“Dragons can do that even if it isn’t cold,” she said gaily as she looked down at him from the lowest branch, a good eight feet above his head. She squatted on the branch with her arms around her knees and no discernible way to save herself if she overbalanced.

Daemon wasn’t interested in dragons, and his heart was no longer trying to leap out—it was trying to crawl into his stomach and hide.

“Would you mind coming down from there, Lady?” he said, astounded that his voice sounded so casual. “Heights make me a bit queasy.”

“Really?” Jaenelle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. She shrugged, stood up, and leaped.

Daemon jumped forward to catch her, pulled himself back in time, and was rewarded by having a muscle in his back spasm in protest. He watched, wide-eyed, as she drifted down as gracefully as the leaves dancing around her, finally settling on the grass a few feet from him.

Daemon straightened up, winced as the muscle spasmed again, and looked at the tree. Stay calm. If you yell at her, she won’t answer any questions.

He took a deep breath, puffed it out. “How did you get up there?”

She gave him an unsure-but-game smile. “The same way I got down.”

Daemon sighed and sat down on the iron bench that circled the tree. “Mother Night,” he muttered as he leaned his head against the tree and closed his eyes.

There was a long silence. He knew she was watching him, fluffing her hair as she tried to puzzle out his seemingly strange behavior.

“Don’t you know how to stand on air, Prince?” Jaenelle asked hesitantly, as though she was trying not to offend him.

Daemon opened his eyes a crack. He could see his knees—and her feet. He sat up slowly and studied the feet planted firmly on nothing. “It would seem I missed that lesson,” he said dryly. “Could you show me?”

Jaenelle hesitated, suddenly turning shy.

“Please?” He hated the wistfulness in his voice. He hated feeling so vulnerable. She’d begun to make some excuse, but that note in his voice stopped her, made her look at him closely. He had no idea what she saw in his face. He only knew he felt raw and naked and helpless under the steady gaze of those sapphire eyes.

Jaenelle smiled shyly. “I could try.” She hesitated. “I’ve never tried to teach a grown-up before.”

“Grown-ups are just like children, only bigger,” Daemon said brightly, snapping to his feet.

She sighed, her expression one of harried amusement. “Up here,” she said as she stood on the iron bench.

Daemon stepped up beside her.

“Can you feel the bench under your feet?”

Indeed he could. It was a cold day that promised snow by morning, and he could feel the cold from the iron bench seeping up through his shoes. “Yes.”

“You have to really feel the bench.”

“Lady,” Daemon said dryly, “I really feel the bench.”

Jaenelle wrinkled her nose at him. “Well, all you have to do is extend the bench all the way across the alcove. You step”—she placed one foot forward and it looked as if she was stepping on something solid—“and you continue to feel the bench. Like this.” She brought the other foot forward so that she was standing on the air at exactly the same height as the bench. She looked at him over her shoulder.