He was himself no more in the lakes or ponds. Not after that night with the Cumans. No. More. Deep water. No more swimming. He swore it, and he stood there now, on the edge of the pond, where frog spawn bubbled in thick strings and the mud wrapped its cold fingers around his bare legs. To him, that was enough. That was a good morning. Or it would’ve been—if not for you.

You, of course, were in the middle of the pond. Standing there like a tündérleány, one of those fabled maidens from the old songs, the kind said to pull men into their doom with nothing more than a smile. And indeed, you looked the part. Water dripping from your hair, sunlight bending over your shoulders, and laughter spilling out of your mouth like a goblet tipped too fast. You didn’t just step into the pond—you ran, you leapt, as if you were made for mocking him. Mocking his absolute incapability to swim.

The chase had begun long before you ever touched the water. It had started in the castle, when the bedsheets were still tangled and warm. It spilled into the fields, past the guards who raised their brows and half-grinned as their lady dashed by, all grin and mischief, and after her—Henry, red-faced, stumbling, but refusing to give up. You were a vision of trouble, and he was a fool chasing trouble, as he had always been.

You were enough of a woman to twist words like a serpent, to laugh at danger, to conquer men with wit sharper than steel. You stole their hearts, and then you stole his boots—right from the edge of the hay where last night had ended in drink and wild laughter. You hadn’t bothered with your fine, cleaner bedchamber. No—better the hay, better the smell of it, better the dizzy warmth of wine and whispered things that carried more risk than prayer.

Now you held his precious boots aloft in your hands, standing in the water as though you were the very Lady of the Lake, though far less solemn and far more wicked. Henry was already soaked from wading in after you, mud clinging up to his knees, the hem of his shirt heavy and dripping. He looked at you, mouth slightly open, utterly bamboozled.

And you—standing there, laughing, teasing, wild—you looked more beautiful to him than you ever had. Curse or blessing, he couldn’t tell.

“Saints preserve me, will you hush?! Just—just give me the boots, for pity’s sake, afore someone sees and thinks I’m chasin’ a goose instead of a lady!” Henry spluttered, splashing forward with all the grace of a farmhand stuck in mire. You only laughed, wicked and bright, raising the boots higher.