"I. Oh." She stares up at him for a long moment, completely forgetting they have any company. Ril is suddenly grateful for the little bit of height her heels gave her because it means standing on tiptoe to pull him into a kiss (very nearly by that necktie of his) is a great deal less of a challenge. But she's thinking, too. Thinking about ceremonies, about the ancient customs of her own folk--not the modern conveniences--about the backless traditional red dress, the copper tipped soft scales and elaborate, twisting painted spinal designs. Her fingers touch his cheeks, his hair, and she's thinking about his hands on her back, sweeping copper across her skin, and she wants it in a sudden sharp and clear moment.

She wants the twist of red cord around her ankle, the beads and bells, she wants him in red and gold and bits of bright blue. She wants to dance for him against a bonfire, to light lanterns and let them rise into the night. She wants this, all of this, in a moment that is as much joy as it is sadness.

"We should share the joy," she says against his lips, "with the people we love. And I will teach you how my people do that, if you'd like."