“The term paper this semester will be written in pairs,” Professor Hartwell announced, tapping the roster with his quill.
“His Highness, Crown Prince Lucian Casimir Veeraud… and Lady Emilia Evelisse Valmont.”

A stir went through the room. Chairs shifted. A pen rolled, caught just before it struck the floor.

“His Highness and Lady Emilia?”
“The Ice Queen herself.”

Lucian kept his smile polite, though the words lingered.

As Hartwell droned on with the rest of the names, his thoughts drifted. Paired with her. The memory returned unbidden: maroon hair loose in sunlight, her face transformed by that impossible smile. He had not expected to be seated beside her so soon, sharing ink and parchment. The thought unsettled him—though not unpleasantly.

When the bell released them, he gathered his books without hurry. Classmates approached, seeking brief exchanges, and he answered easily, mask unbroken. Yet from the corner of his eye he caught her—Lady Valmont—speaking with that same boy. He could not hear the words, but she touched his shoulder lightly before sending him away. Then she turned and came toward him.

“Your Highness.” She stopped at a precise, respectful distance. “Shall we discuss the project schedule?”

He gestured toward the anteroom off the library, a quiet space with tall shelves and a single long table. “If you have time now.”

“I do.”

Whispers trailed them into the corridor. Lucian let them slide away, as always. She did not so much as glance back. Her hair had been gathered hastily with a pencil, maroon strands slipping loose to frame her face. Not her usual style—and somehow, it suited her better.

Inside the anteroom, Lucian set his books down. “Governance,” he said. “We’ll need a focus.”

“I think we should do health and safety.” She opened her folio without hesitation. “Soap and clean water, made accessible to everyone.”

He blinked. “Soap?”

“Yes.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “When people can wash, illness spreads less. Outbreaks are smaller. It’s better for everyone—and cheaper for the state.”

Lucian leaned back slightly. “Does it? Truly? That isn’t proven.”

Her brow lifted. “Of course it does.” A pause, a flicker of surprise—she had expected agreement. “But if you want proof, then we’ll find it. Aubier produces soap. Parish records there show fewer fevers than neighboring towns. We compare.”

“How?”

“Numbers by year.” She drew quick boxes, marked Aubier, Montsalle, Fierre, and sketched columns beneath. “Deaths per year here… and here. Leave space above for bars. The difference is clearer this way.”

He watched the pencil move, bars rising unevenly.

“I’ve never seen information presented like this,” he admitted.

“It makes comparison easier. People grasp it faster.”

“That’s… an incredible idea.”

She added a circle. “And pie charts give proportion to the whole.”

He found himself leaning closer. “Remarkable. You thought of this just now?”

She shrugged lightly. “It seemed obvious.”

Obvious? He almost smiled. To her, perhaps.

“I don’t believe soap alone explains the difference,” he said at last. “But if the data still holds when we account for harvest failures, weather, festivals—then your argument gains weight.”

Her head lifted, eyes bright. “Exactly.”

His lips curved. “You sound very certain.”

“And you sound very doubtful.”

“Doubt keeps us honest.”

Her eyes glinted, almost playful. “Then should I be wary that our future king is doubtful… or glad that he is honest?”

The words caught him off guard. Few ever teased him so directly. He smiled—unguarded, before he could stop himself.

A knock broke the moment.

“Enter,” Lucian called.

The door edged open. A junior attendant bowed too low. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I was sent for the ledgers.”

“It’s not an issue. Take what you need.”

The boy reached for a tome, heavier than expected. It slipped. Before Lucian could rise, Emilia was already there. She steadied the weight with both hands, her smile small but gentle.

“Hold it closer,” she said softly. “There. Better.”

The boy flushed, murmured thanks, and hurried out.

Lucian’s gaze lingered—not on the door, but on her. She had stepped in without hesitation, helping as naturally as breathing. That smile—quiet, unforced. He filed it away. Another piece of her, unexpected.

“You were saying?” she prompted.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. The numbers must prove your assertion clearly. Suppose they don’t?”

“Then I’d be wrong.” She glanced up briefly, tone steady. “But I won’t be.”

His lips curved again. “Quick to wager.”

“Not a wager.” A faint amusement touched her voice. “Just common sense.”

They bent over the work, sketching lines, pulling ledgers, marking notes. Minutes stretched longer than he intended to give. When at last he gathered his things, the bell had rung twice.

He had meant to be elsewhere. Instead, he carried a folio heavy with notes—and the thought that the conversation had been unexpectedly easy. Her ideas were fresh. Her tone steady, edged at times with humor he had not expected. Talking with her had been almost… fun.

At the stairwell, they paused. He glanced at the filled pages. “It’s enough to prove your argument—for now.”

Her mouth curved, faintly smug. “Told you so.”

They parted with a nod for tomorrow.

Lucian walked on alone, the weight of the folio under his arm. Without meaning to, details replayed: the smirk when she teased him, the gentle smile offered to the attendant.

She has more smiles than I imagined, he thought. And each one is beautiful.