He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say since when were you married, but closed it again, remembering her identity.
When the silence threatened to become awkward, Isolde seemed to understand. She set her brush down on the edge of the palette and sighed, a small, wistful sound.
"He is not my husband yet," she clarified gently. "He is the one I was fated to."
Ronan's surprise deepened.
Isolde looked back at the painting, gaze softening.
"Unfortunately," she continued, voice quieter now, talking more to herself than to Ronan, "even after twenty years of trying… this is all I've seen. Just this much. The eyes. The fire wings. The little bear." She reached out and brushed a fingertip along the edge of the tiny painted creature, careful not to smudge it. "I'm already twenty-seven. Two more years and not even a commoner will want to marry me. But I don't want to give up after waiting him for so many years. I wonder when I'll finally see his clear face."
