She thinks to ask if he will end up being her friend when they go their separate ways. But she doesn’t, catches the question between her teeth instead. It is sour like lemon, but sweet like the candy her mother sometimes gives her.
There is precious little about him that would not pique her interest, this much is abundantly clear when she turns her head to look at him closer, her dark brow furrowed in concentration. But it doesn’t take much at all to make her smile with the way his own mouth moves like a gate in Terrastella when he talk.
The plants wilt around him again, and this time Elliana tells herself she is used to chill over her skin, and the way her hair stands up on end. She tells herself she is used to it even if this feeling still sends her reeling. “That’s okay,” she says, says it because she needs him to stop, needs him to calm. Her mother always tells her that everything is okay. Elliana thinks okay doesn't mean what it is supposed to mean.
Prince. The word catches her. She knows her family is descended from kings and queens, from guardians that protected the weak, that gave homes to the hungry. But she doesn't know the first thing about princes. So blue eyes peer at him from beneath long, innocent lashes. So this is a prince? A boy, tattoos, blonde hair. She smiles at him. So this is a prince. “Sure, but you cant kill any of my flowers, only your own.” There is something in her face says she would forgive him if he broke her rule. “And you don't have to be a prince, you could be Aeneas the flyer.” She cannot think of a title for herself so she silence takes its place instead.
There’s something like a secret that pulls at the edge of her serious mouth and makes just an edge of mischievousness lighten her too blue eyes. “You wont be able to see me when you go flying.” She tells him. “Ill hide from you.” And what she doesn't say is that the reason she will be hiding—she wants him to come and try to find her.
She leans in close to him, trying to cover most of his vision, blinks forget-me-not eyes towards his own. “Close your eyes and count to 100,” she says. She waits.
She gathers her paints, her brush.
And she leaves the painting and the boy.
@
