Rachel and Seraphina were still arguing, if a cold war conducted in compliments could be called an argument. Elara stood beside me, her violet eyes moving from the Saintess to the princess of Mount Hua and back, like someone watching two cats size each other up on a velvet cushion.
Then she looked at me, and her mouth made a small, soft oh—the universal sign for ah, I see what kind of situation this is. She raised a hand to cover it, halfway between amusement and polite alarm.
"Well," she said gently, "it seems you're busy, Arthur. I'll leave you to it."
She drifted off into the crowd.
"Finally," Rachel muttered, releasing my ribs at last. "I wondered how long she'd hang on to you."
"She wasn't hanging on to me, Rach. You were."
"That's different. I'm allowed."
"Too much," Seraphina murmured, folding her arms. It wasn't clear which of us she meant.
Both of them turned to look at me. I had the distinct sense of being a form that someone was about to fill in wrong.
