Her eyes are beautiful, he thought. Pale gray iris surrounded by a darker gray circle. He could look into those eyes forever. The voice of the dragon faded away, and he heard only her voice, saw only her eyes.

After that, perhaps it was his illness or perhaps it was love, but Marcus couldn’t seem to think clearly whenever the Lady Izabelle was near. When she wasn’t, his thoughts turned to her and away from everything else. He spent less and less time in the little room.

On the seventh day after his return, Marcus was lying in his bed, his gaze resting as it always did on the lady. Izabelle finished the book she had been reading to him and laid it on the small table at her side.

Conversation languished. The lady turned to her embroidery. The fabric on which she worked was secured in a large frame so that it was drawn taut, making it easier to ply the needle. The standing frame was placed in front of her and she leaned over it, assiduously taking minute stitches, frowning slightly as she concentrated on piercing the fabric with the needle, then drawing the colorful thread through the fabric. So still was the room that Marcus could hear the thread sigh as it slipped through the cloth.

He watched Izabelle’s hands. Her skin was smooth and white. Rounded, rose-tinged fingernails adorned small fingers that skillfully plied the needle. Suddenly he had the fancy that the thread she was using came not from the spool, but was sliding out of his own mind. He watched, fascinated, to see her twist and spin the colors of his magic into silken thread and then stitch them into her work.

“How do you do that?” he asked, half-laughing.

Izabelle looked up. “It takes no great skill, Your Highness. The trick is to keep the stitches small and close together—”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “How do you take the colors from my dreams and make them into silk?”

Looking concerned, she laid down her work on the table and walked over to him. “I fear the fever has returned, Your Highness. I will send the servant to fetch your mother—”

“No, don’t. I am fine, I assure you, my lady.” Marcus rested his hand on the lady’s and touched her skin, cool and smooth. “See?

No sign of fever. Please, go back to your work. I’m just teasing you. What is it you are making?”

“Teasing me?” she said, flushing and giving a little laugh. “I’m afraid I take everything much too seriously. As for what I am embroidering, it is a portrait, Your Highness. Are you certain you are feeling well? You look flushed. Perhaps I should see for myself if the fever has returned.”