You are no neophyte in the mystic arts. With a wave of your hand and a spark of magic, you reveal the library's secret chamber.

She is too proud to gasp, it seems, as a stone wall slides aside to reveal a small, circular chamber. But she does straighten. Her eyes pop. And with a prim little grimace she stands and crosses her arms and nods appreciatively at it. “I see I’ve underestimated you.”

“Looks can be deceiving, my Lady,” you say, smiling, and hold out your arm for her to take it.

She considers you, then links her elbow in yours. You walk together into the new room and stop at its center, spinning in a slow circle to admire the ancient artifacts lining the walls. Holy sceptres, shelves of enchanted gems, books of spells and potions. A brew you’d been working on the night before simmers on the alchemy table, its red glow combining with the blue torches to cast you and Lyra in purple.

“Wonderful,” she whispers, and she presses a little closer. She’s cooler to the touch than you expected. Pleasantly so, like a cool gall on a blazing summer’s day.

She separates from you to examine a row of enchanted arrows, and you watch her take stock of your displays.

She’s cute, you think. She does this thing with her mouth when she focuses, bunching it up into a studious little grimace. Her eyes narrow, and her originally cold demeanor gives way to the truth that she’s a scholar, and perhaps a bit of a nerd. She asks you questions about the self-writing pens and then gasps delightedly when you demonstrate them, slapping her hands over her mouth at her embarrassment before pretending none of it happened at all.

You shoot her knowing glances the rest of the tour, being the perfect, honor-bound royal by not teasing her about it. At least, not too obviously. She shows you her bracelet, enchanted such that the single inlaid stone allows her and her guards to communicate across vast distances. You gasp delightedly, mimicking her tone from before, and she slaps your arm and -- after a fierce grimace -- grins. You hold each other’s stare. Her eyes are intense, irises so dark they’re barely distinguishable from her pupils in the dim.

“Well,” she says, a little awkwardly. She averts her eyes, and you see a blush creep into her cheeks before she covers it expertly with a hand playing through her hair. “Thank you for the tour. I suppose...I can see this. Working, that is.”

You smile widely at her, and she has to cover her face with both hands.

“Go,” she squeaks. “You brute. I’m sure you have things to take care of before the fete tonight.”

“Sadly yes,” you admit. You wonder if you’ll visit any of the other suitors before retiring to your offices. “But I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Lyra.”

She peers at you between long, slender fingers, then lowers her hands. Some of her embarrassment remains in the color in her cheeks, but a little of that initial coolness is back, settling into her eyes as she sizes you up with a smile. “And I you, Samantha.”