"How do they taste?"
"I was a little afraid to bite into them."
Ista smiled. "Out of season they may be, but I think they are not a disaster. I think they may be a gift. It will be all right." She pushed open the door of her inner chamber with one foot. "Come in. Let us try them."
"Urn," said Liss. "I can stay in sight, if you leave the door open, but I don't think I can get out of earshot."
Ista gave Illvin a tilt of her head, toward the inner door. "Excuse us a moment."
A little smile turning his mouth, he gave her a courtly nod and passed within. Ista pulled the door shut behind him, briefly, and turned to Liss. "I don't think I have explained to you yet about the
other
set of rules for discreet ladies-in-waiting ..."
She did so, in clear, succinct, but on the whole polite terms. Liss's eyes grew bright as the stars outside, as she listened attentively. Ista was relieved, though not surprised, that Liss seemed neither confused nor shocked. Ista hadn't quite expected
enthusiastic,
however. She found herself swept within, and the door firmly closed behind her, almost before she'd finished speaking.
"I think I shall go sit on the steps a while, dear Royina," Liss's voice called back faintly through the wood. "It's cooler. I think I shall like to sit out for
quite
a
long time."
Ista heard the outer door close, as well.
Illvin's eyes were crinkling with silent laughter. He held out one of the fruits to her; she took it, her hand jerking a little when her fingers accidentally brushed his. "Well," he said, raising his to his lips. "Let us both be brave, then ..."
She matched his bite. The apricot tasted as wonderful as it looked and smelled, and despite her attempts at daintiness, she ended with juice dribbling down her chin. She dabbed at it. "Oh, dear . . ."
"Here," he said, moving closer, "let me help you . . ."
The kiss lasted quite a long time, with his apricot-scented fingers winding pleasurably in her hair. When they paused for breath, she remarked, "I always feared it would take divine intervention to find
me
a lover ... I do believe I was right."
"Tch, tch, look at yourself, bittersweet Ista. Saint, sorceress, dowager royina of all Chalion-Ibra, converses with gods, when not cursing them—a man would have to be maniacally intrepid to even
think
of you in that rude way. . . . This is good. It will cut down on my rivals."
She couldn't help it; she giggled. She heard herself, and laughed, in wonder, in joy, in huge surprise. He tasted her laughter, too, as though it were miraculous apricots.
And I was afraid I wouldn't know how to do this.
He'd looked tall and splendid, in the long sweep of black tunic and trousers and boots, but he looked even better out of them, she thought, as she pulled him down beside her on her bed. The warm night demanded neither sheets nor blankets. She left a brace of candles burning, the better to see the god's gifts.