Her robe moved like water over an even bed of stones. The tiara's blossoms were not cut; small roots gripped a woven band of living reed, and a faint dew lay on their petals. Her presence filled the hall without effort, a gravity that eased the edges of everyone's attention toward her.
"The pleasure is all mine," Ludwig said. He inclined his head a fraction, enough to mark respect without giving away the habit of keeping eyes level. The fairies who had treated him as a perch quieted in the wake of that exchange, the hush that follows a bell.
Lorina coughed, and the fairies disappeared. The cough was not reproach, simply a reminder that play has a place. Tiny bodies whisked to alcoves and rafters. Lipsi alone remained where she was, secured by entitlement and the soft immunity of old acquaintance.
Lorina came down toward Ludwig, reaching barely to his chin in height, but there was a glow to her green eyes that felt like intrigue and interest at once.
