That afternoon, according to my pretend husband—gods, I still couldn't believe I was saying that—we were officially ready to journey east.
Two to three days by carriage.
Two to three days of Acting 101: Married Edition.
Do you know how hard it is to pretend to be a loving wife to Viking of the Icepeople?
Because let me tell you—this man did not half-act.
He kissed my hand. Frequently. Softly. Protectively. Like it was his personal mission to convince every shadow, curse, and nosy dark cult spy that I was his beloved wife and not, in fact, a scheming woman with a mana pistol under her skirt.
Coffi and Latte were silent.
Suspiciously silent.
The kind of silence where you just know they were mentally drafting a family tree and arguing over baby names.
Then—because this man was apparently born to ruin my standards—Viking bought cushions.
For the carriage.
Cushions. Specifically because, and I quote, "The road will be rough. I do not wish you discomfort."
I stared at him.
