The moment Lily whispered for help, Art moved.
He lifted her back onto his lap and wrapped the heavy black cloak securely around her, folding it close until she was bundled inside like a small traveler in a bedroll. When he noticed the tears on her cheeks, his expression softened. He drew her against his chest and gently stroked her hair, saying nothing as she began to cry in earnest.
Lily felt miserable.
Her entire body hurt, but the damage to her pride felt worse. She had left the lake partially because she believed she was finally ready to face civilization on her own. She had wanted to prove that she was capable, useful, and old enough to survive beyond her lakeside kingdom.
Instead, she had found no real clue about Mama or Papa Rob.
She had been cheated during her first trade, laughed at by strangers, denied work, and pushed herself so far that she could no longer stand without help. Aside from making a room full of people smile, her first attempt at civilization felt like a complete failure.
She did not feel like a survivor or a former police officer.
She felt like exactly what everyone seemed to see when they looked at her: a lost little forest girl who had no idea what she was doing.
Lily buried her face against Art's chest and sobbed, too exhausted to care who might hear. Art held her without teasing or correcting her. One arm remained wrapped firmly around her while his other hand moved slowly over her hair, calming her whenever her breathing grew uneven.
Minutes passed.
Her sobs gradually weakened into quiet sniffles. Then even those faded. Her body relaxed against him, and before Lily fully realized what was happening, exhaustion pulled her down into sleep.
Soon, only her soft breathing and the faintest little snores could be heard.
Art looked down at her in quiet surprise.
For all her threats, arguments, and furious declarations of independence, Lily had finally trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms.
He adjusted the cloak around her shoulders, brushed a loose strand of pale hair from her face, and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.
"Sweet dreams, Lily," he whispered.
Those were the last words she faintly remembered before sleep carried her away.
In her dream, Lily found herself back in the modern world—or something resembling it.
She was still small, still Lily, but now she sat inside a shining rocket racing toward the moon. Except it was not an ordinary moon.
It was a pie.
A gigantic golden moon pie floating through space, its warm, buttery sweetness somehow drifting through the emptiness and filling the rocket's cabin.
Lily pressed her face toward the window and sniffed eagerly. At last, humanity had reached its greatest frontier.
Space dessert.
She stretched both hands toward the glass, already imagining herself becoming the first girl in history to take a bite from the moon. Yet something held her firmly in place.
Two powerful arms were wrapped around her.
Lily looked up.
Frank sat behind her in a spacesuit, holding her securely on his lap. His helmet was missing, but otherwise he looked exactly as she remembered him—large, steady, and smiling as if nothing terrible had ever happened.
Her excitement vanished.
"Frank?" she whispered. "What you doing here? I thought you died."
Frank's smile softened.
"Didn't I tell you? I'm not leaving you. We're partners until the end."
Emotion tightened Lily's throat. She leaned back against him, feeling safer than she had in years.
"Thank you," she murmured. "I miss you."
"I know."
A mechanical voice filled the cabin.
"Beginning landing sequence."
The rocket descended toward the enormous pie. Its doors opened, revealing endless golden crust and rivers of sweet filling beneath a sky crowded with stars.
Frank stood and took Lily's hand.
"You ready, partner?"
Lily nodded eagerly.
Then Frank tightened his grip, swung her once, and tossed her out of the rocket.
Lily's eyes widened.
"Frank!"
"It's time to wake up!" he called. "There's food waiting!"
She tumbled toward the pie moon, reaching desperately back toward him.
"No! I not want wake without you! Please, I need you! Do not leave me again!"
Frank remained in the open doorway, growing smaller as she fell.
"You're stronger than you think, Lily," he called after her. "And I'm never as far away as you believe. Look closely enough, and you'll find me."
Lily shook her head fiercely.
"No! Frank, wait!"
She struck the pie moon with a soft, wet splat and sank into the warm filling. Darkness swallowed her.
Then a gentle voice drifted through it, "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's time to eat."
Something warm and buttery brushed against Lily's lips.
Meat pie.
Even half-asleep, she recognized the rich scent of pastry, herbs, and roasted meat. Her eyes remained closed as she sniffed once, leaned toward it, and opened her mouth.
Then she bit down with the determination of someone who had survived years of hunger and trusted no meal to wait politely.
A sharp yelp sounded above her.
"Ow! Lily!"
She frowned sleepily and chewed once. Something was wrong. The pie had become suspiciously firm.
Still not entirely awake, Lily ran her tongue over it, gathering the warm gravy and crumbs from the surface before loosely closing her lips around it for a moment to clean away the last of the filling.
Art went perfectly still.
"That," he said through clenched teeth, "is my finger."
Lily's eyes opened.
Art sat behind her in the large wooden chair, staring down with an expression caught somewhere between pain, disbelief, and dangerous amusement. He was holding a partly eaten meat pie near her mouth.
Unfortunately, Lily had missed most of the pastry and bitten down squarely on his index finger instead. Worse, his finger was still between her lips.
She released it at once.
Art slowly withdrew his hand and inspected the neat little teeth marks impressed into his skin. His injured dignity appeared far more serious than the wound itself.
Lily stared at the damp finger. Then at the pie. Then back at Art. A faint blush crept across her cheeks as full awareness finally returned.
"I thought you were pie," Lily mumbled.
Art raised one eyebrow. "You thought all of me was pie?"
Color crept into Lily's cheeks. She leaned back against his chest, crossed her arms, and looked away with an offended little huff.
"Hmph. No. Only finger pie. Dream confusion." She frowned thoughtfully. "Also, your finger tastes bad. Too hard for biting."
Art's mouth curved into a mischievous smile.
"Is that so?"
He lifted the injured finger toward her again.
"Would you care to try again? The second times usually the charm."
Lily recoiled, suddenly wide awake.
"No! Finger is terrible food!"
Art brought it closer anyway.
Lily turned her head, but he changed direction and tried to tap the tip of her nose. She twisted away on his lap while one of his arms remained securely around her waist, while Lily kept batting furiously at his approaching hand.
"Stop! No!"
"You seemed to enjoy it before."
"I was asleep! That does not count!"
Art continued the assault with the grave concentration of a warrior carrying out a vital mission. Lily ducked, squirmed, and slapped repeatedly at his hand, but he followed every movement with infuriating precision.
Despite herself, a small giggle escaped her.
Art's smile widened, which was unacceptable.
So when his finger passed close again, Lily struck with her secret counterattack. She darted forward, gave the fingertip one quick, defiant lick, and immediately pulled back with a proud little hum.
Art froze.
His teasing expression vanished, replaced by complete surprise.
Lily crossed her arms triumphantly, pleased that she had finally defeated him.
Then a deep laugh rolled across the room.
Both of them went perfectly still.
Only then did Lily properly examine her surroundings.
She was no longer in the inn's common room. Instead, she sat in the finest chamber she had seen in this life. A wide bed rested beneath a carved wooden frame, covered with clean blankets and several actual pillows. A fire crackled in a stone hearth. Heavy red curtains covered the window, and a wooden bath filled with steaming water stood behind a folding screen.
A polished round table occupied the center of the room, nearly disappearing beneath plates of food.
Meat pies, roasted fish, glazed meat, bread, cheese, fruit, vegetables, and several unfamiliar dishes crowded its surface. Two finely crafted chairs stood beside it, and Lily was sitting in one of them—still securely held in Art's lap.
Near the door stood Reinheart.
His hood was lowered, revealing his short gray hair, clean-shaven face, and the five long scars crossing its right side. Three passed over one eye, though the eye itself remained clear and undamaged. Both of his eyes held that deep ocean-blue color, beautiful in one moment and frightening in the next.
He looked like a legendary old warrior who had accidentally wandered into a childish comedy.
Reinheart leaned against the wall, shoulders shaking with laughter.
"Young people," he said. "Always finding new ways to make fools of themselves."
"We were doing nothing," Art replied.
"Of course."
Reinheart opened the door, still chuckling.
"I shall leave you to your diplomatic negotiations."
Reinheart stepped into the corridor, his laughter trailing after him until the door closed.
Silence settled over the room.
Only then did Lily become fully aware of her situation. She was still sitting in Art's lap.
Her face lowered as the realization hit her all at once. She wore only her simple two-piece clothes, and his arm rested firmly around her waist, holding her in place. The warmth of his body pressed against her back, his steady breathing brushing her neck. He smelled… surprisingly good, even beneath the faint scent of sweat and travel.
It was far too close. Far too comfortable. And far too much.
Slowly, she looked up and their eyes met.
"What?" Art asked, slightly puzzled.
Lily's expression tightened into a small frown. With a quiet huff, she pushed his hands away, trying to reclaim some space between them. Then she crossed her arms, attempting to look annoyed rather than flustered.
"Don't get any funny ideas," she warned. "Or I kick you in the balls again."
Art immediately raised one hand in surrender, his tone almost offended.
"What? No. Never. I would not force you to do anything."
He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders instead, gentler now, as if trying to calm her rather than hold her.
"Do not say things like that, Lily. I am not that kind of person."
She didn't respond, just watched him carefully. Art exhaled, then spoke more seriously.
"What I said earlier… it was not for now. I meant later. When we are older. When things… make more sense."
Lily blinked. That didn't help, at all.
But Art continued, as though speaking the truth aloud were the simplest thing in the world.
"But I did mean everything I said. For you see, after I left the lake, I could not stop thinking about you. And when I saw you again tonight…" For the first time, he hesitated, his confidence briefly slipping. "I do not entirely understand it myself. You remind me of someone precious to me—someone I lost long ago."
His gaze held hers.
"But whatever the reason is, I like you, Lily. More than I should after knowing you for so little time. And I find that I do not want anyone else looking at you the way I do."
The words hit her harder than she expected.
Lily froze.
She didn't understand them, not fully. But something about them made her chest feel warm and tight at the same time.
It felt… nice, and also terrifying. Because why her? Why would someone like him—strong, confident, completely ridiculous—care about someone like her?
She didn't know whether to believe him.
Didn't know if she could.
And the way he held her, steady and certain, only made it worse. It felt safe. Too safe. Like leaning against something solid after standing alone for far too long.
Lily had always been the one others relied on.
At the lake, everything depended on her. If something went wrong, she fixed it. If danger came, she faced it. If she failed, there was no one else to take her place.
Now, suddenly—there was someone else. Someone stronger. Someone who didn't hesitate. And that thought both comforted her… and frightened her.
Her mind spiraled quickly after that.
Movies, romance, strange ideas about beds shaking and babies appearing and destiny and all sorts of nonsense she didn't understand.
Her face turned bright red.
Where is Frank when I need him?
Before Lily's thoughts could spiral any further, something appeared in front of her face.
A plate.
"Meat pie?" Art offered.
Lily blinked at it, then narrowed her eyes accusingly.
"You changing subject and bribing me with food." She puffed out her cheeks. "Hmph. Who you think I am?"
Art lifted the pie closer. Its warm crust brushed lightly against her lips while steam curled upward, carrying the rich smell of meat, onions, herbs, and thick gravy.
Lily's nose twitched.
Then her stomach growled loudly enough for both of them to look down.
Art's mouth curved into a victorious smile.
"Come now," he said. "I bought all of this for you. Eat before it grows cold."
Lily turned her face aside with another stubborn little huff.
"Hmph."
She lasted only a few seconds before glancing back at the pie.
"Well…" she muttered. "Maybe little. Since you ask nicely."
Art broke off a small piece and held it near her mouth.
Lily leaned forward and accepted it, chewing with great suspicion. The pastry crumbled softly instead of threatening her teeth with millstone grit. Beneath the crust waited tender meat, pepper, onions, and a faint sweetness she could not identify.
Her eyes widened.
Art did not need to ask whether she liked it. She accepted the next bite immediately. Then another, and before Lily fully realized what was happening, half the pie had disappeared.
She looked at his hand, then slowly up at his face.
"You feeding me like baby."
"You are the one opening your mouth."
Lily puffed her cheeks again.
"Hmph."
Yet she made no attempt to leave his lap.
The truth was that she had never felt quite so comfortable. Art's legs formed a solid seat beneath her, while his chest remained warm against her back. His heartbeat moved steadily beneath the layers of his clothing, a calm rhythm she could feel whenever she relaxed against him.
His arms held her securely without hurting her.
Nothing about him felt hostile. He was not waiting for her to make a mistake. He did not seem annoyed by her hunger, her broken Albion, or the fact that she had cried herself to sleep against him. He simply appeared pleased to have her there.
Lily still did not understand why he wanted her company so badly. His possessiveness was confusing, and somewhat suspicious, but his presence felt dependable.
That realization settled over her more gently than the cloak wrapped around them.
Here, for once, she did not have to watch every doorway.
Art was watching.
And whatever else he might be—arrogant, troublesome, and criminally smug—he was probably the strongest person for miles, aside from Reinheart. The thought made Lily relax a little more.
Yet the more Art looked after her, the more a small thread of guilt tugged at Lily.
He had caught her when she fell, given her first aid, found her food, and spent the entire evening making certain she ate. It seemed only fair that she do something for him in return. After all, saviors required care too.
So Lily broke off a small piece of meat pie, twisted around in his lap, and held it toward his mouth.
Art raised an eyebrow.
"Eat," she commanded. "Fair sharing."
For once, he obeyed without argument.
He leaned forward and accepted the bite, chewing it with such grave seriousness that Lily could not help giggling.
"You eat like important royal inspection."
"I am evaluating the quality."
"It same pie I eating."
"Then I can confirm your judgment was sound."
Satisfied, Lily shifted again, trying to find a more comfortable position against him. After several awkward movements, she pointed behind his shoulder.
"Lean back."
Art looked at her. "Why?"
"I require better eating position."
He said nothing more. He simply settled farther into the chair, allowing Lily to rest comfortably against his chest while she returned to the meal with smaller and considerably more civilized bites.
Art adjusted the cloak around her shoulders, then offered her a slice of pale, soft-looking bread.
Lily did not eat it immediately.
Instead, she held it close to her face and examined every side with deep suspicion.
Art watched her for several seconds.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking for rocks."
"There are no rocks."
"That is exactly what bread wants you to believe."
Art stared as she pinched the loaf between her fingers, sniffed it cautiously, and finally took the smallest possible bite from one corner.
The bread was warm.
Soft.
And, most importantly, almost entirely free of grit.
Lily's eyes widened. She held the slice up toward the firelight with something close to religious awe.
"Why this bread so good."
"It came from the village mill."
"The new windmill?"
"I believe so. The flour was ground recently."
Lily took another thoughtful bite, chewing with great care before giving a solemn nod.
"Crown prince may live."
Art's expression remained perfectly serious.
"I am certain he will be relieved."
Just like that, the dangerous conversation disappeared beneath warm food, quiet laughter, and the steady comfort of Art's arms around her.
Afterward, the evening passed in a soft, pleasant blur.
Art continued feeding Lily until she recovered enough strength to steal pieces from his plate and insist that this counted as fair taxation. The table offered more food than she had seen gathered in one place since entering this world: roasted fish with herbs, glazed meat, soft cheese, stewed roots, apple pastries, honey cakes, and fresh bread made from flour ground at Einsway's new mill.
The bread contained almost no grit. Lily herself even inspected three separate slices before accepting this miracle.
"Rich people have solved bread," she concluded.
Art decided not to question her.
As her hunger faded, so did the last of her caution. Wrapped in the cloak and resting comfortably against him, Lily began talking. At first, she offered only harmless pieces of her life: fishing, gardening, clay ovens, New Town, and the military accomplishments of Mister Terminator.
Then the stories became stranger.
She explained the First Rat War, the treaty that granted underground mushroom fields to the defeated clans, the foxes' egg tribute, and the political rivalry between peaceful mouse monks and aggressive rat kingdoms. She spoke with such absolute seriousness that Art could never decide when she was joking.
When he laughed at Mister Terminator's flower crown, Lily puffed out her cheeks.
"Hmph. Sacred military decoration."
"My apologies to the marshal."
"Accepted provisionally."
Art spoke of his travels in return. His stories crossed ruined forts, mountain roads, monster-haunted bridges, and villages attacked by bandits. Yet some of the adventures were far less glorious: repairing merchants' wheels, escorting frightened families through storms, or searching an entire town for a missing child who had hidden inside a grain cart to escape bath time.
Art managed to make even those stories sound legendary.
"You boast too much," Lily told him.
"I merely recount events accurately."
"You make everything sound heroic."
"Some people naturally live heroic lives."
"You lose to water trap."
Art stopped speaking.
Lily giggled into her cup.
Eventually, the conversation drifted toward the reason she had come to Einsway. She admitted that Old Man Al knew no hunter named Rob and that she did not even know whether Rob had given her his full name.
Mama was no easier to find. Lily remembered pale hair, violet eyes, and hearing stories of a northern homeland of snow and fjords, and a name nearly identical to her own. Beyond that, the years had worn the memories thin.
Art listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he did not offer an impossible promise or pretend he already knew the answer.
He simply said, "I am sorry."
Somehow, that helped.
Then he told her why he had returned so quickly from Castle Leo.
The duke's daughter had not been there. Leo claimed she had escaped into the surrounding forest shortly before Art arrived and assured him that his men would recover her soon. Art believed none of it. The duke had been too polite, too welcoming, and far too eager for Art and Reinheart to remain as guests.
So Art had left.
Reinheart had called the decision reckless.
Art called it survival.
He also admitted, almost casually, that he had hoped to pass near Lily's lake again.
"You came back hoping see me?"
"Partly."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to."
Lily answered with a quiet, embarrassed, "Hmph," and concentrated intensely on her bread.
More importantly, Art had heard rumors at Castle Leo about a mysterious woman known among the peasants as the White Spirit. She was said to be petite and beautiful, always veiled and dressed in white. Sometimes she walked beside Duke Leo and his wife. At other times she disappeared beneath the duke's cloak whenever strangers approached.
Some claimed her hair was silver. Others said it was almost white.
Lily's heart tightened.
It was not proof, but it was the first possible clue she had found in years.
Yet as Art spoke, he also continued watching her with great curiosity, his attention not going unnoticed by Lily.
He did not press her immediately on any hard questions. Instead, he explained that her appearance was likely the reason the villagers had watched her so closely. Her nearly white hair, violet eyes, flawless skin, unusual clothing, broken Albion, and strange, bright voice made her seem less like an ordinary lost child and more like something from an old northern tale.
"Common people are superstitious," Art said. "The innkeeper may have feared you almost as much as he wanted your berries. To him, you might have been a noble's hidden daughter, a forest spirit, or something worse pretending to be harmless."
"He greedy," Lily muttered. "Mostly greedy."
"Probably," Art admitted. "But that does not explain everything."
His expression grew more serious.
"If I had to guess, I would say you are not entirely ordinary."
Lily frowned. "I ordinary enough."
"Are you?" His gaze moved over her with careful curiosity, taking in her clear skin, bright eyes, healthy hair, perfect balance, and the complete absence of lasting scars despite the life she claimed to have lived. "You have survived alone in a forest for years. You possess no old wounds, no sickness, no weathering. Your plants grow larger than anything I have seen, animals gather around you, and even now you look healthier than noble children raised by physicians."
"I good gardener."
"You grow strawberries the size of fists."
"Very good gardener."
"And the animals?"
"Citizens."
Art stared at her.
"Loyal citizens," Lily added.
His brow furrowed. "Are you a dryad? A witch? Some forest spirit given human form?"
Lily drew herself upright, offended.
"I not tree, and I not creature. I am Lily." She hesitated, then added, "Mostly girl. Although I train to be strong like man."
Art looked unconvinced.
"You are young and small," he said carefully, "but you do not seem frail. Your body is developing strangely quickly and evenly into an hourglass shape, as though something is shaping you toward perfection. If you continue like this, I imagine you will become a remarkably striking woman one day."
Lily's cheeks warmed despite herself.
"Remarkably striking?"
"Very."
She tried to hide her satisfaction behind a suspicious frown.
"You just flattering me."
"I am observing."
"That worse."
Art leaned back slightly. "Then tell me what I am observing. How old are you? For you seem close to my age."
Lily fell silent.
She honestly did not know. The seasons at the lake had blurred together. She had counted winters, forgotten counts, invented new calendars, and occasionally declared whole years invalid for poor weather. Giving him an age would require certainty she did not possess.
So instead, she looked down at her hands.
"I do not know exactly," she admitted. "But body is strange because of light-heart."
Art's expression sharpened.
"Light-heart?"
Perhaps it was the warmth of the room, the food filling her stomach, or simply the relief of no longer carrying every secret alone. Whatever the reason, Lily finally explained.
Inside her body, she said, there were two layers.
The first was flesh: blood, bone, muscle, skin, and the ordinary workings of life.
Beneath it—or perhaps woven through it—was something else.
A second body made of light.
Pure white light, warm and gentle, flowing through her like hidden veins. It gathered most strongly around her heart, where it pulsed with a rhythm of its own. It healed wounds, resisted sickness, strengthened living things, and answered whenever Lily reached toward plants or injured creatures.
"It is not spell exactly," she said. "More like… creation light. Life light. Healing light. It fixes things and helps things grow."
Art listened without interrupting.
"And you have always possessed it?"
"Since before born, I think. Maybe before that too." Lily frowned. "No one help me understand. Very poor divine service."
She explained how the light kept her healthy, healed cuts before scars could remain, strengthened her body, and possibly caused her to develop faster than an ordinary child should. It also seeped into the land around her, feeding plants and drawing animals closer.
However once Lily started talking openly, she could not stop.
Thus the explanation quickly escaped all reasonable boundaries. She described Mister Terminator and the command structure of the chicken military. She explained the political unreliability of rats, the cultural differences between mice and their larger underground rivals, the fox taxation agreement, and several complicated disputes involving deer trespassing upon cabbage territory.
Then came the lakeside wars.
Lily spoke of them as though recounting the fall of ancient kingdoms.
She described rat tunnels collapsing beneath chicken assaults, foxes striking from the darkness, hawks descending like silent executioners, and whole battlefields of feathers, fur, blood, and broken plants. She spoke of roosters charging creatures several times their size, squirrels bombarding invaders from the trees, and frogs vanishing from lily pads with such regular tragedy that she had begun naming them after fallen martial-arts masters.
Art listened with growing fascination.
At first, amusement flickered across his face. Then Lily began describing nature itself.
Up close, she explained, the forest was not peaceful. It was beautiful from far away, but beneath the leaves everything hunted, fought, stole, defended territory, and struggled to survive. Foxes dragged chickens into the dark. Hawks lifted rabbits from the grass. Owls watched from branches until something small moved below. Fish swallowed smaller fish. Rats fought brutal wars beneath roots where sunlight never reached.
Even rabbits were not as innocent as they appeared.
"Sometimes rabbits eat meat," Lily said gravely. "People think cute means harmless. This is propaganda."
Art blinked. "Rabbit propaganda?"
"Yes. Very effective."
She leaned closer, voice lowering as though sharing forbidden knowledge.
"Nature is scary place when watch properly. Everything eats everything. Even beautiful things. Even small soft things. Balance is mostly everyone killing each other at correct speed."
Art stared at her for several long seconds.
"That may be the most disturbing explanation of nature I have ever heard."
"It true."
"I believe you."
Lily nodded, satisfied.
"I try keep balance at lake. But difficult. If gone too long, chicken politics collapse, rats violate border agreements, and foxes forget taxes."
"You genuinely believe you govern them."
"I do govern them."
"Of course."
By the time her explanation finally slowed, Lily had eaten several plates, drunk two cups of warm cider, and revealed far more than she had intended.
Only then did she properly look around.
Her cloak hung drying near the fire. The finest room in the inn had been prepared for her. The table overflowed with food Art had purchased. She was warm, safe, and no longer hungry because he had found her when she could carry herself no farther.
Lily fell silent.
Art noticed at once.
"What is it?"
She shifted until she faced him more directly, balancing carefully while his hands steadied her sides.
"Why you do all this?"
"Because you needed help."
"But expensive room. Food. You protect me." Her eyes lowered. "I do nothing to deserve."
"That was never a requirement."
Lily looked up at him.
No one had cared for her like this in years. She did not know how to repay such kindness. Words felt too small, and she owned nothing valuable enough to offer him.
For once, Lily had no clever answer.
Then she remembered how she thanked the animals at the lake.
Before courage could abandon her, Lily leaned forward and pressed her lips quickly against Art's. It lasted barely a heartbeat.
Both of them froze.
Lily pulled back, cheeks turning bright red, while Art stared at her as though she had just struck him with lightning.
Neither spoke.
It was Lily's first real kiss. It was Art's as well, though he possessed enough pride to hide that fact slightly better.
Lily attempted a nervous smile.
"Good thank-you kiss?"
Art blinked.
"Your what?"
"Thank-you kiss." Lily nodded, trying to make the explanation sound perfectly normal. "For room, food, help, not letting me fall. Very grateful."
Art continued staring.
"Have you ever kissed anyone before?"
"Of course." Lily sounded offended. "I kiss Mister Terminator on head. Miss Attitude too. Sometimes foxes, if no bite."
"I meant a person."
Lily thought carefully.
"Not on mouth."
Art closed his eyes and placed one hand over his face.
"What?" Lily demanded. "I do wrong?"
"Lily, you cannot kiss people on the mouth merely to thank them."
"Why not?"
"Because it does not mean thank you."
She frowned. "Then what mean?"
Art lowered his hand and looked at her with an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
"In Albion, a kiss like that is for someone you mean to court. Someone you might one day marry."
Lily's entire face turned crimson.
"What?"
"You kissed me."
"I not know stupid Albion kissing law!"
"You might have asked first."
"How I ask about rule I not know exists?"
"That is a fair point."
Lily puffed out her cheeks and turned sharply away, "Hmph!"
Art began to laugh.
"This not funny!"
"It is slightly funny."
"I take kiss back."
"I do not believe kisses can be returned."
"Then forget it."
"I doubt I will."
Lily crossed her arms, refusing to look at him. Art's laughter softened. For all his teasing, his own ears had turned noticeably red.
After a moment, Lily glanced sideways at him.
"So… it was bad?"
Art's expression became serious with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
"Awkward."
Her pout deepened.
"But," he added, "not bad."
Lily looked away again, trying unsuccessfully to hide the tiny smile forming at the corner of her mouth.
"Hmph."
This time, the sound carried far less anger.
After that, Art expertly steered the evening toward safer subjects: food, hot water, and sleep.
The rest of the night passed in a warm, hazy blur.
When Art announced that he intended to bathe, Lily followed him toward the folding screen without hesitation.
He stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"Why are you following me?"
"You say hot bath."
"I said I was taking a hot bath."
Lily puffed out her cheeks.
"Hmph. Selfish."
Art stared at her for several seconds before surrendering with a sigh. He allowed Lily to use the bath first while he waited on the other side of the screen, listening as she cautiously lowered herself into the steaming water.
A moment later, an astonished gasp escaped her.
"It warm everywhere!"
"That is generally the purpose of a hot bath."
"This is greatest invention of civilization."
"I thought that was soft bread."
Lily considered this seriously.
"Both tied."
Soon she was splashing happily, completely forgetting that she had intended to behave with dignity. Art endured several accusations that the water was attempting to cook her before she finally relaxed beneath the steam.
Afterward, wrapped in clean blankets and still glowing from the unfamiliar warmth, Lily waited while Art took his own turn. By the time he emerged, shirtless and drying his hair with a cloth, she was already half asleep upon the bed.
Art had barely settled beside her before Lily rolled toward him and tucked herself against his side as naturally as if she had done so a hundred times before.
One small hand rested upon his chest.
Art glanced down at her.
"You are stealing my side of the bed."
Lily's eyes remained closed.
"Fair taxation."
Within moments, her breathing softened into peaceful little snores.
Art smiled, pulled the blankets more securely around her, and wrapped one arm around her to keep her from rolling away.
Outside, rain whispered against the windows while distant thunder moved across the night.
Inside, the fire burned low, the room remained warm, and the two exhausted youngsters slept side by side as though they had known one another all their lives.
Thus ended Lily's first day in civilization—not with the answers she had been looking for, glory, or victory, but with a full stomach, her first hot bath, and the quiet discovery that she no longer had to face everything alone.