I look away quickly, embarrassed. How could one person have so many freckles? They spot his shoulders, all the way down both arms and sprinkling his broad chest. Then there are all the scars—a dozen, at least, small and uneven, from one the size of my pointer finger to several tiny pebble-sized marks. I’ve always known Raze was strong, but now I can see his muscles, obvious even under all the softness.

He frowns at me, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not that I’m trying to get you undressed, Iselia, but you’re going to start stinking like those moldy hands if you don’t let all those layers dry.”

I grit my teeth. He’s right.

Without speaking, I stand, gently working free the knot holding my borrowed shirt in place. “Stop looking at me!”

He raises his hands in surrender and makes a big show of turning to face the lake.

I lay the shirt flat on the grass beside his socks, tugging out all the wrinkles. Then I stand with my back to the lake, even though I can still feel Gossamer’s eyes on me as I peel the battered remains of my ball gown away from my skin, leaving me in the much-lighter layer of faerie underclothes.

He’s a faerie, I remind myself. To him, clothes are just a silly human construct anyway.

It doesn’t put me any more at ease.

Next come my boots, then my socks. I’d rather die than admit to Raze how good the fresh air and dazzling sunlight feels on my skin after the constricting itch of my soaked clothes.

“Okay,” I say, slowly picking my way around the tree to stand beside Raze, facing out to the lake. I’m self-conscious, and the undergarments that went along with my faerie dress aren’t helping. The undershirt is sleeveless and ties up the front, with short, loose pants under a strip of bare waist. It feels like my web of pink scars is shouting for attention. “Don’t look at me.”

A corner of Raze’s mouth turns up. “Doesn’t seem fair,” he muses, risking a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Considering you got a pretty good look at me.”

I punch his arm.

“Hey!” He actually faces me, looking very offended and rubbing his arm more than my feeble blow really justifies.

“You didn’t warn me you were undressing,” I say, feeling my face warm. He’s not staring or anything—this isn’t as bad as I expected. “And...and it was distracting. Where did you get all those scars, anyway?”

“Oh!” Raze’s face lights up, despite the circumstances, despite everything, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

And despite myself I smile too.

He points to one of the smaller ones across his right shoulder. “This one is from running into a table too hard when I was four.” Then to a button-sized one under his arm. “And this one is from when I tried to tame a stray cat.” A shallow, silvery scratch that extends halfway down his ribs. “And this one is from falling out a window at a tavern once.” A puckered mark he has to twist around awkwardly to point to. “And this one is from Olani trying to train me with a knife, and this one is from filleting a fish wrong, and this one is from getting knocked off a horse, and this one—”