Moonspear by a route obscure and lonely

A pouting princess was something Cypress had never been privy to before, and he found it fascinating rather than annoying; he watched, bemused, as Alya’s face crinkled with displeasure. “Because,” he said succinctly, childishly, finding that he grew calmer the more blustered she got. He liked it less when she tidied up, but he couldn’t like her less even if he tried. He hesitated, torn between lying to Alya by burying his insecurities under a guise of chivalry — “Wouldn’t want you going out and getting lost, darlin’,” — and telling her the truth, but in the end his honest nature won out. “I don’t want to share you,” he admitted in a shamefaced mutter, “and I don’t want you to like my cousins better’n you like me.”

Before he had time to question his own brazenness, “If you want to see where I live, I’ll show you someday — and your sisters, if you feel like you want to bring them, and if you bring a leaf.”