"Mmh... Quin..."
Quinlan paid, gladly. His hands roamed the generous mounds he was holding her up by, and whenever her breath ran out she pulled back a finger's width, amber eyes hazy, only to dive right back in before air could talk her into behaving. Whoever needed the rest here had clearly stopped being him.
The garden, meanwhile, went about its morning around them.
Rosie's tree ruled the grounds, wide enough to shade half the estate, morning light pooling pale and gentle through its canopy.
On one of its low, broad branches sat two of the most important women of the elven world, and neither had survived the night with her dignity intact. Myrasyn's braids had surrendered hours ago, loose strands framing a face soft with exhaustion and shining with joy.
Beside her, Isveth's immaculate shrine maiden dress was creased in ways no devout of the faith would ever willingly permit.
Neither had slept, neither was presentable, and neither had ever looked happier.
