Slow. Quiet. As graceful as a dance. He took her through each move, his voice flowing over her as he explained, corrected, praised. The warmth of his hand on her waist or hip as he guided her body. The movement of his own muscles as he demonstrated the next move. The clean male scent of him.

“Now we’ll put all the moves together,” Lucivar said. “Watch.”

She watched. Grace and power. What would it be like to kiss him? Really kiss him? Would he bring all that grace and power to the bed? Would he be a generous lover? She’d only had one experience with sex after her Virgin Night, and that had been disappointing enough that she’d never been interested in trying again. But when a woman loved, wouldn’t there be some pleasure from the act even if the body received none?

The thought staggered her, thrilled her, terrified her. Had she been falling in love with him all along? That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? He might take a hearth witch for a lover to satisfy his body’s needs, but he’d never give his heart to one. Would he?

“That’s enough for the day.”

She tripped over the sound of his voice, struggled to regain her balance. “What?”

“That’s enough.” He tugged the stick out of her hands. “I’m not sure where your mind wandered off to, but you weren’t paying attention.”

Oh, she’d been paying attention, but she’d been focused on the man and not the lesson.

“It’s close to midday, and the weather has cleared.” Lucivar smiled at her. “Why don’t we fly down to the village? I’ll buy you a meal.”

Pain lanced her heart, fierce and deep. She shook her head and backed away from him. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” He sighed. “Marian, eating a meal you didn’t cook isn’t neglecting your work.”

“I can’t.” He’d mentioned once or twice that he’d never seen her fly, but she’d been able to avoid giving him a reason. Now . . .

“Why not?” Lucivar asked.

Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t fly! My wings . . . they were damaged. They’re useless.”

Grief and understanding filled his eyes. Here was someone who understood what that loss meant to her.

Then his eyes chilled. “Who told you that?” he asked too softly.

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t—”

“Who told you that?”

Uneasy now, she wiped the tears off her face. She could almost see the temper beginning to burn in him, could almost see it rising from spike to spike until it would reach the explosion point.

“Jaenelle brought you to Kaeleer,” Lucivar said, studying her. “She would have done the healing. If she told you you’d never fly again, you’d have to accept it. But she didn’t, did she? So who told you, Marian?”