"Gods above, my dear girl." He isn't laughing, his mouth instead aghast in a gasping look of pure, distilled shock. The hand at his side rises, pressing gently at his own cheek.

"You don't even know."

This is ambrosia. This is honeyed wine, sweet and rare and strange for its uniqueness. A blushing dove without so much as the faintest idea just how far her heart's been reaching without her.

"Courting, sweetheart. You've been courting. That is what those kerchiefs mean."