Shera studied the shadowy crease between Armand’s eyebrows while he surveyed the tapestry hanging from her hands. Was he pleased? Surprised? Disgusted by her first vision of her own world?
Why had she chosen to weave a cornfield, anyway? It looked plain and blond surrounded by the rich curtains of Armand’s royal tent.
“There’s something I can’t quite discern,” he murmured.
“What?”
He fumbled behind him for the lantern and brought it close, his nose inches from the tapestry. Inches from her.
“What is this—“ His finger brushed the tapestry’s horizon and dizziness rushed through her. She stumbled as something stabbed her bare feet. The tent seemed to shrink around the lantern and Armand’s wide eyes. A crisp breeze lifted the black hair at his neck. Shera gasped as the wide sky appeared behind him, dark edged clouds scuttling around a pale orange moon.
A harvest moon.
Laughter echoed from across the field and they spun together. A bonfire snapped at the air, its sparks revealing a circle of
people sipping from mugs and talking loudly over each other.
Familiarity rushed over her, sweet as relief. Armand touched her hand and she jumped.
“Have you brought me to your home, Shera?”
She slid her fingers into his. “I think you did. Others have touched the tapestry and this never happened.”
“My royal blood?” he asked drily. His eyes flitted from the moon to the bonfire to the long dark of the field behind them.
“Come on.” She grinned and tugged him toward the fire.
He crunched slowly behind her, the lantern swaying light over their feet. “But how will we—I—get back?”
“We have looms here too.” She stopped and faced him. “It’ll be okay, Armand. Somehow, I’ll get you back to your people. I promise.”
He nodded, a spark of curiosity lighting his dark eyes. “But first, show me yours.”
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