“Er, your name is...?”
“Gizelle,” she repeated uncertainly. Was she saying it wrong? It would be like her to say her own name wrong.
His confusion resolved into embarrassment. “Oh,” he said. “Your name is Gizelle. A gazelle named Gizelle. That explains so much.”
“Neal named me,” Gizelle added, not sure how it explained anything.
“Who is Neal?” Conall asked.
Gizelle didn’t want to talk about Neal. “Neal left,” she said. “Do you know about Christmas?”
He blinked at her. “What about it?”
“Lydia was telling me about Christmas in Mexico.” Gizelle tried to remember the stories the swan shifter had told. “About cakes with babies in them, and these things you hang up and hit.” She was explaining it badly, so she hurried on. “And there are presents and... wiggy pudding...” that wasn’t right. “It all sounds very exciting. Do you like Christmas?”
His beautiful brows were wrinkled up next to each other as he puzzled at her mouth and Gizelle very badly wanted to wrap her braid around her face and hide but reminded herself not to.
“I... I used to like Christmas,” he finally answered when she could make her mouth stop talking.
“But you don’t any more? Why not?”
She regretted the question as soon as she asked, because his face went so sad and cold and complicated.
“I used to like the music most of all,” Conall said.
“And you can’t hear it now,” Gizelle realized out loud.
He winced, and she flinched.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
She only recognized that she’d looked down when he echoed her, “I’m sorry, what?”
Everything about the situation made her want to bolt. She’d hurt him, and it made her feel terrible to the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t doing a good job of remembering to look at him when she spoke. It would be easier to run.
“Gizelle?”
She looked up to find Breck holding two plates. “Oh, thank you,” she said, because eating would give her something to do besides panic.
Breck served them both and refilled their glasses, then vanished again too soon.
Gizelle picked her fork up in what she hoped looked like a familiar fashion. She didn’t use it often, but this was what people were supposed to use, so she was going to.
Chef had made a vegetable omelet, to her delight. Something easy to cut, not too messy. It had less cheese than she considered ideal, but that would hopefully keep her from getting confused by ridiculous strings of it. Hopefully she could make it through without embarrassing herself or saying anything else wrong.
Conversation was problematic.
“Your chef is good,” Conall said approvingly after only a few bites.
“He sings,” Gizelle said cheerfully, before she remembered that singing was music and would make him remember what he’d lost again.
They ate in silence for a while and Gizelle had to stop herself several times from losing track of eating to trace paths in the condensation on her glass.
“You know we don’t have to do this, right?” Conall said.
Gizelle could think of too many things they might not have to do. “What do you mean?” she asked, hating that she had to.
“Dinner. Dating. Conversation by candlelight.” He put his fork down. “Whatever conventions you think you might need to do, you don’t have to. We could go somewhere you’d be more comfortable, do something different.”