Standing on the balcony of Dahlia House, Gustav finally felt at ease. He crossed to her, his heart leaping at the sight of her face again, his breathing evening out in comfort as he came to stand with her. She did not curtsy to him. Of course she would not, she was a Dahlia.
“You are just as beautiful as I remember you in my dreams,” he said.
She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling at him, saying, “You seem taller. Is this what happens when you go to university? You grow in intelligence and body, too?”
He blushed. “You are teasing me.”
“You do not seem to mind,” she said, resting her hands on the railing as she looked out across the view of the gardens. “After all, you sent me so many poems, I must catch up to your compliments.”
He glanced away, joining her at the railing.
“It is good to see you,” she said quietly. She did not look at him, however, giving him the safety of semi-solitude as she asked, “How are you?”
He was sure his friends had asked him the same question, surely many people had, but it was different when it came from her. She did not expect anything of him, just himself, whoever he was. She had made it clear the first night, for his majority, that he—just as he was—was enough. She had chosen him that night; he had never forgotten how special it made him feel.
“I breathe,” he said just as quietly. “I open my eyes in the morning and close them at night. I sit on a horse, I walk on my feet, I dress myself and eat and drink. But I am not living.”
Her hand touched his, and he clasped it at once.
“Your poems were beautiful,” she said softly. “I enjoyed every one of them. But I liked your letters better. I could hear the honesty of your heart in them as you told me of your day, your classes, your professors, your friends. You can be honest with me, Gustav.”
“I know,” he whispered, twisting his fingers with hers. “I just….Odilia, I do not know where to begin.”
“Come,” she said, stepping back from the railing and pulling him with her. “I will call for wine, we will return to my rooms, and you can tell me.”
“I did not bring my purse.”
“It is a gift,” she said with a smile. “I have made my marque, my Dowayne permits me to choose my patrons as I see fit. And I choose you tonight, Gustav. Come.”
He followed her through the halls, glancing only briefly at the frescoes of Naamah and her lovers on the walls. Far more mesmerising was the play of the lantern light on her dark hair. Her rooms were as he remembered them—though he had not paid much attention the first time he had come here—with tall windows and heavy woods, jewel tone upholstery and plush pillows. Truly an apartment of luxury, tastefully decorated to be subtly elegant.
The wine already sat waiting for them by her chaise, a clear, bubbly prosecco in the crystal decanter to help soothe the early summer heat. She poured two crystal goblets for them and lowered herself onto the chaise, holding out her hand to him. Sitting next to her, he took a deep breath and found the words, knowing she would listen.
He unburdened his soul to her, pouring all of himself into her dark eyes, offering the troubles of his heart into her hands. And she did not stop him, did not interrupt him, just let him speak. She refilled his wine and held his hand and, when he wept for his brother that he had lost, she stroked his hair as he cried against her shoulder. This could not have been the grand romantic reunion he had wanted or she expected, but it was what he needed. When she wound him in her arms and pressed her lips to his forehead, the weight and stress of the last month was lessened.
She leaned back, letting him lounge against her, and her fingers combed through his hair and he nestled into the scent of her skin and the perfume of her gown.
“Odilia?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
He heard the smile in her voice as she said, “Of course.”
“I would like to see you more often, now that I am returned to the city.”
“I would like that.”
His head turned slightly, his lips brushing against the fabric that covered her heart, and she paused for just a moment before resuming stroking his hair. This couldn’t be anything more. It just wasn’t smart.
He would be the king one day. He could not lift a courtesan up with him. This was only a dream, a naive hope for a romance written in the stars. She was too practical to allow this.
But perhaps for the moment, she could indulge his fantasy. After all, that was what the Night Court did best.