I'm literally never going to stop screaming about Emmrich and Isolde, huh.
***
Idly, Isolde plucked the puffy little heads of clover from the lawn beside them and wove the flowers into each of Emmrich’s buttonholes. It wasn’t until she’d nestled the fourth into place that Emmrich noticed. He broke off his explanation of the particulars of routing magic through circuits.
“Ah, but I’ve gone on quite long enough about such tedious matters,” Emmrich said, and clearly began searching for a new topic of conversation.
“Tedious?” Isolde repeated, slipping another clover head in. “It’s very interesting.”
“Kind of you to say so,” Emmrich said, without any indication he believed her. “Does the mixed seasonality of Arlathan mean that you have access to all sorts of fruit year-round?”
“Yes, so long as we’re willing to travel for it,” Isolde said. “I was enjoying what you were saying. I like hearing you talk.”
“On the rare instances I remember to be brief, I’m sure,” Emmrich said with a self-conscious laugh. “You must be firm, Isolde, in telling me when I’ve spoken too long. I do forget myself.”
Isolde’s brow furrowed. It was clear he was dismissing her words entirely.
“Why would I do that? You always have such interesting things to say.”
This time it appeared to get through to him. Emmrich blinked a few times, his mouth hanging open.
“You—oh,” he said, gobsmacked.
He looked as openly shocked as he’d been at her insistence that she didn’t need a lavish picnic spread—so taken aback that it seemed he might never have heard another person say it. Isolde had a moment of scandalized indignation. Had his previous lovers abused Emmrich’s uncommon kindness and generosity, without even appreciating what an exceptional man he was?
Emmrich leaned forward, kissing Isolde gently. The delicate way he kissed, without any hint of heat, had been strange at first. But as Isolde was coming to find that she liked it, just as much as she liked his other idiosyncrasies. His way was surpassingly sweet; charming and tender, as if he’d plucked a flower and presented it to her.
When they broke apart, Isolde put a hand to his face, touching his cheek. As he had at the opera, Emmrich melted into the touch.
It was only as his eyes softened that Isolde realized she’d meant the gesture affectionately. She’d been ready, as for any other man, to make as if it meant nothing—an unimportant touch, without any particular feeling behind it. But Emmrich wasn’t a man to mock feelings. In the absence of the usual jeering and scorn, it was surprising just how different it felt to express how she liked him. Safe. Comfortable.
The contrast made a strange feeling rise in her stomach.
