When she looks up at him her face is flushed, a deep, hot red that leans almost to mauve. It makes her look more than ever like her twin. Aeriel has always been the fairer of the two; the time she spends outside for labs or volunteering has bleached her hair a shade or three lighter, so that she looks like his ghost, or he her shadow. There is never any mistaking their relation, though likely (Aeriel thinks, peevishly,) Irrylath has never seen Roshka so undignified as this. As she always is around him, she must admit. There is something about the dark-haired boy that sets her on edge, that saps whatever grace she might have and leaves her a trembling fool. It isn't fear. It should be, perhaps, she thinks sometimes, because she knows who he is and who his father is and who mother is and who his lover is, but that is not what stops her heart. It is, she thinks, the problem of his eyes; eyes she always expects to be the pale, lifeless blue of ice, but which are instead an ocean teeming with dark, slow life, waiting for her and her alone to sink into their depths and discover their secrets.
She is holding her breath, she realizes. Aeriel has never feared drowning except when she meets this gaze.
The breath she takes-- deep and even like she is readying herself to dive-- does a great deal to steady her, and she manages to get to her feet without scrambling, though that doesn't bring her embarrassment under control. Perhaps he is accustomed to it, she thinks; surely there must be others who falter as she does, knowing who stands behind him. Others who avert their eyes and do what they can to stay in his good graces.
Aeriel does neither of these things. Absently she raises a hand to her throat, fingers brushing the pearl that rests there in the hollow of her breastbone, the pearl that was Ravenna's-- Ravenna, who has paid for Aeriel and Roshka both to pursue their degrees, who Aeriel calls her aunt for the sake of simplicity, though to her knowledge they share no blood-- and meets Irrylath's gaze evenly, her chin lifting very slightly. Roshka would tease her, she knows, for the confident way she stands before Irrylath, as though she were a princess facing down a dragon. Eoduin, her roommate-- who comes from old money and knows the ways of old power-- would call her a fool for being so daring, for not being soft and coy. Eoduin would use his heir as an excuse to look up at him through her long black lashes, to stand too close, as though proximity could make him forget Oriencor. For all he takes her breath away, Aeriel does not wish to make him forget his lover; she is not, Aeriel thinks, the sort of woman who allows herself to be forgotten painlessly.
"I'm not hurt," she says, confident and slow. She isn't all right, not with his eyes still on her, but it's not as though she would say that. He must know. He must be able to hear the thump of her heart, like waves crashing on the wet shore.
no subject
She is holding her breath, she realizes. Aeriel has never feared drowning except when she meets this gaze.
The breath she takes-- deep and even like she is readying herself to dive-- does a great deal to steady her, and she manages to get to her feet without scrambling, though that doesn't bring her embarrassment under control. Perhaps he is accustomed to it, she thinks; surely there must be others who falter as she does, knowing who stands behind him. Others who avert their eyes and do what they can to stay in his good graces.
Aeriel does neither of these things. Absently she raises a hand to her throat, fingers brushing the pearl that rests there in the hollow of her breastbone, the pearl that was Ravenna's-- Ravenna, who has paid for Aeriel and Roshka both to pursue their degrees, who Aeriel calls her aunt for the sake of simplicity, though to her knowledge they share no blood-- and meets Irrylath's gaze evenly, her chin lifting very slightly. Roshka would tease her, she knows, for the confident way she stands before Irrylath, as though she were a princess facing down a dragon. Eoduin, her roommate-- who comes from old money and knows the ways of old power-- would call her a fool for being so daring, for not being soft and coy. Eoduin would use his heir as an excuse to look up at him through her long black lashes, to stand too close, as though proximity could make him forget Oriencor. For all he takes her breath away, Aeriel does not wish to make him forget his lover; she is not, Aeriel thinks, the sort of woman who allows herself to be forgotten painlessly.
"I'm not hurt," she says, confident and slow. She isn't all right, not with his eyes still on her, but it's not as though she would say that. He must know. He must be able to hear the thump of her heart, like waves crashing on the wet shore.