Because Lorre was himself, he couldn’t not be dramatic. He liked indulgences and tropical fruit and sapphires in his hair; he enjoyed knowing he’d added beauty to the world, artistry, luxury.

He did wonder, the evening before the day Gareth had said was their anniversary, whether he’d gone a hairsbreadth too far. Gareth had taken one step out of air and into the most luxurious river-palace inn in all of Averene, had stared at the room and the overflowing heaps of indigo roses and sugar-iced strawberries and pearl-dust sparkling wine, and had turned to look at him. Slowly.

“You like flowers,” Lorre said. It was true; they both recalled flirtation over wildflowers, on a mountain road. “And strawberries because you say I taste like that, sometimes, when you --”

Gareth put a hand up. Lorre stopped talking.

Gareth waved the hand around: at the intricate marble carvings of the ceiling and columns, the decadent heap of bedding, the glorious river view out across the curve of the Ardent, here at the heart of the Isle of Averene. This particular room was the most expensive, in the most exclusive of the river-properties for hire, the ones that had once been summer homes or city escapes for the wealthy barons and baronesses with their country estates. Lorre had dropped in the day before while Gareth was sleeping the sleep of a very satisfied human beloved, had waved a lot of old-fashioned but perfectly good gold at the proprietress, and had smiled at her in a not-entirely-intimidating way.

He didn’t think he’d been intimidating. Of course she’d known who he was; having the Scourge of Penth and Dragon of Averene walk out of thin air into one’s office, while one was doing one’s accounts, was a fairly indisputable encounter with myth. But she’d happily taken his sea-chest antique coins.

Gareth did the little wordless hand-wave again, between roses and wine and dishes of berries. His hair was coming loose from its tie, autumn forests escaping with crinkled glee. “You did say you wanted to surprise me ...”

“I’d’ve planned it for tomorrow, but we also have tickets for the King’s Theatre tonight, and even I wouldn’t ask them to reschedule the entire performance?”

Gareth, in simple linen shirt and plain trousers, barefoot and sand-brushed because they’d been down on a tropical beach at sunset moments before, said, “Lorre ...”

“They’re doing The Star and the North Wind, and you love history and folklore. And everyone says this production is splendid.”

“I do love that play. The adaptation of the old Winter Empire legend cycle, about the prince of the mountain and the air, and the impossible task, and the fetching of the star ...” Gareth glanced around again. Laughed in the way of someone surprised at his own surprise, and pleased, overall. “You do surprise me. All the time.”

“Because I remember what you like? I told you once you were memorable.” He wanted to put his arms around his prince; he wasn’t sure, and he did not like being unsure. The harp strings of the world lay quiet: no hints, and equally no disasters, no volcanoes, no terrible threats looming, as far as all Lorre’s extensive senses could tell.

His own hair, unbound and blond and straight, slid into his face; the open window held an evening breeze. His loosely tied robe held layers of pale violet and cerulean, diaphanous, designed for prettiness instead of protection: tantalizing Gareth during a stroll across shell-dusted sands.

“I know you remember.” Gareth moved to the window, leaned out, interested by the world; Lorre’s heart ached with hope, especially when his prince turned and held out a hand. “Come look at this, that view ...”

Lorre joined him, perched in the curve of the window-seat, tucked into Gareth’s arm. “It’s the best in the Isle.”

“Of course it is.” Gareth’s grin lit the corners of his eyes, and the river below. “When Dan and I were down here, for those couple years at the University, we used to wonder about the people who could afford these palaces. Who built them, and who would stay in them now. Never thought I would.”

“You are a prince. Even if the Marches mostly farm goats and cheese and rocks.”

“Your farm boy,” Gareth said contentedly. His brother Ardan, of course, was a very good king, and the winner of multiple baking-related ribbons at local mountain fairs. “But, Lorre ... how’d you know? That I might like this?”

It’d been a guess, but he’d felt confident. He’d seen many courts and courtiers and lavish gift-giving, over the years. He hadn’t known the part about University-student Gareth contemplating centuries-old river-palaces, but he’d known Gareth liked history and books and stories, and though they’d wandered wild gardens and oceans and hills so far, they had not yet spent a night in extravagant central city indulgence, from this room to the theatre to the fabulous late-night supper he’d also arranged.

He had not asked for help. He had not asked Gareth’s brother, up in the firelit shaggy-sheepdog mountain hall; he had not asked his own former lover, the new Grand Sorceress, in the efficient airy towers of the new Magicians’ School, even though they were at the moment in the same city, more or less. Both Dan and Lily were busy living responsible and thoroughly full lives, and Lorre had not wanted to ask.

He’d not wanted to have to ask. As if he couldn’t do this, couldn’t make Gareth happy. “Do you like it, though?”