The picnic is postponed for tomorrow. The maid came up with such a clever little idea, prancing for her mistress, feeding her sweet cakes, seeing the sights— but the door stays closed, and the two keep their own company in that cabin until it’s too late in the false-day to wander about. There’s more lazy cuddling in there than you might expect. Or maybe you would, and it’s the catching up on years of clandestine lust that would be the surprise.

When they emerge (late) the next day, Redana is wearing something much more usual for her, all dark and just loose enough for Bella to sneak a hand in. It completely fails to hide the possessive marks all along her neck, her jawline, her skin flushed. Her choker is much more subdued, lacking a bell, but one trace of a gentle finger along it makes her knees weak, and her hair is lovingly braided. And she insisted— [i]insisted[/i]— on carrying the picnic basket.

So here they are. Bella’s hand on her arm as they walk through this black cathedral together like courtiers showing off the latest fashions. A sword swings at Redana’s hip, but it’s little more than an affectation, the kind of thing to be unbuckled by a hungry not-a-maid. And Redana herself fairly glows.

She wants to see everything on the way, you see. She’s going to find a place with a view of the stars, backlit by that pink fire, somewhere where they can still see colors (through a brutally squared-off observation window the size of a stadium). And then? There will be a blanket spread out. There will be something bubbly from the kitchens, and sandwiches, and hard crackers with honey-clotted dip. But getting there is half the point, and so she’s half-pulling Bella along (who could, if she wanted to, pull the princess back into check, but not effortlessly) and she stares, guileless, from one cryptic anachronism to another.

“Love is war.” She laughs, almost seeming naive. Almost. “Love is, as the Magos tells me, neither war nor Elysium but a secret third thing.” Her tone is light, but she takes a step closer to Bella. “Love is one of the mysteries.” Love is trying to kill us. “Love is shaped like a star.” Love is shaped like the inside of a closet and a prayer that she’ll be safe. “Love is—“

Thank you, Bella. The princess looks around, as if the screens are going to stop their nattering on to stare at them, and receiving no sign that they are scandalizing the dead, gives that gentle palm a fluttering-eyed kiss. And that’s closer than anything she’d managed to say.