next after her. You know, if anything unfortunate were to happen to her.”
Lilac didn’t know what to say. He was right, she supposed; she had never thought of it that way before. The notion was disconcerting in the least. Her voice caught on the lump in her throat when she opened her mouth to tell him something consoling. She wasn’t very close to her own parents. Never had been. But at least they were still alive—alive, with time for that to change.
“Enough of me,” Garin said, swirling the ochre liquid around the bottom of his glass. “You’re new to the forest. So, what brings you to Brocéliande on such a winsome night?”
He beamed at her through a clenched jaw and pushed the steaming plate of eggs and toast towards her encouragingly. He then sniffed at the partridge dish, covered in a thin layer of colorful wild potatoes and carrots, and slid that to her as well. They’d fallen so deep in conversation that she forgot how hungry she was. It didn’t happen too often.
Gingerly, she picked up the piece of toast and slathered on a heavy layer of marmalade. Even without looking, Lilac was aware of his pressing eyes locked on her. She could feel them boring into her forehead.
“Have some,” she insisted, pushing the toast platter back towards him. “You must be famished after your shift.”
He shook his head to decline politely. “You avoided my question.”
Following a too large bite of toast, she took a swig from her wine glass and suppressed a grimace. It was tart, unlike the bursting flavor of summer berries and liquid chocolate that seeped into the fine reds they served at home. She took another gulp anyway, knowing she would require a little liquid courage to lie outright to the gentleman’s face. Especially right after he had revealed something so personal about his own life.
“Well, I came from Rennes,” she explained, referring to the larger politician’s town a few hours northeast of the castle. The lie slipped out easily, so she followed it with another. “And, speaking of Paimpont, I’m headed there to visit a good friend of mine.”
“Ah. Is writing this… friend not enough?”
“No,” Lilac admitted honestly through a salty-sweet mouthful of partridge and toast. She’d never had it before, but the servants ate it often. Though she expected a gamey texture, it was surprisingly savory, roasted to perfection. The meat basically melted in her mouth.
“A leman.”
“What?” She frowned, taken aback by that one. A beau, he had meant. She knew the definition of the term leman, but it was an archaic word. “No. Not at all, a leman.”
He exhaled a chuckle, but his pewter eyes held fast. “Even so, it’s fine. I’m always up for a little competition.” His tone was teasing, but he peeked up at her from under his dark lashes.
“Please.” She rolled her eyes as she popped a forkful of eggs into her mouth. Those were buttery and scrumptious. “Had I a leman, hypothetically, he’d win the duel.”
Through his grin, the corners of his eyes pulled tight. “I somehow highly doubt that.”
Lilac shifted, the blood once again rising to her cheeks. The wine was beginning to catch up to her. She swallowed a burp. “You’re strange.”
“Well aware. And your name, mademoiselle?” He pressed further, now without reservation.
Lilac’s heart did a flop. She hadn’t even bothered to come up with an alias. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Garin stared at her expectantly, his face twisting into a puzzled scowl as she tried to quiet the bloody palpitations.
“Lysyn,” she replied, tugging on her left ear. She instantly regretted it, biting hugely into a slice of partridge to buy herself another minute to figure out the surname.
Lysyn?
“Argent,” she finished with a mouthful.
Shit.
Garin snorted. “Lysyn Argent? Like the Argent River. I bet the shifters steer clear of you.”
She frowned as her mind automatically went to Freya. Surely by shifters, he’d meant shapeshifters. She suddenly found herself wishing Freya had steered clear of her. For Freya’s own sake.
“Argent? Silver? You know, shapeshifters are deathly allergic?” Garin explained, but she wasn’t paying much attention. He masked an eye roll by studying a crack in the low ceiling of the alcove. “The main river leading through Brocéliande leads into a pond in Paimpont. That river is known as the Argent River. Or, that’s what the Darklings call it, anyway.”
Lilac made a sound she hoped sounded like interest.
“Centuries ago, before the war, Cornish settlers dug an underground mine beside the river, thinking it was silver they’d found. It turned out