Alex turned to look as well. His expression changed: that sense of awe, of admiration, returned. “Magic.”
“It wanted to help,” Garrett said. “Once I explained.”
“You talk to stones,” Alex said, “and they listen. If I ever thought I could persuade you of anything—how could I? Of course I can’t.”
Garrett found, someplace between the ice-house and the marble pillars and sunlight at his back and the distracting absence of silver, that he did not like the lack of amusement, the presence of resignation, in his prince’s voice. He said, “It hasn’t stopped you yet. Asking. Coming up here. You’ll keep coming.”
Alex let out a breath, nearly a laugh, or something like it. “Will I?”
“Will you?”
“Of course.” Alex’s mouth grew the familiar entertained line again, crooked, kindly dry. “I’ve been directed to be an entanglement. As much as possible. Can I at least make you tea?”
“After that,” Garrett said, because it did sound nice, and Alex was offering, “I suppose. If the students left us any. And the figs.”
“We’ll find out,” Alex said, and took his arm, and did not let go.