“I knew she was a seamstress,” he said, “but how come I’ve never seen this special blanket of yours?”
“I was embarrassed to tell you about it.”
He laughed, but when Winter didn’t join him, the sound fizzled away. “Really?”
Winter shrugged, grinning her impish grin. “It’s silly, isn’t it? Holding on to a baby blanket, of all things?” She took in a deep breath. “But it’s also my namesake. She embroidered a scene from Earth’s winter, with snow and leafless trees and a pair of little red mittens. Those are like gloves, but with all the fingers joined together.”
Jacin shook his head. “Embarrassed to show me. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Fine. I’ll show you, if you want to see it.”
“Of course I want to see it.” He was surprised how much her confession stung. He and Winter had shared everything since they were kids. It had never occurred to him she might harbor something like this, especially something so important as a gift from her mother, who had died in childbirth. But his mood brightened when he remembered—“Did I tell you I saw snow when I was on Earth?”
Winter stopped walking, her eyes going wide. “Real snow?”
“We had to hide the spaceship in Siberia, on this enormous tundra.”
She was staring at him like she would tackle him if he didn’t offer up more details.
Smirking, Jacin hooked his thumbs over his belt and rocked back on his heels. “That was all.”
Winter smacked him in the chest. “That is not all. What was it like?”
He shrugged. “White. Blinding. And really cold.”
“Did it glisten like diamonds?”
“Sometimes. When the sun hit it right.”
“What did it smell like?”
He cringed. “I don’t know, Win—Princess. Sort of like ice, I guess. I didn’t spend much time outside. Mostly we were stuck on the ship.”
Her gaze flickered with the almost slip of her name, something like disappointment that gave Jacin a shot of guilt.
So he smacked her back lightly on the shoulder. “Your parents did well. You’re named after something beautiful. It’s fitting.”
“Winter,” she whispered. Her expression turned speculative, the lights from a dress shop highlighting the specks of gray in her eyes.
Jacin tried not to be awkward when he looked away. There were times when she stood so close that he was amazed at his own ability to keep his hands to himself.
Moving the basket to her other arm, Winter started walking again. “Not everyone thinks I’m beautiful.”
He scoffed. “Whoever told you that, they were lying. Or jealous. Probably both.”
“You don’t think I’m beautiful.”
He snorted—somewhat uncontrollably—and laughed harder when she glared at him.
“That’s funny?”
Schooling his expression, he mimicked her glare. “Keep saying things like that and people will start to think you’ve gone crazy.”
She opened her mouth to refute. Hesitated. Nearly ran into a wall before Jacin scooped her back into the center of the narrow alley.
“You’ve never once called me beautiful,” she said after his hand had fallen back to his side.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you have an entire country of people singing your praises. Did you know they write poetry about you in the outer sectors? I had to listen to this drunk sing a whole ballad a few months back, all about your goddess-like perfection. I’m pretty sure the galaxy doesn’t need my input on the matter.”
She ducked her head, hiding her face behind a cascade of hair. Which was just as well. Jacin’s cheeks had gone warm, which made him both self-conscious and irritated.
“Your input is the only input that matters,” she whispered.
He stiffened, cutting a glance to her that she didn’t return. It occurred to him that he may have led them into a topic he had no intentions of exploring further. Fantasies, sure. Wishes, all the time. But reality? No—this was taboo. This would end in nothing good.
She was a princess. Her stepmother was a tyrant who would marry Winter off to someone who was politically beneficial for her own desires.
Jacin was the opposite of politically beneficial.
But here they were, and there she was looking all pretty and rejected, and why had he opened his big, stupid mouth?
Jacin sighed, exasperated. With her. With himself. With this whole situation. “Come on, Princess. You know how I feel about you. Everyone knows how I feel about you.”
Winter stopped again, but he kept walking, shaking his finger over his shoulder. “I’m not saying these things and looking at you at the same time, so keep up.”
She scurried after him. “How do you feel about me?”
“No. That’s it. That’s all I’m saying. I am your guard. I am here to protect you and keep you out of trouble, and that’s it. We are not swapping words that will result in a whole lot of awkward nights standing outside your bedroom door, got it?”
He was surprised at how angry he sounded—no, how angry he felt. Because it was impossible. It was impossible and unfair, and he had spent too many years in the trenches of unfairness to get riled up about it now.
Winter strode beside him, her fingers clenched around the basket handle. At least she wasn’t trying to catch his eye anymore, which was a small mercy.
“I do know how you feel about me,” she finally said, and it sounded like a confession. “I know that you are my guard, and you are my best friend. I know you would die for me. And I know that should that ever happen, I would die immediately after.”