certainly didn’t know that story. “It was nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”

“Tell me,” Arya pleaded. “I promise not to make fun of you. Who was it?”

“Won’t it make you jealous?” Garrin asked.

She tossed her hair. “Jealous? Of what?”

“Of… I don’t know, the other girl.”

“Do you want me to be jealous?”

Did he? Wanting her to be jealous would mean he wanted her affection, and didn’t he already have that? He should, though she wasn’t acting like it. Maybe that was another thing the Architects could fix.

And in that case, they could erase this conversation from her memory if he confessed to it, so there was no harm in telling her. “I was twelve,” he said finally, shifting back against his pillows. “I kissed Lliane as part of a game we were playing with Senjay and some of the other noble children. Like I said, nothing.”

Arya was silent. For a moment he wondered if he had made her jealous, and looked over at her curiously—and found her face inches from his own. “Then that wasn’t a proper kiss,” she said. “And I did ruin your first.”

“It’s not...” he mumbled.

“Would you like to try again?” she asked.

His mind went blank. She leaned closer, stretching out across his bed until he could feel her breath on his lips, her fingers against his arm. He wanted to move—to pull away or close the gap, he wasn’t sure—but his body wouldn’t act. She was an inch away, a finger’s width, a hair...

“Someday,” she said, her lips almost touching his. Then she patted his hand, threw off the covers, and slid out of the bed. “On the day we’re wed, perhaps.”

Garrin stared after her as she glided across the floor, disappearing behind the tapestry beside his wardrobe. He let out a shaking breath, hand resting on the warm mattress where her body had been, and dropped back onto his pillows.

There was no way he was going to sleep tonight.