reluctance to speak was making her even more impatient to get the information out of him.
“He wanted to—very grudgingly—congratulate me on my progress. I told him I had the extra lessons to thank for that,” he said, and Veronyka fought the grin that tugged at her mouth. “And he thought I was being insolent. So, really, a typical conversation for us.”
Veronyka laughed.
“After that, he promised I could be a patrol leader.”
“Tristan, that’s great!” Veronyka said, wanting to touch him but hesitating when she caught sight of Tristan’s peculiar expression. He was still smiling, but it looked somewhat forced—as though he were pleased, but something was holding him back from true happiness.
“What’s wrong?” Veronyka asked.
He tossed his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “He said I can’t graduate to my new position yet.”
“Because of the eggs?”
Tristan nodded. “So, basically, we’re right back where we started.”
Veronyka shook her head firmly. “No, we’re not. You did something amazing today, Tristan, and your father promised you the position you worked hard for. This is a good day.”
He smiled more earnestly now and nodded his agreement.
The movement showed Veronyka the bow and quiver he was wearing over his shoulder.
“Do you want to get in more practice?” she asked hopefully, indicating the weapon.
“Nah,” he said, swinging it off his shoulder. Veronyka’s heart sank, until . . . “I think it’s time we gave you a try.”
“At the obstacle course?” she squeaked, then cleared her throat.
He chuckled. “No. That’s a bit advanced for you. Let’s try your hand at the bow and arrow first.”
The bow he held out was smaller than what a standing soldier would use, made from dark, polished wood and curled at both ends.
“It’s recurved,” he explained, tracing the reverse bends at top and bottom, “which gives maximum draw with minimal effort. Riders usually shoot while mounted, so they need smaller, more agile weapons. This works in your favor, compensating for your, uh, limited strength.”
Veronyka had to give him credit for trying to be tactful, though he’d failed.
Tristan showed her how to string and unstring the bow, but she couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. The strength and coordination it required to bend the wood and hold the string taut was more than she would have assumed, and soon her muscles began to tremble.
After watching her struggle, Tristan finally took pity on her and helped. “It’ll get easier,” he said, reaching around her to add his strength to hers, pushing the bow down so Veronyka could fasten the loop.
His sudden proximity filled her senses, the scent of cool green grass and woodsmoke mingling with the cotton of his tunic and the smell of his skin, salty with sweat and still warm from the day’s sun. When he released the bow and stepped back from her, Veronyka took a deep breath of the Tristan-free air and collected herself. Her nerves were on high alert because of the new challenge archery presented, she was sure, and not because of the way the commander’s son smelled.
Taking the bow from her, he demonstrated proper technique, drawing the string effortlessly. He pointed out the position of his feet, spread and evenly balanced, along with the angle of his elbow, and how far he drew the string, anchored to his chin. The position displayed his lean, muscular body to its best effect, and Veronyka took as long as was acceptable to stare at him.
To help my technique, she told herself, looking away at last. Yes, he was attractive—strong and smart and talented. And yes, she loved being with him. But he was also her training partner, the commander’s son, and with any luck, her sponsor someday. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.
He handed her the bow, and she tried to mimic him, drawing the arrowless string back and doing her best to remember his square, balanced posture.
He walked around her, nudging her elbow up, kicking her feet farther apart, and squinting at her grip.
Then he rested a hand, idly, against her chest.
His palm splayed against the fabric, his smallest finger mere millimeters away from the gentle swell of her flattened breasts. Immediately her chest constricted and her breath hitched.
“No, no,” Tristan said softly, the other hand resting on the elbow that drew back the string. “Deep breaths—that’s where your strength and posture come from. In and out, come on,” he encouraged, tapping her chest lightly.
Veronyka thought she might faint right then and there. Bad enough that she was a girl pretending to be a boy, her secret a fingertip