Noctisardor Bypass ich muss dir sagen

Irritation and hope and longing and revulsion clamoured all together inside Wylla's brain at the sound of her name in his mouth, and after what he had done! Half of her screamed that she ignore him and keep walking. There was nothing for her here, and she had wasted ample time waiting on Gustav Mahler to rise to the occasion.

The other half of her noticed right away that he had not called her Vylla this time, and that part gently took the reins and steered her in a slow turn, ending with her looking back at him, expression flat. That she lacked anything resembling enthusiasm at the sight of Mahler was plain, even when her eye dropped to the flowers that he placed gently on the ground. Some herbalist thing he was working on, no doubt.

It was impossible to ignore that there was something decidedly more haggard about Mahler lately, but Wylla chalked it up to his usual weariness. It must be incredibly tiresome to uphold the heavy mantle of his infuriating masculinity and pride, and yet, somehow Wylla doubted he would ever set it down. That was all she chocked it up to, even when Phaedra's grave voice floated across her mind. Just another man throwing himself a pity party.

It was fine, she said noncommittally, dangling that ever so dangerous word, fine, like a lure between them. A few weeks ago she had entertained thoughts of romance, a quiet evening by the water with a pair of ducks, perhaps some long-forgotten intimacy. Now she felt tension squeezing her spine tightly between her shoulderblades and cinching around her neck. Her gaze lingered on the flowers for a beat, then lifted to his face, chilly and mistrustful. Did you need something?