“There,” says Tavende. “You look beautiful.”

Tara smiles, but is pretty sure it looks as insincere as it feels. What else is the person who sheared off all your hair and styled the remnants going to say? I made a horrible mistake. Please forgive me?

She touches the back of her neck. It feels cold. Lionel’s mom really had to cut it close there. Tara knows why, but it’s still a shock, and she’s terrified of what it looks like.

Tavende touches her dress. “And Maliniea did a lovely job on this, too … It’s so lucky she often sells to Valkyries, or we’d never have something to fit someone as statuesque as you.”

Tara thinks that statuesque might mean “fat,” but she can’t help loving the dress. It’s a very simple cut, three-quarter sleeves, a scooped neckline that’s flattering but not too low, and a hemline that goes nearly to her ankles. And the fabric is magical. It has the feel of heavy knit silk, and flows over her body without feeling constricting, too hot, or too cold. Its color seems to flow, too. When she touches it, the surface ripples between a cream and a warm pink. The same Maliniea had also gifted her a pair of shoes. Not to be disloyal to her Jimmy Choos—may they rest in peace—but the shoes are beautiful. Granted, they’re antique looking with their barely two-inch tall spool heels, and delicate laces that start just above the rounded tip and go to where they open just above her toes. The curve of the opening makes her legs look long and lean. The tan leather is incredibly soft, just a shade paler than her own skin. The stitching is a work of art that makes her mouth water a little. They’re also comfortable, which Tara thinks might be magic in shoes this pretty.

“You need a mirror,” Tavende says. “Wait here, I’ll go get a newer one!”

She dashes out the door before Tara can say a word. The woman is so tiny, slender, and painfully pretty. Tara sighs and rubs her forehead. Tavende seems genuine, terribly sweet, too, and she pledged to see Tara home, putting herself into Tara’s debt. Tara winces. At the debt, and at the immediate problem of the mirror. If Tara doesn’t like what she sees, she’ll have to fake it. For Lionel’s mother’s sake, she actually wants to lie and say she loves it, but Tara’s a terrible actress.

There is a soft knock at the door. Tara freezes, not ready to fend off any more attempts to learn her name, but then Lionel’s muffled voice comes through the entrance. “May I come in?”

Feeling herself go light with relief, Tara cries, “Yes!”

Lionel opens the door, takes a step in, and then his lips part.

Tara’s chest tightens, and she suddenly feels like she has to defend Lionel’s mom’s efforts. “Your mother did her best with what was left.” She does her best to smile.

Lionel at least looks great. He’s shaven, and someone has cut his hair. He’s tied it back in a pretty sexy man bun. That definitely works for him. A few bangs have slipped forward and brush his chin. His clothes fit him now, too: a long tunic that accentuates his shoulders, and simple brown trousers tucked into boots the same color.

“You look beautiful.” Lionel breathes the words so smoothly; Tara’s first thought is that it must be a practiced lie.

She tilts her head, smiles, and holds up her hand to say, It’s okay, you don’t have to fib, and then remembers that elves don’t lie and blinks.

Lionel takes a step forward. “Well, I’ve always thought you were beautiful, even that first night when your hair was wet and in disarray—the droplets glittered so bright—but this looks a lot less cold.” He’s so close that Tara would barely have to lift a finger to touch him. Flushing, Tara has to look away.

“It’s as though …” Lionel holds a hand up as though he will touch the side of her head, but doesn’t. “You wear a nebula for a crown.”

The spell snaps like a spring. That was a bit too far; he’s teasing her. Obviously. She’ll tease him right back. Cocking an eyebrow, Tara says, “Are you saying my hair looks like a cloud of gas?”

For a moment, she doesn’t think Lionel even breathes. He just stares at her. But then he bursts out laughing. “You’re so smart and funny. It’s one of the things I like about you.” He leans forward and presses his lips to her brow. They’re dry and soft, and heat spreads from them like an electrical charge to every part of her body. Tara’s eyes slip closed, and her tongue darts across her lips. She almost reaches out and touches him. He stands too close for too long for a simple kiss on the brow, but she’s not complaining. The light behind her eyelids changes, and that’s how Tara knows he’s stepped away. She wants to protest, but then she hears soft familiar footsteps … at this particular moment, they sound like thunder. Opening her eyes just in time, she sees Tavende burst into the cottage, clutching a mirror the size of a large serving platter. “I found one!”

“Oh,” says Tara. Before she can react, or prepare herself, the tiny woman lifts it up in front of her so Tara can’t help but see her reflection. Her mouth falls open, and she can’t bring herself to smile.

Her hair is much shorter and it’s reverted to its natural texture. Tavende has pushed it back from her face with a black stretchy hairband that disappears into Tara’s curls. Her remaining hair forms a bun, into which Tavende put tiny shiny flowers, each tinier than the tip of Tara’s pinky. It’s simple, elegant, and Tara’s hair—

“It looks like the night sky, filled with stars, yes?” says Tavende.

The night sky … it’s not how Tara has ever thought of her natural hair. She throws her hands to her mouth. “I love it.” It comes out a whisper. She feels her eyes start to prickle in the corners.

Beaming, Tavende angles the mirror. “Look at the dress.”

“The dress is lovely, too,” Tara says, her eyes too blurry to look, but she’d known that from the start.

“I have to go get ready,” Tavende says, placing the mirror against a wall. “Lionel, it’s almost time. Watch out for her!”

A frown flickers across Lionel’s face. “I will,” he says, and his fingers brush the top of Tara’s hand—like she’d done for him when she’d heard the villagers call him half-breed and hadn’t known how to comfort him. That he’s returning the favor now means that he noticed, he cared, and he wants to reciprocate. Her heart feels filled to bursting.

Tavende exits, leaving the door wide open. Tara’s gaze slides to Lionel, standing close at her side.

“What now?” she murmurs, to herself, to him, and the universe. He has a soulmate and a soulmark to prove it. Her eyes slide up his profile to the points of his mesmerizing ears. She feels the heat from his touch on her hand, even now. She can’t be his soulmate … can she? And if she isn’t?

His hand slides into hers, and it is amazing what he can do to her body with something so innocent. More than that, the way he looks at her, eyes dark, eyelids heavy … the chemistry isn’t one way.

In the doorway, the little blonde-haired boy from breakfast shouts, “Tara from Chicago, it’s time to begin!”

Lionel squeezes her hand and shrugs. His lips turns up in a wry smile. “Now we go to the party.”

As he leads her out into the glittering twilight, Tara thinks, That wasn’t the question I was asking.

At the table Lionel watches as Tara samples the ice wine. Her lashes are long and dark against her skin as she sips the light blue liquid.

She looks up, licks her lips in a way that almost makes him lick his own, and says, “I like it … it’s very light, a little sweet …”

“Hence, it is for dessert.” He gives her a smirk. Her nose wrinkles, and he knows she’s fighting a smile.

Tara’s presence has made being in the moment easier. Watching her react to his home world has been like seeing it for the first time.

The faintest of scowls slips over her brow. “It seems a bit strong, though.” Leaning so her arm just brushes his, she whispers earnestly, “Lionel, I’m a horrible …” She switches from Elvish to English. “Lightweight.” Wincing, she adds, “It’s an expression. It means I can’t hold my liquor, so I usually don’t drink at all.”

The night is cool, but with her body just barely grazing his, Lionel has felt warm all evening. It’s been a long time since a potential new lover has made him feel this awake. Maybe it is the storm clouds brewing in his future, giving their interactions extra weight? Trying to keep the moment light, Lionel cocks an eyebrow and looks pointedly at the tankards of various ales that have accumulated near her seat at the table. Tara had politely taken a tiny sip of each one … and not a drop more. “I’d noticed that,” he says.

“I don’t want to offend anyone!” she says, putting a hand over her mouth and glancing around the table in obvious distress.

He wouldn’t care if she offended the entire lot. They were playing a “guess Tara’s name game” all through dinner. Thankfully, in his village, most interactions between humans occurred with humans from Scotland. Lupita, he takes it, is a name of Spanish origins.

Around them, people start to get up and take away the dishes. Rolleim, plates in hand, pauses by Tara and grins. “Drunk enough to tell me your name yet?”

Giving a tight smile, Tara puts the wine down and scoots the glass away with a finger. “Nope.”

The noise that comes out of Lionel’s mouth is a low hiss.

Rolleim sneers. “Come off it, Lionel. She’s obviously not drunk, and I was obviously teasing.”

Lionel’s eyes narrow. It’s obvious by his flushed face that Rolleim has been drinking. The fact he’s talking to Lionel is also a clue. Before the meal, he hadn’t even looked in Lionel’s direction.

His once friend cocks his head. “Oh … maybe it’s because you’re a half-breed. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Lionel feels his cheeks heat. Jealousy for a soulmate is barely acceptable after marriage; jealousy for someone else is deviancy, savagery, and a hallmark of the lesser races.

Kalee calls Rolleim’s name. Giving Lionel a smug smile, Rolleim slips off.

“You were being protective, not jealous,” Tara murmurs, shaking her head.

Lionel feels a weight lift from his chest at her words. She touches his arm, and he can’t help catching her fingers with his own. It’s automatic, like when he’s played games of romance and seduction at court, but he doesn't feel like he’s playing.

“What are they doing over there?” Tara asks, craning her neck.

Peering in the direction she indicates, he smiles. “Oh, they’re getting out their instruments. As soon as the table is cleared, they’ll rearrange the square for dancing.” Turning to her, he pats her hand. “I’m sure there will be a waltz.”

He expects a smile. Instead Tara’s eyes are wide, and her lips are parted in a look of mild horror.

“What?” says Lionel.

“Will they expect me to waltz?” Tara asks.

“Well, yes, don’t you like to?” Lionel asks, feeling a frisson of tension along the back of his neck. He’d thought a waltz would make her pleased. It shows the goodwill of his people—how they respect her culture and don’t mean to be cruel by stealing her name.

“It’s not a matter of like,” says Tara. “It’s that I can’t. I never learned how. That dance is over a hundred years old and I’m”—she raises her hands—“… not.”

Lionel draws back. Tara has handled being kidnapped, dragged to another world, imprisoned, and trekking through a dangerous swamp with remarkable grace. She released him from a life debt with a pinky promise, and offered sympathy when his own people … or those he thought were his own … had not. He had put it out of his mind that she is younger. Curious, he leans forward. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine?”

The way she whispers it, it sounds like a question. He draws back. Lionel thinks it is a testament of his refinement, of his non-savagery, that he doesn’t let his shock show. His eyes slide to the two children of his village, playing a game in the dirt with rounded stones. They’re slightly older than she is. His fingers, still covering hers, slide away. All evening he’s been picturing them eventually falling together in the guest cottage … His attraction to her isn’t like the lechers among the nobility that violate children … Still.

Twenty-nine.

He hears Tara gulp.

Recovering his manners, he turns back to her. “The basic steps aren’t hard. Come on, I’ll show you.” Taking her hand, he gives a smile that he hopes is more friendly than seductive, and leads her from the long benches by the table. He sees the light on in his mother’s kitchen; she’s probably helping with the cleanup. There will be light there, and his mother won’t laugh at Tara’s first steps—at least not unkindly. His mother will also keep him from being a … it’s not right to think of himself as a predator, he reminds himself. She is an adult among her kind.

Still … twenty-nine.

He leads her into his mother’s home. Like Kalee’s and Jaben’s, there is a large room that serves as kitchen, dining room, and sitting area. It isn’t as large as he remembers. As he suspected, his mother is doing dishes from the feast. Dropping Tara’s hand, he quickly rolls up the rug in the sitting area, exposing the stone floor beneath, worn smooth with the centuries.

“What are you doing, Lionel?” his mother exclaims.

“Teaching Tara to waltz,” Lionel says.

“But it’s a human dance!” his mother protests.

By the door, Tara wrings her hands. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, ma’am.”

Hoping to ease her discomfort, Lionel explains it the quickest way possible. “Mother, Tara is only twenty-nine years old.”

Certainly, he hadn’t known the waltz at that age.

His mother’s eyes go wide. Tara … well, a look he can’t decipher flits across her face, but then she just smiles sadly and nods. “Yes, only twenty-nine.”

“Oh,” says Lionel’s mother.

Lionel takes Tara’s hand and pulls her to the open space on the floor. He lifts his hands, and she steps into his arms and puts her hands in the correct location. “I know this much,” she says. His eyes fall on her lips.

“Twenty-nine,” whispers his mother in a voice of disbelief.

“Right,” says Lionel. He looks away and quickly leads her through the steps. Tara picks them up quickly, but even more than that, she doesn’t fight his lead, and her body moves easily with his.

“You know how to follow,” Lionel says.

“Stepping, merengue, and salsa,” she says. “I do know those.”

Lionel shakes his head, remembering his meal on her world. “The first are gibberish … the third, I have no idea what that particular condiment has to do with the waltz.”

Outside, someone tunes a lute.

Tara’s lips purse.

“I think we’re ready for the rhythm,” say his mother, and she begins clapping her hands. Remembering the waltz Tara played for him in Chicago, Lionel begins to whistle. He’s only a few bars in when she fumbles over his feet. Recovering, she looks up at him with wide eyes. “That’s the waltz I played for you in Chicago.”

“Yes,” he says.

“You’re whistling it perfectly!” she gasps.

“Music is something all my people are good at,” he says without thinking, and then feels the air rush out of his lungs and his limbs go cold. Elves love music … he’s not sure about Asgardians.

“Both sets of my people claim to be naturally musical,” she huffs. “And both sides claim to be the best at it; it was a running argument in our house. But I don’t think I could whistle something I’ve heard once so perfectly.”

Lionel blinks. She’s not a half-breed; she’s completely human. He’s about to say something to that effect when he remembers Hannah, Abraham, and their little boy—the three humans he met as a child on Midgard, and how they were treated by their fellow humans. Einherjar staying at the palace had explained to him the concept of “racism.” Even if every other species sees humans as one race, they see themselves as separate races. Tara’s mother obviously has ancestors who hail from the center of Earth’s western continent. Her father, if it had been her father in the pictures he’d seen, had ancestors from Africa.

Lionel momentarily loses the beat, remembering her hand touching his when his neighbors had called him “half-breed.” It hadn’t been some brilliant strike of inspiration; her empathy had been hard won.

“Am I doing something wrong?” Tara asks.

Giving a little shake, Lionel says, “No. Let’s work on a turn.” He catches the rhythm again and spins her out.

She turns gracefully back into his arms as though she’s been waltzing for much longer than five minutes.

Only twenty-nine, and already she’s lived so much.

The notes of a waltz swirl around Tara. The music is played on a sort of harp, a lute, a flute, and a hand drum. She wonders if they might be magical because they have much better acoustics than she would have imagined. A firm hand rests on her back, and another grips her hand. The handsome elf in front of her, Jaben, smiles as he leads her through the steps.

She tells herself that she’s glad he isn’t Lionel. She’d sensed how quickly Lionel’s ardor cooled when he discovered her age, and that’s obviously not going anywhere. Luckily, every elf in the village, and a few from neighboring villages, has wanted to dance with her, making her feel like a princess—or, as one of the little boys said, “A Valkyrie princess!” Before every dance, Lionel had insisted she extract a promise from each partner not to try to get her real name, and it’s worked.

The music rises in volume, and Jaben, just a few inches shorter than her, with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, leans toward her ear. “How long does it take to fly by aeroplane to Scotland from Chicago? A week? A few days?”

Tara nearly loses her balance, remembering Jaben’s wife’s comments on the MacGregors. But leaning in, she whispers back, “I think it is about six hours, but you may have to stop in London … maybe eight?”

“Hours …” whispers Jaben.

Tara feels a little dizzy. He’s planning on going to Earth. “Are you planning on leaving soon? Could you get me to the Chicago World Gate?”

Jaben leans in and whispers so close his breath tickles her ear. “The queen’s forces and the Dark Elves are still fighting for the World Gate. Her Majesty's forces are currently laying siege. No one can get in or out. Kalee and I are going to join the fight on the side of the Dark Elves.”

Tara swallows.

“Don’t worry, girl!” Jaben says, squeezing her hand. “The queen will see you home. If not through that gate, then another. She knows of many and won’t need to send you through a war zone.”

Tara shivers. She doesn’t feel very reassured. She bites her lip. And why is she asking? After the stunt she pulled with Lionel, the Dark Elves aren’t going to let her go through their gate.

The music slows and comes to a stop. Releasing her, Jaben bows. Before he’s even stepped away, Tara feels Lionel at her shoulder. He may not be romantically interested in her, but he’s kept his promise to look out for her.

Jaben eyes Lionel, smirks, and says to Tara, “Thank you for dancing with me.” With that, he scampers off. The musicians start putting away their instruments. Elves come up to her and wish her good night, to thank her for dancing with them, and to tell her how well she did at the Elvish reel—it hasn’t all been waltzing, but it has been really fun. One little Elven woman cries, “I never thought I’d live to see a real human!” Which makes Tara grin ear to ear. She can see why a fellow might stay here for fifty years … but she has to get home to her mother.

Besides the constant pesky attempts to get her name, the only thing that is uncomfortable is the way they treat Lionel. It had taken large quantities of alcohol for them to even look at him.

“It’s late,” he says as the crowd disperses. “Shall I show you to the guest cottage?”

The guest house is within sight, but Tara sees Rolleim in that general direction. She hadn’t gotten an oath of no-name-extracting from him. “I’d like that,” she says.

Lionel leads her toward the little cottage. In the fading glow of the bug lights, Tara sees Rolleim examine Lionel through narrowed eyes. Apparently deciding he doesn’t like what he sees, he vanishes into the shadows.

They pass a little house with the window open and a man says, “It’s cold, let’s close the shutters.” Which makes Tara look, and then her eyes cross as a naked woman reaches out to close a shutter. Behind her is a man also without clothes, and he is obviously rarin’ to go. They both wave cheerfully at her. “Good night, Tara of Chicago,” they exclaim before the shutters shut.

“Elves aren’t modest,” Lionel whispers. “But they mean no harm.”

“Oh, I know they didn’t mean anything by it,” she whispers. “I was just surprised.” She almost says, “When in Alfheim, do as elves do,” but she doesn’t think she’s ready to do as they just did. “And not offended,” she says instead.

Lionel smiles at her. They reach the cottage and he says, “Would you like me to help you start the fireplace?”

The night is chilly, but instead of saying yes, she says, “If I’m going to sleep, won’t that just be wasted effort? I mean … the sparks …” She’s stalling. She’d like to see more of him, even it is just to talk, and since he found out her age, that seems all it will be. Only talking will be … nice, she tells herself.

“They’re magic. The sparks won’t jump out and catch the house on fire,” he says. “And it’s no effort.”

Tara melts. “Yes, please then.”

They go into the little cottage and Lionel raises his hand and the fire in the hearth of the common area lights up. A few quick steps, and he vanishes into the bedroom. Tara doesn’t follow. She hears a whoosh and sees the glow of flames.

Lionel emerges from the room and asks, “Are you tired?”

“Not really,” she admits. Although she wonders if it is just him being here that’s giving her a charge.

“I’ll make tea,” he says, and goes over to the fireplace and swings a kettle on a lever into the flame. For the first time, Tara notices a little tray with teacups nearby. Kings need tea, apparently, even if they don’t need a kitchen. She sits a little uncomfortably on one edge of an overstuffed sofa.

Lionel comes over to the sitting area. He skips the sofa, and looks at the heavy chair that is directly to Tara’s right that looks almost like a throne. Lionel frowns at it, as though some unpleasant memory still sits there, and sits down on the ottoman in front of Tara instead.

“I wish I had a little gray box that could play all sorts of music for you,” he says.

Tara smiles at his joke. “A computer,” she says in English.

He smiles back. “Gibberish.”

Flames in the fireplace crackle, and the silence between them feels uncomfortable. She wonders what he’s doing here, but doesn’t want to ask, because maybe then he’d go and she doesn’t want that. He’s funny and kind, and has looked out for her here, just as she did for him on Earth, she supposes. After tomorrow they’ll never see each other again, and that thought hurts.

Lionel’s so close she’d only have to lean a little bit forward to kiss him. But he’s looking at the chair again, glaring at it as though admonishing it for spying on them. Who knows, it could be a magical chair, and it could be spying on him.

But the silence feels more oppressive than just a nosy magical chair. She almost asks him if something is wrong … and then realizes that he’s come home to be called “half-breed” and something in their journey made him grow and changed him painfully. Of course something is wrong.

“What will you do?” Tara blurts out instead.

Lionel’s gaze meets hers.

Tara waves a hand at him. “I mean, you’ve changed … and I don’t really understand why … but I know that it hurt.” Physically and emotionally.

Lionel rubs his jaw. “I will have some trouble.” He takes a deep breath, pulls the key chain around his wrist out from under his shirt, and clasps it tightly in his hand. “I’ll never be the steward to the queen again.”

“Because you’re … not full elf?”

Lionel shrugs. “It’s more complicated than that.” He sighs. “I realize that as a magician, even a minor one as you say you are, that you might not think that being a steward is a great vocation, but I liked it. Yes, there were a lot of tedious chores, but working for the queen, I met people from every realm.” He picks at the keychain. “My placement was interesting, if not particularly grand.”

Tara swallows. She actually understands him perfectly. “My placement … as a minor magician …” She smiles at the job title he’s given her. “Is interesting … if not particularly grand.” Lionel’s eyes come back to her and she looks down at her hands.

“I never could decide on what to be,” Tara admits. “As a minor magician, well … I get to be a little bit of everything. Cleaning viruses off of people’s computers can be tedious, especially when it’s the same virus over and over and it is the same cat GIF.”

Lionel blinks at that, and he mouths the word gibberish.

Smiling bashfully, Tara soldiers on. “But I also create devices to help detect dark energy, and I knew what that magic-blocking wire was based on conversations I’ve overheard from Dr. Eisenberg.” Leaning forward, she whispers. “I don’t think I was actually supposed to overhear, but I did.”

Lionel grins. “Some of my magical abilities, like becoming invisible and creating illusions, I’m not supposed to know, but do because I overhear things.” He winks. “Those are skills that lords and ladies don’t like their servants knowing.”

Tara snickers. She can imagine servants are supposed to be figuratively invisible, not literally.

“I have access to the queen’s library, too, so I know many other things I’m not supposed to know. It’s how I know things about Abrahamic religions.” Shrugging, he adds, “I like learning about everything.”

“That’s why I’m only a minor magician!” Tara says. “There are so many things I could have been—”

“You were allowed to choose?” Lionel asks, sounding startled.

Nodding, Tara says, “But I like everything too much to focus on one thing. My job is so varied. I fix things, I build things, sometimes I even write press releases for Dr. Eisenberg when he wants something in ‘plain English.’ I may only be a minor magician, but I have more than I need, and I like it.” She just doesn’t have everything she wants—like someone to share her life with.

The teapot whistles and Lionel gets up and returns minutes later with cups of something steaming and fragrant. Tara holds hers in both hands, letting the warmth spread to her fingers. “What will you do?” she asks.

Sitting back down, Lionel says, “I … there will be options.” He swallows. “If not here, then maybe among my father’s people.” Tilting his head, he appraises her. “You have choices,” Lionel says. “Perhaps that explains it