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When the business with Simeon is all done, and Tressa's lying in bed at the Everhold inn, Primrose's words echo in her head:
"Why, if I were a man, I'd marry you in a heartbeat."
She was teasing, Tressa reminds herself. Primrose always gets that glint in her eyes when she's teasing (Tressa should know; Primrose teases her enough). She was teasing, and if her laugh was a little too bright this time, if there was sadness underneath it, well—Simeon was the dear childhood friend Primrose had a special kinship with, wasn't he? And then he turned on her like that. Of course she's sad. Some people would be falling apart if they'd been through half as much as Primrose has in her life.
If there was wistfulness there, it wasn't about marrying Tressa. Even if she sounded, for a heart-stopping moment, like she meant it.
She couldn't have meant it. Prim… she's a flirt, a charmer. Which isn't a bad thing, but she reminds Tressa of Ali, a little: Primrose makes people feel about themselves the way Ali makes people feel about his wares. Like they're special, like she's seen some hidden treasure behind their eyes or under their skin and it only needs her hands to reach out and give it a polish and… ahem. Tressa shies away from that line of thought; her cheeks feel like they're bright as candles, and she pulls the woolen blanket up to hide her embarrassment from the dark. Primrose's hands are as graceful as the rest of her, yes, but there's no reason to be—to be all flustered from thinking about them. Tressa's sharing a room with her; she doesn't need to be thinking like this.
(Not that Tressa can ever quite stop thinking about Primrose like this, but usually the thoughts are a little easier to squash. Usually she doesn't have Primrose's voice in her head: I'd marry you in a heartbeat.)
It's just a good thing Primrose hasn't come up to bed yet, because Tressa thinks if Primrose were there, Tressa's face would be burning even hotter. How she'd tease, if she knew.
Tressa lies awake for a while, curled up on her side and watching shadows cast by moonlight move across the floor, and Primrose still doesn't come back to the room.
At last Tressa gets up, and pulls her dress and boots back on over her sleeping shift, and slips quietly out the door and down the stairs. Primrose is probably just at the tavern with some of the others, but with everything that's happened to her recently, it seems best to make sure she's all right. As all right as she can be right now, at least.
Primrose isn't at the tavern. She's outside the inn, leaning against the low wall, staring off towards the theater. She glances around as Tressa draws near. "Oh, it's you, Tressa," she says, voice distant. "Hello."
"You didn't come up to bed," Tressa says, then feels her face flush at the obviousness of that statement. "Would you rather I left you alone?"
"No." Primrose tilts her head. "No, stay, if you don't mind. I—I only ask we don't talk about Simeon, but I could do with a distraction."
"All right." Tressa steps up to Primrose's side, leans her elbows against the wall, shuts her eyes and feels the night breeze against her face. "The wind's coming in from the desert," she says, and takes a deep, deep breath, filling her lungs with it. "I think I can smell the burning sand, can't you? And the sagebrush."
Primrose laughs, the sound rippling as a river. "I think your nose is better than mine." But she breathes in deeply, and lets out a soft, pleased hum.
"A head for numbers and a nose for treasure," Tressa says. "I may not have your grace, but I can sniff out a deal like anything."
Primrose glances sidelong at her. "You have your own kind of grace, Tressa. Don't sell yourself short."
Tressa blinks. She was expecting teasing. "The utterly transparent kind?"
"The honest kind," Primrose says quietly. "You carried yourself beautifully and bravely on stage at the auction, in the face of an entirely hostile crowd. I couldn't have done what you did."
Tressa blinks. "That was different. I just—I just told my story."
Primrose grins and reaches out and taps the tip of Tressa's nose with one finger. "That's why I said the honest kind, silly." She pauses, grin fading. "I meant what I said earlier, you know."
Tressa's pulse quickens, and her breath catches in her throat. "About what?"
"You'll find someone," Primrose says, and Tressa looks away for a moment, so that Primrose won't see her shutting her eyes and biting her lip and thinking that she was foolish to hope Primrose meant something else.
"If you ever find yourself wanting any help in that direction," Primrose adds, gently, "I hope—" Does her voice catch for an instant? No, of course it doesn't; that's Tressa wishing, too. "I hope you know I'm always here. Not that you should need my help—in a just world, any sensible man would see what a catch you are—but they don't always know what's good for them."
The honest kind. Tressa takes another breath of the cool mountain air, the faintest hint of desert spices beneath it, and a strange, bold urge pulses through her. "What if—" She presses her palms against the flat stone top of the wall, steadying herself. "What if I don't want a man?"
A small, rueful chuckle. "It doesn't have to be right this instant, dearest. I said always. A year from now, or ten years from now, or twenty—"
"No, I mean—" Another breath, another. Steady. You're not a child, Tressa reminds herself sternly. "I have watched you flirt, Prim. I mean—you catch the women just as quick as the men, don't you?"
Silence, and then a very soft: "Oh."
Tressa swallows and turns to face her. "So what if—what if that's what I want?"
For once in her life, she thinks she's actually knocked Primrose off balance, but Primrose recovers quickly and looks her up and down with a new light in her eyes, bright and curious and now—now there is something wistful there, just for a moment. It takes Tressa's breath away. "Then whatever girl you set your eye on," Primrose says, "is very lucky, and I hope she sees it that way herself." The teasing returns to her tone. "And you've been holding out on me—what was it you said the other day? 'Oh, I suppose I like a man who never returns the goods he's paid for.' Ha!" Primrose's hand darts out to tickle Tressa's ribs, and Tressa yelps in surprise, squirming and jumping away.
"So come on, then," Primrose adds as Tressa gets her breath back. "Details. Is there a particular girl you're fond of?"
"I—" Tressa can feel her face burning, and not just from the tickling. You got on stage and faced a crowd, she tells herself, and told them about your journal as they laughed at you, and you did it with your head held high. You can do this.
But that was for Noa. Even if everyone else laughed, it was easier when she knew she was saying words that one person—the one who mattered—wanted to hear. "There might be a, a woman," Tressa manages, and even that much feels like she's trying to keep her voice from squeaking.
"Oh, I see. Older than you, is she?"
"Only a bit," Tressa says quickly.
"Hmm. How much is a bit?"
I don't know, how old are you, Prim? Tressa can't say it; she thinks she's used up her stock of boldness for tonight. "Only a couple of years, really. And she likes women, I think, but I think she'd turn me down. Even though she's only a little older, I'm a child in her eyes, I think."
Primrose reaches out to ruffle her hair, and Tressa hopes desperately that she can't feel the heat rising off Tressa's skin. "Oh, dear. Is that why you're always so prickly about it when I call you little?"
"I'm not prickly," Tressa protests, and then hears the indignation in her own voice. Her shoulders slump, and she leans forward, folding her arms on the wall and resting her chin on them. "Maybe," she mumbles.
"Well." Primrose sighs, her voice softening. "I never meant it cruelly; you're small but fierce, dear one. Picture yourself a little falcon, perhaps? Swift and keen-eyed and deadly?"
Tressa manages a laugh, and hopes her embarrassment doesn't show as she stands back up. She never meant for Primrose to be comforting her, after everything that's just happened. She never should have started this conversation at all. "I'll try," she manages.
Primrose smiles. "So tell me more about this woman. I heard a lot of I think in what you said. What do you know about her?"
"I… oh." Tressa stares down at her hands, her throat thickening. "She's beautiful, and she's brave, and she's strong, and she's… she's been through a lot." She hesitates, afraid the truth is showing through in every word, afraid Primrose will hear and laugh—or worse, flinch away—but Primrose is only watching her, gaze soft. Emboldened, Tressa adds, "She deserves good things. She's been through so much to make her sad, but she likes to tease and laugh to hide it, at least when I'm around. I think she doesn't—doesn't think I can handle the bad."
"Ah," Primrose says, very quietly, and for a moment Tressa's petrified, certain she's said too much, certain she's given herself away, certain she's being utterly transparent. Then Primrose offers, "Maybe she just wants to see you as happy as you want to see her, and she fears that burdening you with her troubles will endanger that."
Tressa's chin jerks up, and she bites her lip, doesn't dare look Primrose in the eyes. "You really think so?"
"I think it's often the way," Primrose says gently. "As for your fear she'll turn you down—you don't have to rush into things, you know. You're friends? You could start small, little steps towards romance, see if she's willing to take them with you. Dinner, or ask her to dance sometime when there's a tune playing."
Tressa still doesn't think she entirely understands what's supposed to be romantic about eating together, and anyway, she eats with Primrose all the time. "I don't know how to dance," she says. "Not well."
Primrose just gives her a long, level look at this, like she's being slow.
Tressa swallows, heart in her throat. "Would you teach me?"
"Oh, I suppose," Primrose says airily, and winks.
In the morning there are travel plans to make. Primrose wants to visit her father's grave at last, and Cyrus is on his way back up to Atlasdam and he's convinced Alfyn he should come have a look in the library for information about a curious herb he found growing on the edge of the desert on their way into the mountains, and there's a trading opportunity Tressa wants to pursue up in the Flatlands, so the four of them agree to make their way north while the others head west for Riverford to help Olberic look into things there.
Tressa's gotten so used to the climbs by now that she barely notices the slope, and she's glad of that when they stop to make camp for the night, because as soon as they've eaten and everyone's settled, Primrose wraps her fingers around Tressa's wrist and says: "Come on, then."
Tressa's heart skips. "Where are we going?"
"Lessons," Primrose says. "You wanted them, didn't you?"
Tressa gulps and nods. She's been turning last night's conversation over and over and over in her mind as they hiked, worrying at it. She wants to dance with Primrose—oh, she wantsto—but what if she's terrible at it, what if Prim laughs at her, what if…? And she's not exactly being the honest kind now, is she? Not that she lied—nothing she said was a lie last night—but Primrose thinks this is all because Tressa's in love with some girl back in Rippletide, not with Primrose herself, and that's sort of an important misunderstanding under the circumstances. If Tressa pictures herself a merchant of gossip and Primrose a buyer of it in last night's conversation, there was definitely some misrepresentation of the merchandise going on.
But—you need to forget about trading for a bit, Primrose told her when they all talked of romance, so maybe—maybe it's not that straightforward. And Tressa remembers the wistfulness in Primrose's eyes when Tressa said she wanted a woman, not a man. Remembers that for a moment, when Primrose said I'd marry you, she sounded like she meant it.
Even if Tressa does think of this like trading, this isn't a business where she's going to try to sell someone something they don't want. And maybe if she spends time dancing with Primrose, she'll be able to find out if it is something Primrose wants, and if it isn't, well, Primrose never needs to know that Tressa wondered.
It's not dishonesty, she tells herself firmly. It's market research. And so she follows Primrose away from the camp.
"What you need to do," Primrose says, "is learn to lead. It's not as much fun, when you're starting out—but it's your young woman you want to be having fun, and if you're a good enough lead it won't matter too much if she knows her way around a dance floor or not."
"I think she knows a bit," Tressa manages faintly.
Prim only grins. "All the more important you're good, then."
Oh, Tressa thinks. Good. No pressure.
Prim chuckles, but not unkindly. "Don't look so petrified, dear. We'll start from the very basics, I promise. Now—do you know anything about the waltz?"
So the next days go: the weather is good, and they make their way through the Highlands at a steady pace, though slowed a bit because they're in no rush now and Alfyn and Cyrus have taken up a study of the plant life. Tressa finds she doesn't mind the delay, because every evening when camp has been made and a fire laid down and rations eaten, and Alfyn and Cyrus are settled in poring over their latest herbal finds and mixing them with things to see if they might explode, she and Primrose slip away to find a quiet level patch of ground out of sight of road and camp, and they dance.
Tressa's supposed to be learning to lead, but she and Primrose take turns at it so Tressa can see what both sides are like, see what she's supposed to be trying to do for her partner, and Tressa thinks that when Prim's leading she could follow forever. It's like being lifted up on the wind: Tressa could swear Primrose is barely touching her, the pressure of her fingertips on Tressa's hip or her shoulder gentler than a blown kiss, but somehow, with Primrose showing her the way, Tressa's feet find their way into patterns they would never manage on their own. The two of them whirl in dizzy spirals, laughing and light, and when their eyes meet Tressa thinks, in those moments, that she's never seen Primrose look so happy.
"You really do have a knack for this," Primrose says one night when they've stopped to catch their breath. "Not everyone does."
"I'm not so good at the other side, though," Tressa protests, trying not to glow at the compliment.
Primrose smiles her quiet smile. "It's not so easy to be the guide instead of the guided, dear, and you're not doing so badly. It takes practice."
Tressa bites her lip. "But it's so much fun when you lead. It doesn't seem fair that when we swap you're stuck with—with someone who's not as good."
And Primrose's smile curls further up at the corners. "Tressa, dear," she says gently. "In Sunshade it was my job to dance—not just on the stage, but with particularly well-paying patrons at the tavern, as enticement for them to keep paying, you understand? I've danced with many, many partners over the years. Some of them were quite good dancers." She reaches out, lightly brushes aside a wisp of hair that's fallen into Tressa's face, and Tressa's skin tingles where she touches. "Do you know how many of them ever worried whether I was having fun? Do you know how often I've gotten to dance with someone just because I wanted to?"
"Oh," Tressa says, very softly.
"I'm treasuring this," Primrose says. "I'm treasuring every moment of it."
So Tressa's just fine with them taking their time on the road.
But at last comes the day that they hear gulls, and Tressa smells salt on the breeze. From the ridge where they make camp that evening, they can see the ocean, and when she and Primrose have danced they flop down on the ground, tired and content, and watch the last drops of daylight rippling on the distant waters.
"We'll be passing through Rippletide in two days' time," Primrose says softly. "I haven't asked what you mean to do yet."
"What I mean to do?"
"You've stood by your friends far longer than you were ever obliged to, Tressa, but our travels—we're all finding the things we set out to. If you're thinking it's time you went home, you know none of us will blame you."
"As if I would," Tressa protests. "There's a world out there. There's treasure. There's…" She trails off. "Unless you'd rather I didn't come along."
"Dear one," Primrose says sternly. "I would be glad to travel with you for as long as you like; I couldn't ask for a stauncher companion. But I know how easily hearts can be pulled apart, and I don't want to see you torn. I know you've got your heart set on that deal, but what will you do if we stop over in Rippletide and you see your beautiful deserving young woman there, hm?"
Tressa meets her eyes. "I'll ask her to dance."
Primrose's smile gives away nothing. "And if she says yes?"
"Then we'll dance," Tressa says firmly. "And I think maybe—maybe after that, I'll be able to talk to her about how I feel. And if she doesn't feel the same, then that's—that's her right, and I'll leave it at that. If she does feel the same, well, we'll work things out from there. But you're the one who told me I didn't have to rush things, Prim. I'm nowhere near ready to settle down yet, and if—if I know her at all, I don't think she is either."
The Rippletide tavern is busy, sailors and fishermen and merchants all relaxing at the day's end. In the corner a trio of musicians are playing on pipes and lute and drums, and a few of the younger taverngoers have cleared space to dance.
Tressa takes a sip of her drink, and tries to calm her nerves.
Primrose leans in across the table. "Well? I've seen you scanning the room, but I haven't seen your eyes light on anyone in particular. Is she here?"
Tressa takes a deep breath, and nods.
"Well? Go on, then." And Tressa hopes—she hopes, she hopes—she's not misreading the note of melancholy underneath Primrose's encouraging tone. "You've got this."
Tressa stands up, and tries not to notice that her knees are shaking. She walks around the table.
She meets Primrose's eyes, and holds out her hand, and tries to keep her voice steadier than her legs currently feel. "Would you care for a dance, milady?"
Primrose's mouth falls open. After a moment she murmurs, very softly, "Oh, you sly little thing."
"I'm sorry," Tressa says, the words spilling out too quickly. "I never meant to lie to you, I only—first I didn't know how to ask, and then you thought I was talking about someone else, and then it was so lovely dancing with you that I didn't want to stop, and I—you did say you'd marry me, if you were a man, and I thought—"
"Tressa," Primrose interrupts her. "You asked me if I'd care to dance with you."
Tressa nods, and snaps her mouth shut, and gulps.
And Prim stands, and takes Tressa's hand, and smiles, blindingly bright. "Yes," she says. "I would. Of course I would."
She leans in, and lowers her voice: "And after that, you can talk to me about how you feel."
Feeling like she's soaring higher than a falcon on the wind, Tressa steps out, hand in hand with Primrose, onto the dance floor.