"Saintess."
She flinched at the gentle address. "Y-yes?"
He angled his gaze to the canopy overhead, where slivers of starlight threaded between leaves. "Please don't be nervous."
The directness stole her reply. "...Excuse me?"
A breath of amusement curved his mouth. "Ah. Just speaking to myself." He skimmed a fingertip around the rim of his cup. "I tend to forget I'm not alone in my head sometimes."
Heat prickled across her neck—part surprise, part odd delight. He's trying to ease me again. She allowed a small laugh, more airy than she intended. "Well then, I shall pretend I didn't hear it either."
Steam drifted between them, fragrant with moonpetal and cedar bark. She watched him lift his cup again: the measured way he inhaled the aroma, the patient sip that followed. It struck her he employed the same respectful care he'd shown rare beetle specimens earlier—except now the object of scrutiny was tea. Or her. It was hard to tell.
