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The beds in the passenger’s cabins of the Seadragon were truly not meant for two.
Though perhaps that was being unfair. The passenger’s cabin aboard the Seadragon was meant to hold one passenger—it was only, after all these weeks of sharing a bed in the Elfsong, Rylle was rather loath to be parted from Gale overnight, and vice versa. This had nothing to do with the Orin debacle, of course, and was definitely not the beginning of some sort of attachment syndrome that would be impossible to deal with once they were back in Waterdeep. It was just that she liked being close to him—a honeymoon period, if you would.
Just at the moment, Rylle was lying mostly atop Gale, which had historically never lasted beyond a few minutes, and was likely to send her tumbling to the floor any moment now, which was fine, because she was quick with Feather Fall. Gale had one arm wrapped around her back, and was playing idly with her hair. Every few minutes, his fingers snagged on a knot that tugged at the back of her head, which was more effective than any Shocking Grasp she’d seen him cast.
“There really is nothing like Waterdhavian fish,” Gale was saying. “No insult meant to the Baldurian recipes, of course—our meals at the Elfsong were most passable—” (Rylle muffled a laugh) “but the quality and tenderness of a proper pan-fried Waterdhavian preparation is unbeatable. You’ll have to let me prepare my own version for you soon.”
“That sounds promising.”
Gale continued, as though she needed any further convincing: “I would say it surpasses even my mother’s.”
Rylle gasped. “Do you speak to Morena with that mouth? To Tara?”
“Heavens forfend. No, and I’ll thank you not to say anything of the sort either. It could get quite dangerous to spread such unpleasant rumours. You’d be at great risk. Mother would never rest until she’d proven otherwise.”
“On the contrary, good saer, I’ve always wanted to be guinea pig to somebody’s culinary experimentation.”
Gale laughed, and his chest reverberated with it under her cheek. “I suspect you’re going to be regardless.”
It was probably true. Morena Dekarios did not cook for sustenance, but for the pleasure of it—a trait she’d passed on to Gale, though Rylle thought his approach to cuisine was, somehow, more practical. Rylle had never been to the Dekarios’ home without finding herself plied with exotic sweets and herby breads and complicated gravies, all Morena originals. She had not been the only one of Gale’s coterie to be thus treated, but she had most certainly been the favourite. “Good,” she said simply, tracing lines onto his chest. One so she could touch him; two for a parallel; three, four, five and six for the rest of the tab.
“Do you find,” Gale began, then stopped. “These last weeks—I cannot deny the pleasure it has been to spend unthreatened time in excellent company. Watching the others strike out on their own paths; wrapping our affairs in the city. I thought of home, but as a distant terminus I was now sure awaited me.”
She hummed in agreement. Rylle had maintained confidence for the others’ sake—and her own—but after the discovery of what they were truly up against, there had been real moments that Rylle hadn’t been certain she would survive. With the brain gone and the city as safe as Baldur’s Gate could manage, the notion of returning had become something real. The strange cocktail of anticipation and dread hadn’t quite left, even after she’d gotten over the greatest hurdle, which had been saying her goodbyes. She’d never been good at that.
“But now,” Gale said, “with the destination so close, my anticipation has turned into impatience.”
Rylle began to tap notes on his chest. “Impatience?”
“This journey couldn’t go fast enough. I’d put the wind behind our sails myself if I thought it’d make a difference.”
That strange cocktail churned in her stomach once more in tandem with the rocking of the ship. She would call it seasickness if she hadn’t always had an iron stomach. She kept her eyes low so he wouldn’t see it.
The last months had seen them living in each other’s pockets, so close there was no turning around without catching sight of him—first from necessity, and later simply because they wanted to, and also perhaps because they had nowhere else to go, not in the Gate. Rylle had been forced to admit, the day they’d boarded the ship, that losing that was perhaps a part of what she was afraid of. The thought of going back to her flat filled her with nausea, and not just because of the disaster it must be after months completely closed. “Eager to be home?”
“Eager to begin our lives together.”
Rylle shifted to prop her head on his chest. “Haven’t we already begun?”
Gale gave her a pleased smile. “Of course. Of course, my love. But you must know what I mean. I… I want to share meals in the kitchen, and carry you to the bedroom after you inevitably fall asleep reading.”
Rylle stared at him, feeling warm. The ship couldn’t have stopped rocking, but any hint of the dread was abruptly gone. “With your knees?”
“I will endeavour to strengthen them for this purpose.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. She couldn’t quite stop smiling at him. “I want to… to come home to the sound of your playing, and quibble about shelving, and bring you breakfast in bed. I want to bring you a good many things in bed. And on the balcony. And in the bath. Perhaps even in the library.”
Rylle hoisted herself up by the hands so she could drag him to her mouth. Gale obliged with a pleased moan, tangling his fingers in her hair. He tasted like fish—Waterdhavian fish—which meant so did she. Rylle couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose, grinning, as she pulled away.
Gale groaned. “Perhaps there are some drawbacks to the cuisine.”
“I’m not complaining,” Rylle said, laying her head back down on his shoulder.
“I suppose it’ll take some time,” Gale mused, shifting so he was lying on his side, facing her. She mentally relocated the staffs she’d drawn, and tapped a few more notes on his side. “I’ll have to expand a floor in the Tower for your things. And of course, we’ll need a room with better acoustics than any I have presently—I do promise to bow to your expertise, and you may remind me I said that when I invariably assume I know better. It may be a matter of a few weeks, though you are of course welcome to bring whatever things you wish to beforehand. Space is no issue.”
Rylle was staring at him when he finished speaking and looked at her in question. “I am, am I?” she asked, half-teasing. How many essentials would she really need to bring with her that weren’t already with her now? A few more changes of clothes—particularly the sexier outfits she hadn’t had in Baldur’s Gate, for his sins—her old spellbook, a few books he was unlikely to have, her boxes of sheet music… and probably her mail. It would have accumulated into a small hill outside her mailbox, but it seemed far less daunting if she was going to be sorting through it in Gale’s library, and not her own. “My place must be a disaster.”
Gale hesitated. “We can make a stop at the Castle Ward first.”
“The Trades Ward,” she corrected. Gale’s fingers paused in her hair; his face took on a questioning look. Rylle blinked and realised, too late, that he had been thinking of her mother’s tower. She hadn’t lived there in four years—though he had no reason to know that. “I live in the Trades Ward. I have a flat there. Not far from the House of Song.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then said, “Ah. I’ve gotten somewhat ahead of myself, haven’t I? Presumed we’d… presumed a great many things, indeed. No matter. You’re right, you’re quite right.”
She frowned. Her finger slid down his side, plucked a discordant little noise. “I… usually am, but what about?”
Gale placed the hand that had been draped around her waist awkwardly on the bed, not quite touching her. “The Trade Ward is ideally located—and perhaps the view of the sea isn’t quite as becoming, but that’s what illusions are for. The life you’ve built is an admirable one, and I would never wish to pull you away from it in the slightest.”
“Gale,” Rylle said, quelling.
Gale blew right past her. “That is, I did hope… but all in time. And we have time—you’ve made certain of that. All will be as you wish. Really, it’d hardly be conventional—not that either of us have ever cared greatly about convention, but perhaps it was something to consider. So I can assure you that I am content to—”
Rylle had always adored hearing Gale talk. The confidence and powerful theoretical foundations with which he approached anything, even the barest hypothesis, had always compelled her. If he wasn’t a magician, he could have made a fantastic orator; his grasp of rhetoric was impeccable, which wasn’t surprising when one considered that both logic and magic were, essentially, math. There were times this worked against him. Rylle was watching him convince himself that he’d assumed something terrible and impossible in real time, and her repetitions of his name were going entirely unheard as he tripped over himself to apologise for it.
Fortunately for him, she’d never quite had the patience to leave any conversation one-sided (unless she was the one talking at somebody). Rylle cast Thaumaturgy under her breath while he was still going, and said, at three times her ordinary volume: “Gale Dekarios.”
Gale stopped. The ambient sounds of people walking and talking outside their cabin also stopped. The ship and the ocean, unmoved by such petty theatrics, rolled and lurched, and knocked Rylle out of the bed.
Gale stood to help her climb back on. She sat down gingerly beside him, rubbing the elbow she’d landed on. Pins and needles ran up and down her arm.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, doing a poor job of pretending not to be hurt himself.
She shuffled around so she was actually looking at him, and pressed the non-needled hand to his cheek. “Do you know the first thing I thought when we saw the cabin?”
Gale mustered a smile. “That they haven’t mopped the floor?”
Rylle refused to laugh when she was trying to make a point, even if he was right. “I was pleased how small the bed was. In hindsight, it was silly to think I needed an excuse to drape myself all over you.”
“You’re always welcome, Cymeryllar,” Gale said, but he still looked half-miserable. The rhetoric had done its job.
She decided to be direct. “I’ll thank you to stop assuming I don’t want the same things you do. I love you. I want to rearrange your shelves the correct way, and keep you up all hours with my playing, and… and leave hair all over your pillows. And I want to read with you, and eat with you, and be with you. I have my own life, but I want you in it. I want to be in yours.” She paused. “If you’ll still have me after I yelled at you.”
“Perfectly right to if I’ve displeased you,” Gale said, his face doing something complicated he knew she knew how to read.
Rylle pulled him into a hug so he could hide his face in peace, and said, gently, “No, I’m not. And you never displease me. And I mean it. Correction, dash, our shelves, and our pillows.”
“Truly?”
Waterdeep couldn’t arrive fast enough. “I’d like nothing more.”
Gale’s answer was a few seconds of long, suspicious silence. Rylle steepled her fingers together behind his back, and said, “Besides which, you have a grand piano. You don’t even play it. As if I’d—”
Gale muffled her mouth with a desperate kiss, searing in its intensity. Rylle pressed herself closer, tugging at his collar, and let him kiss the (Waterdhavian fish)breath from her.