He smiled, laced his fingertips together, and sent his brightest smile around the table, giving them time to shiver and then recover themselves.

Informed slaves are obedient slaves…

Lord Arclath Delcastle came awake very suddenly, alert and tense, and far from his usual slow, languid surfacing amid warmth and silky, soft bedsheets. He had a feeling that he was rousing at his customary time, near dawn. His skylight was nowhere to be seen, though, and his face was quite cold. He felt badly cured fur against his cheek, and from around him came the smells of wood smoke and damp duskwood and And someone bare and warm and shapely was pressed against him, with her arms around him.

“R-rune?” he whispered, his eyes flying open.

He found himself staring into the face of his beloved. Amarune was holding him as they lay on their sides, legs entwined and arms around each other, noses almost touching. Her eyes were closed and stayed that way, her breathing soft, slow, and regular. Asleep.

Arclath remembered everything then, and hastily twisted up onto one elbow to look around the cabin. The brazier was out, but the hearth was lit, the teapot sitting atop the soot-blackened grate. He saw no sign of Storm.

Good. For the moment, at least, he and Rune were alone. He could speak freely.

He kissed her, gently but insistently. Her eyes snapped open; she’d obviously been feigning slumber.

“Mmmm?” she purred.

“Ah, Rune,” he whispered, “I-ah-love you very much and want to talk to you. Right now. While it’s just the two of us.”

“Ah,” Amarune told him with an impish smile, in the gruff tones of Elminster. “Ye young lordlings don’t waste your chances, do ye? Well enough, because I want to talk to ye, too. So, start spouting words, lad. ’Tis a new day, but growing older fast!”