1. Fete

Many orbital cycles later...

There was no mistaking her sister’s joy as she burst through the door. The brightness in her eyes, the strange hand clasped in hers as she pulled a stranger through the hall and into the warmth of the kitchen.

“Mama!” she burst out, all light and excitement.

None need ask what had happened. Not when their hands were clasped so tightly, when the shy smile on the man’s face as he glanced at his new bond-mate did all the talking for them.

Her younger sister.

By more seasons than she cared to count.

She shoved the thought away. Moved forward to embrace her with their mother, then to embrace her new brother as well. He was young also, but handsome. They made a fine couple. Perhaps their children would share in their father’s chestnut hair rather than Eris’s pale locks—so near to Firen’s that they were often mistaken for one another unless faced from the front.

“This is...” She turned her head and gave a bewildered sort of start. “I forgot to ask your name!” Then Eris laughed, as it was the most inconsequential thing in the world, while her mate ducked his head and placed his hand on his chest to greet her mother.

“Varrel,” he supplied. “It is a pleasure to be here.” There was an earnestness about him that was charming, and some of the hard lump in Firen’s stomach loosened at his manner.

“Varrel,” her mother repeated, and her smile warmed as she gripped his arm once in a friendly gesture before offering for him to sit. Then paused, glancing toward the door. “I should...”

Firen swallowed. “I’ll get Da, Mama. You sit. Maybe get them to actually talk a little.” It was only a tease, and Eris was too enamoured to even glare at her sister before she passed through the back door.

She took a breath. Then another.

She wasn’t jealous. Every union was to be celebrated. She was just... disappointed. A little. Because she thought she’d watch each of her siblings bring home their mates with her own settled by her side. Where they might whisper to each other about the day they found one another, just between the two of them. A fond reminiscence. Something... something shared.

The garden was beginning to bloom. Winter had been a long one, but the flowers that burst in crimsons and deep purples seemed to only have thrived from it. The herbs were fragrant—trying their best to combat against the smoke and ever-present smell of metal shavings, burned wood, and slick oil that came from her father’s workshop.

She slipped through the door, the fire low. It was early, yet, and she found him seated at one of the worktables, a lamp burning brightly even with the open window allowing plenty of light. Fiddly work, then.

He glanced her way as she entered, but he did not put down his task.

“A commission?” she asked, moving nearer.

He grunted in response. He liked to craft for his own sake, allowing the metals to speak to their nature. But others preferred to hire his hands to craft visions of their own, sometimes with only crude drawings to replicate their desires. A risk, every time. But often one that could keep the family fed for a month once it was finished.

He muttered a low curse, then gave her a sheepish smile as he put down his tools. “What brings you into my lair, Firi?”

She swallowed. Smiled. “Eris brought someone home. Mama wants you.”

Her father blinked once, slowly, before rising from his seat. “Someone,” he confirmed. “As in...”

“Yes.”

She didn’t like how his eyes shifted. Didn’t like that instead of the excitement he should feel for Eris’s sake, he instead took on an expression that was far too near to pity. He approached her with measured steps, his arm already coming about her even as she shook her head and hated the lump in her throat. “He seems very kind.”

Because this was not about her.

“Of course he is. No mate of my daughters will be anything less.”

He cupped her chin in his hand—calloused and strong from long days and skilled labours. “Keep faith, Firen. It’ll come.”

He didn’t linger. Didn’t make her say that doubt was creeping in.

It was a large city. She was more than aware she had not met everyone within it. Nevertheless, each fete that ended in returning home alone... it stung.

She watched as Da kissed Eris’s cheek, as he clasped forearms with Varrel. As Mama set the kettle and mugs on the table and urged her to sit with a pointed look.

Mama had less patience for Firen’s discontentment. But while Da’s hints of pity left her with a lump in her throat, Mama’s insistence that all was as it should be left prickles of irritation. It wasn’t as it should be. Because if she was meant to go without, meant to live at home and help with the fiddly commissions and work the stalls, she should be happier about it.

And she wasn’t.

But she could sit. And hear about Varrel’s home. About his parents and the cottage they’d promised him when it was time, and he was a fisher, and did she mind terribly much to live so near the sea?

He could have lived in a hut in the woods, and Eris would have smiled and thought it wonderful.

Firen sipped at her tea, and it soothed the ache in her throat.

A little.

Enough that she could head up the stairs with her sister. To the room that had been theirs for... well, since Eris had been old enough to share it with her. To the trunk that was always kept packed, because Eris was still hopeful and certain that she would need to be ready.

While Firen’s belongings had ceased to be tidily tucked away, but spread haphazardly across her night table.

The room felt crowded with the three of them in it—Varrel had followed her, and that set another pant through Firen. To feel an intruder in her own room, to wonder if she would ever have access to her own sister for a private conversation.

Which was nonsense. Da and Mama were not always in each other’s company. This was new, that was all.

And yet...

It was so sudden. That was why tears were prickling at her eyes. Eris had only been running an errand—it wasn’t meant to be goodbye.

Varrel saw to the trunk, with Da to meet him at the stairs to negotiate it the rest of the way down.

Eris watched him go with a soft smile about her lips, but she lingered a moment rather than follow immediately. “My linens...” she observed, tugging at her neatly made bed. “They’ll need washing...” Her voice trailed off, waiting for Firen’s offer. That she’d make. Because she was happy for her, and she needn’t worry about things like laundry when there was a whole new life waiting for her.

“Mama and I will see to it.” It was the best she could do, and her tone was a little too tight.

Eris crossed the distance between them and hugged her tight. “I shall miss you,” she insisted, although there was a hint of something that suggested it was not as much as it might have been. It was as if she was already gone, her heart and her attention elsewhere, while Firen stood just...

Aching.

All over.

“Course you will,” Firen answered briskly, lest she dissolve into tears and make things harder than they ought to be. “Because I’m wonderful and am going to wash your linens for you.”

Eris backed up and smiled brightly. “You are, and they’re your linens now. Extras. How extravagant.”

Firen nodded because she did not know what else to do. Then watched her sister scurry back after Varrel and her trunk.

It wasn’t a farewell. Not really. She just needed to get settled, that was all. Her brothers that had mated were often home—although they had the need of their father’s workshop, so the visits were rarely strictly for want of the company.

A cart was hired, and the new bond-mates were gone, and as she nursed another cup of tea in her mother’s kitchen, she allowed herself to simply... feel.

She said nothing. Made no complaint. Mama had heard it all before.

But her mother still reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly for just a moment as she sat beside her. “It’s all right,” Mama assured her.

Firen frowned into her cup. “Which part?” she asked. And she wasn’t sulky. She was just... distraught. That was all. Which was understandable. She could be pleased for Eris and upset all at once. She was clearly capable of it.

“Wishing it was you.”

Firen’s eyes widened. “I didn’t...” she began, then hesitated. She wouldn’t lie to her mother. Not for anything. “I didn’t say that,” she amended.

“No,” she agreed. “But you’re unhappy. And I am sorry for it.”

She leaned nearer so she could put her arm about Firen’s shoulders. “You used to have such enthusiasm at every fete. It saddens me. To see you so frustrated.”

Firen suppressed a snort, but barely. If Mama was troubled, how did she imagine Firen felt?

She took a breath. Tapped her fingers lightly across the side of her cup, just once. “I hope I didn’t taint anything. For Eris. I don’t mean to be so discouraged.” She hadn’t always had such difficulties. When the house was full of siblings, when everything was new and exciting as she danced and mingled and approached each unfamiliar face with a catch in her heart, that he might be meant for her.

Then her friends found their pairings. Her brothers too. Now Eris...

“There is nothing you could have done to diminish this day,” Mama assured her. “But Firen,” she continued, her eyes tightening about the edges. Her mouth forming a firm line, if only briefly. “What do you intend to do?”

Firen’s brow furrowed. “Do?” As if... as if she had not been doing enough. Prayed hard enough. Bargained and cajoled and gave every sort of promise she could if she could only find him.

And more seasons would pass.

And she was still alone.

Mama wasn’t looking at her. Smoothed her hand along the table in search of crumbs that were not there. “There are other fetes,” she answered slowly. “You know this.”

Of course she did. All over the city—some at each solstice, others with each moon. Every district was unique.

And it was usually the men that travelled between them. It was not... disallowed for women to do so as well. But it seemed rather inefficient if everyone went hither and thither with no sort of order?

“Yes, but...”

Mama stood and poured them both fresh cups. “You’ve been trying it one way for a rather long time now, sweetling.”

A lump settled in her throat.

“I know that.”

“I’ll not push,” Mama continued. “Your father and I will never tire of your company.” She turned, blinking slowly, her head tilting slightly to the side. “You know that, don’t you?”

The lump grew bigger. “Yes.”

Mama nodded. “Good. Well. Then I think you have some inquiries to make next market, don’t you think? I’ll come with you, if you’d like.”

Firen’s eyes widened, and it wasn’t horror—it wasn’t , but it wasn’t welcome either.

Mama only laughed at her. “Not inside. Goodness, what do you take me for? But it might be in a new area, and I’d hate for you to get lost.”

Firen swallowed, her thoughts racing along with her heart as she considered it. “It’s not... inappropriate, is it? Or...” She swallowed thickly as she looked down at her cup. “Desperate?”

She wasn’t. Desperate, that is. She was just... anxious.

Wanted her family to grow by one man and the children that would come of the great love they would share. That wasn’t wrong, was it? It was natural.

“You’re a grown woman, Firen,” Mama said in that way that hinted at exasperation. As if the answer was so entirely obvious that the question never needed asking at all. “If you want your mate, you have just as much right to look as he does.”

She smiled. Genuinely. And it felt... good.

To have a plan. For something to be different.

“Thank you, Mama,” she added demurely, leaning over to hug her briefly before she went upstairs to formulate her plans.

“Mhmm,” Mama murmured, patting her arm indulgently. “Sweetling,” Mama added just as she was about to cross the kitchen threshold. She looked ready to say something, her brow creasing slightly, her mouth twisting before she sighed and shook her head. “Never mind. Market tomorrow. We’ll be busy without your sister for help.”

Firen nodded, only vaguely aware of the added responsibilities.

Caring far more about when she might slip away and seek friends to ply for information on fetes in their districts.

◆◆◆

There were three within reasonable distance. Of course, she was more than willing to consider unreasonable distances as well—except her hair might not look as comely as it might if bedraggled from the flight. Not that it should have mattered. It wasn’t strictly vanity, no matter what anyone else said. It was the want of that perfect first moment. When eyes caught and the bond settled into place like a welcome warmth...

Being soaked through in a rain shower did not fit into that fantasy. Nor did having to wear her hair plastered into tight braids to keep it from tangling about in as she flew about the city.

She wanted to look her best. Which wasn’t wrong.

But also meant that she would begin with these first three.

And not be hurt by the dubious glances she’d received at her enquiries. The ones that suggested she was a bit mad for wanting to attend any but the usual for her neighbourhood. That she was trying to force matters rather than allow them to happen naturally.

She smiled and shook her head and allowed them to think what they liked.

Two of them were on the same night. Inconvenient, to say the least... but she could attend both. It might be a bit rushed, and she would have to stay focused on her task rather than enjoy the other elements so enticing of a fete. Good food, better drinks, and she did dearly love the dancing.

She could not name why that was seen as respectable. Those that found their matches early in the evening hardly ever stayed to the conclusion. Instead they slipped away, full of starry eyes and hands unable to keep away from one another, not caring for the swirling dresses, the glittering candles. Flowers and garlands swooping down from the rafters when the fetes were driven indoors by the rains.

Perhaps it was a commiseration for those left behind. To feel the exhilaration of movement, of clasped hands. Of the steady beat of the music to keep them all in line as they moved through the steps.

Then upward, when they met in the parks instead and there was room to fly together. To twirl and feel so free. If only for a little while.

Then polite goodnights. When disappointment took hold as each wandered off alone. Back to their respective homes, hoping maybe next time, they would not see the end of the fete at all.

Firen smoothed her hand over her best dress. She only had two—they were impractical for flying, so they were reserved strictly for such occasions. She’d add a few more embellishments. Extra embroidery about the neckline. Perhaps some beads to catch the light at her cuffs. Da had some pretty golden ones in the shop that would do nicely...

It kept her busy. Kept her focused. While her stomach went from nervous fluttering to the anticipation that it would finally happen. It would work this time. Perhaps not the first—she would not get greedy. But by the second, surely.

She braided her hair. Undid it. Tried again with an anxious energy that only halted when Mama came in. Much as she had that first time. When Firen had thought she’d been moving that night. Had tucked everything in her trunk and yes, she’d washed her bed linens so that Mama wouldn’t have to think of them when she’d gone.

Firen hadn’t gone to that trouble tonight. It was only the first, after all. Maybe the next. Which would actually be the next two, as they were on the same night, so that really wouldn’t be expecting too much with so many new opportunities...

“Here,” Mama said, fixing a fine gold circlet into her hair before twisting the loose tresses just so. “Not for keeps, mind,” she cautioned. “Despite what your father would say if you asked him.”

She wouldn’t ask. Truly, she wouldn’t. This was for someone else. Someone that lived in one of the high towers, who attended ceremonies and events that required... opulence.

But she couldn’t deny the surge of courage it gave her. That she came from a good house, if not a particularly fine one. With a father that knew his skills and passed them to his sons. That was willing to teach Firen however much she wished to learn.

“It’s too much,” Firen protested, her stomach in knots. It felt too full of expectation when she’d been bracing herself for all the disappointment she was so likely to feel.

“Of course it isn’t,” Mama disagreed. “It isn’t any different from showing off lacework or linen. Your father is skilled in his craft. And he asked for you to wear it especially. I shouldn’t like you to disappoint him.”

Firen swallowed. Nodded.

“Now. Are you still so settled about this escort business?”

Firen stood. The days were growing warmer, but the nights were cold, so she tucked her wrap about her arms, mindful of her wings. She’d taken special care with them, plucking and fussing until they lay flat, not a feather out of place. “A woman grown, you said,” Firen reminded her.

And from the way Mama looked at her, that was the answer she’d been hoping for.

◆◆◆

She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

She did not like how often she had to repeat it to herself as she entered the room. It was lit high with candles and lanterns alike—the better to see one another in case bonds required sight as well as touch.

It was a smaller room than she was used to, but the ceilings were higher—the rafters lined with balconies where some were already settled to better survey the space.

The musicians had yet to begin, leaving only the hum of voices as men and women mingled amongst one another. It wasn’t conversation. Not yet. Just soft apologies as they approached and withdrew. Some disappointments were more obvious than others.

She joined the fray, smiling warmly and catching as many eyes as she could. It pleased her that she was not the only one to do the approaching. And at how many men were unfamiliar to her. Some she recognised as they made their circuit through her usual fete, but there was a grouping of dark-winged men she was certain she had not seen before.

There were so many names passed about. Houses too, which hinted at trades and good breeding. There were a few that stayed close to her, looking a little too intently at her, as if they might will the bond into forming if they lingered long enough.

It left her to shy away with a polite smile. To retreat for refreshment and keep to the wall, if only to collect herself.

Which would have been the time when she would have chatted with her friends. She spotted Elayne across the room, but she was still situated with one of the dark-winged fellows—not quite obvious yet if they were mated, but there was a glimmer that suggested it was possible.

Best not to disturb her.

“You are new.”

She turned, finding the greeting abrupt and unfriendly, but her mother had raised her with better manners than that. Which made it easier to bow her head to the girl that looked at her without much kindness in her gaze, although she took a private satisfaction that she was a good head taller, so it hardly counted as bowing her head at all. “I am.”

“Your family moved districts?”

That Firen was unwelcome was more than obvious. Some women were competitive that way, she supposed. Which was absurd in her mind. If a man was meant for the girl beside her, then he wasn’t meant for Firen. Her presence wouldn’t change any bit of it. “No.”

She owed her no explanations. Just courtesy. Which kept her from turning and showing her back, but just barely.

She scanned the room again, looking for some hint of where she might try next. Perhaps the balconies. They were clever in their design, and she wouldn’t mind flittering up there...

Until she remembered the dress she wore and how little was beneath, so maybe that wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“Then why are you here?”

Firen’s brow furrowed, but her tone betrayed no exasperation. “I would imagine for much the same reason as everyone else?”

“Yes, but the rest of us are young. I did not know anyone as old as you could go without fetching a mate.”

She wasn’t old. Not by half. So it needn’t have stung as much as it did, and it shouldn’t have made her retort come so quickly to the tip of her tongue.

She swallowed.

Stood even taller and was once again grateful for the height from her mother’s side, and gave the girl as hard a look as she dared. “Rudeness isn’t comely,” she said instead, because it was true and if it hurt when it landed, then hopefully the prickle might lead to a change in attitude.

Firen nodded her head again, and if her wing touched the other girl slightly as she passed, it was an accident. Not that the loud affront behind her suggested it was entirely believed.

Her heart was racing. Not with the pleasant anticipation she’d acquired during the walk—some streets familiar, others not. She did not care for confrontations. Hated when any found fault with her, and she had not expected to feel so when all of their aims were of such accord.

“That was Demezda. Don’t let her trouble you. She’s getting anxious.”

Firen canted her head leftward. This girl was seated, an unusual position when so much of the evening depended on making at least some sort of contact.

“That doesn’t excuse rudeness,” Firen countered, trying to push the entire exchange from her mind in favour of more pressing pursuits. She’d made friends at many fetes. This needn’t be one of them.

“No,” the girl agreed. “It doesn’t.”

There was a wistful, sad quality that gave Firen pause, and she stopped scanning the room to turn to her properly. “Are you all right?” She kept her voice gentle, because it mattered if she wasn’t. Firen might have her own aims, but she was not so neglectful that she could not set them aside for a little while, even for the sake of a stranger.

The girl waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Tired, I suppose. The sameness becomes grating after a time. Is that why you’ve come?”

Firen relaxed and her smile was much more genuine. “Exactly.” She bowed her head and offered her name and waited for the other to do the same.

“Orma,” she answered, her eyes drifting over the drifting bodies in the room rather than look at Firen properly. She possessed a sickly quality, Firen realised. As if she had one of the wasting sicknesses that mother spoke about in hushed tones and rueful glances as they looked over their children burgeoning on their majorities. They never explained what it was, not fully, but Orma fit what Firen always assumed it meant.

Her cheeks were a little sunken, her eyes dull.

Firen took the seat beside her.

Her purpose niggled at her. That she was wasting time and her father’s gift of the golden circlet in her hair, and yet she felt compelled to sit. To offer comfort, if she could.

Orma gave her a half-smile, shaking her head slightly. “You needn’t bother. We won’t meet again.”

Firen’s stomach gave an uneasy lurch. “You’re poorly, then?”

Orma hummed lowly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just have a feeling you are about to meet your someone. And there won’t be many more fetes for you.”

Firen might have been heartened at such a proclamation if she wasn’t more certain that this girl—Orma—wasn’t very well at all. “I won’t go looking a moment longer if I’m not sure you’re going to be all right. I could fetch a healer?”

Orma laughed. A bright burst of sound that might have been considered good-humoured if not for the hint of bitterness about the edges. “I thank you, but no.”

Firen flexed her fingers in want of fidgeting, but that was not comely and she suppressed it as best she could. “Well. Then we shall sit awhile.”

Orma glanced at her with a frown. “There’s no need.”

Yes. There was. Firen did not know the reason for it, did not know this girl or her troubles, but she was certain there were some—too private and personal to share with an utter stranger. But she could offer her company and support, if only for a little while, so she would.

They were approached a few times, but beyond polite nods and eyes that drifted a little too often toward Firen rather than Orma, they were left quite alone. It was a strange feeling when she was used to the rush and excitement of mingling itself. To sit and to watch, preoccupied with something other than the possibility of bonding...

It was not unpleasant.

But she thought of her mother, waiting. Her father and his gift.

“You should go,” Orma urged. “I am perfectly all right, I assure you.”

Firen hesitated, wiping her hands on her skirt. She loved the way it moved; she loved the way it felt against her legs, bared from the usual manner of dress that kept her modest even in flight. Orma’s dress was worn at the edges, most especially at the hem where it scraped too heavily against the cobbles. How many walks had she taken to this room? To sit and stare glumly rather than participate fully? “If you’re sure...” Except Firen wasn’t. Not when she was ominous about not meeting again.

Orma shook her head, her eyes rolling briefly toward the rafters—where yes, there was a new couple, engaged in a rather amorous kiss on the balcony.

They’d be shooed out in a moment, Firen was certain. Off to a respective home. This might be a place to encourage bonds to form, but it was not meant for such blatant displays.

Although she couldn’t blame them. Not a bit.

Perhaps she’d be overcome just as similarly when the time came. When the relief and the joy meant...

“Where else do you intend to go?” Orma asked, and Firen blinked, trying to stop her foolish fantasies.

She related the locations of the others she knew of, trying to imagine Orma making the same trek as she intended.

“Not high towers, then?”

Firen glanced at her, shaking her head. “Which is that?”

Orma picked at her fingernail, humming softly. “Just where it sounds. Where all the important folk mingle.” She glanced at Firen again, frowning ever so slightly. “Theirs is tonight. I thought you might go after this.”

Firen sat back a little too sharply, her wing catching against the wall and giving a little pain of protest. “I haven’t met everyone here.”

Orma rolled her eyes again. “You saw them up there. It happens, or it doesn’t. If he was here, you’d know already.”

Firen’s throat ached. “Trying to be rid of me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light but feeling it an all too real possibility.

“No,” Orma disagreed, blinking slowly as if she hadn’t considered the possibility. “You just seem... like a rather lovely person. And if you want this... I should hate for you to waste your time here. Not when you could look elsewhere.”

She cast her eyes about the room once more. She’d do another turn, at least. To be sure. But if there was the possibility of a more efficient evening...

There could be no harm in it.

She did not ask why Orma had no plans to attend. That was her business.

But she did ask for directions.

And when she was confident that this room held nothing more than the possibility of average food and men with becomingly dark wings that would eventually belong to women that were most assuredly not her...

She left.

And was not as disheartened as she might have been.

◆◆◆

It was a longer walk than she was used to. She might have been there quickly enough if she’d risked the flight, but even she with all her boldness did not relish the thought of appearing at the high towers dishevelled and windblown.

So she walked. And thought of Orma and her frowns and sickly appearance. Of Demezda and her unfriendliness.

It seemed as if fewer pairings were being made at the fetes. Mama would wave her hand and insist it wasn’t so, but it was becoming much more common for bonds to be formed later—if they happened at all.

Perhaps there was cause to grow anxious and mean spirited. If... if one had to rely on... other means to find a mate.

Firen crossed her arms over her chest, the sea air chilling. The towers loomed, their lights bright and ever-moving as they beckoned to the merchant ships to dock safely in the bay.

Most were homes. Others were... she squinted, trying to make them out. They all looked much the same. Cut from white stone, although there was a shift in the intricacies about two-thirds upwards. Simple and clean became decorative, as if funds had suddenly appeared to do away with sheer necessity and allow room for beauty.

Perhaps some knew the history of the creation of the city—she certainly didn’t. Da had stories, of course. Fantastical ones about sea creatures and eggs and that was why the city was white, didn’t she know? And when they’d cracked open and returned to the waters where they belonged, the shells had been made into towers and homes, and he’d build her a tower, if she liked. Only had to ask.

To which Mama would instruct her firmly not to ask, because she had quite enough to clean without adding so many more rooms all up in a row.

The salt air was thick, and she worried what it was doing to her hair. But if she fussed with it, it would only make it all the more untidy, so she forced her hands to keep away.

The stars were bright, and that was a good sign, wasn’t it? Helped her to ease between the towers. Orma’s directions had been minimal, and after a few twists, she almost wondered if it was a hopeless endeavour at all. The towers themselves were orderly, spaced well apart with rows of modestly sized homes. Or maybe not homes? Perhaps they were shops. Permanent fixtures that seemed wholly unnecessary when there was the market to buy one’s goods.

Most towers were lit in the upper rooms—a warm glow coming from the seams of thick shutters. But it left enough light to keep going. She wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. But it was strange to be out with no one else. She kept glancing upward to see if there was anyone flying overhead, so she might not feel so alone, but there was no one.

She turned a corner, peering awkwardly between her two directions, and felt an immediate sense of relief when she saw the tower with its open doors, warm light spilling out in welcome.

There were garlands about the doors. Moonstones studded throughout so it twinkled pleasantly. There was a man stationed just outside, leaning against the stoop in almost bored fashion, although he straightened quickly at her approach.

She smiled at him gently, uncertain why he was not inside amongst the rest of them, and made to enter. Perhaps he needed some night air. Perhaps it was full near to bursting with prospects. Perhaps...

“Name and house?” he asked, his tone polite, if not entirely friendly.

Almost as if he had asked much the same for the whole of the evening and had tired of it already.

Firen took a step back. She’d not made it through the threshold, not when he’d moved to block the entrance.

If this was a new attempt at efficiency, wherein a man stationed himself outside the fete doors so he could interrogate each woman that passed by and stare at her in that peculiar way, she did not care for it.

Her lips thinned, and she was more than grateful that she felt no rush of joy, no prickling sensation that he was anything but an obstacle.

“Pardon,” Firen tried, hoping he would simply ease to the side and allow her to pass without fuss. She could hear the music. The sound of fabric and wings as the dancing had already begun. This was a fete—not some random home she was intruding upon without cause.

“Name and house, please,” he added, looking a little more disgruntled for the extra effort, as if it was his manner that had offended her rather than his bodily impediment. He pulled a booklet from the pocket and gave her an expectant look, and she took another step backward.

“This is the fete, correct?”

He glanced at her from the bottom of her hem up to the tips of her wings. “It is. And if you belonged here, you would know that answer already.”

Her mouth opened of its own accord, although words were sluggish to follow. She was not certain she had ever been so deeply offended. “Am I a Harquil?” she asked, her voice tight as she fought for calm. “Are they not for any unmated of our people to come?”

“Most, maybe. But not this one.” He glanced behind her, his expression changing from cold censure to one of friendliness. “Lucian, please, come in.”

Her skin prickled.

Just a little, and it was only because of the sudden feeling of someone else behind her. But it was enough for her to turn her head, all indignation and disappointment in ways that suddenly had very little to do with mating and bonds at all.

“And his qualifications are so superior to mine?”

His head turned, his brow already twisting slightly into a look of distaste, obviously less than appreciative of being drawn into an argument against his will.

“I know him. You, I do not. So unless you can give some sort of indication that you belong here, I suggest you move along home.”

She was listening.

Had been listening.

Should have been formulating retorts that reminded him of laws and how precisely mating was outside those laws and any sort of sanctions.

But her tongue wasn’t working. Her thoughts too grew sharp and focused, uncaring and unheeding of the silly man guarding a doorway.

Because...

“It’s you?” It was a question. But not a question. Not once he’d turned and looked at her. Not when their eyes had met, and her heart had started racing, and she felt that surge of absolute bliss that this...

This was who she had been waiting for.

She took a step nearer to him, a little breathless, a bit too giddy as the disbelief mixed with the sudden shift in her emotions.

He wasn’t at all as she expected. Not that she’d settled on some personal ideal—not exactly. But in her daydreams, he was warm. Smiled often, with eyes that crinkled about the edges when he laughed. Which he would, and often.

And now that she considered it, that description was a little too near her father, and that did not bear thinking about, not when...

He took a step nearer, and the obnoxious doorman was still hovering about, and her mate raised his hand and waved it sharply. “Go away.”

And rather shockingly, the man did. With a few more glances between the two of them, he retreated into the very room she’d been so intent on seeing only a moment before.

But she didn’t need it now though, did she? Because he was here.

Her shoulders relaxed. A peace she hadn’t expected spread through every bit of her. All would be all right now. For always. He’d see to it.

She wanted to touch him. To pull him to her and rub away that furrow between his brows with her forefinger. To see if she could coax a smile from him.

His features bordered on severe—a thin face, with pale eyes and hair so pale that it seemed to mingle with the light from the moonstones. His wings were so dark they bled into the inky black of his robe. Unusual attire, to be sure, but she would not pretend she did not find him handsome in it.

She could touch him, couldn’t she? They were mates. Every bit of her thrummed with the knowledge of it. The assurances that it was right and real and just as it was almost meant to have been.

But there was a tension in him that gave her pause. That urged her to comfort rather than simply rejoice in the finding of him.

So rather than rub at furrows or clasp his hand, she touched his forearm instead. Just a brush of her fingers, and when he did not move away from her, she allowed it to linger. For her palm to meet the soft wool of his coat, also black as it peeped out from beneath his cloak.

She hadn’t stopped smiling. Should. Maybe. If he was unwell and needed her compassion rather than for her to prattle on with all the things she’d always imagined saying to him.

He moved then. Blinking once and his shoulders shaking once, as if coming back to himself.

His hand came to the back of her head, and despite the height she’d so appreciated earlier in the evening, he was taller still. Not looming, not as much as all that, but enough that he might look down at her, forcing her to look at him as he absorbed every feature of her face.

Perhaps he meant to kiss her soon. She wouldn’t mind that. Not even out here in the open on a strange stoop with an even stranger man that hadn’t quite spoken to her yet. Had made no sort of proclamation at all.

“Your name,” he murmured at last, and she relaxed into his hold. Liked the way he bent her a little too far backward, so she had to trust him to keep her balance.

“Firen,” she answered, more pleased than she could say that he was speaking to her. He had a pleasant voice, low as it was. As if he was keeping it just for her. “Lucian,” she repeated, because she remembered that part. Remembered that it had meant nothing in that moment, and yet now...

He grunted, and she wondered if she’d been mistaken, but he shook his head and studied her eyes a moment longer.

Then stood.

Released her.

And she was sorrier than she could say for their contact to end.

But it didn’t have to, surely. And she didn’t have to ask, did she? If she was welcome because of course she would be. Because the bond would sing as it did for her. Would tell him how pleased she was to finally, finally meet him. To speak for them while they muddled through these first moments together.

She took his hand. Adjusted her hold just so until her fingers settled naturally through his. And she could not help the beaming smile as she glanced up at him, only a touch dismayed that he was watching it all with bemusement rather than pleasure.

It was enough for her to pause. To feel a clutching, horrid chokehold on her throat. “You do feel it, don’t you? That... I am yours?”

Another of his piercing looks. The ones that were too sharp and might have seemed almost menacing if not for the swirl of satisfaction that he was looking at her.

“Yes,” he answered, his voice too tight and a tinge of something unpleasant that she dared not put to name.

And what should have been a relief left her with more confusion instead, and she glanced down at herself briefly. She hadn’t flown. Not a bit. Perhaps the walk by the seashore had done more to her hair than she’d thought. He was immaculate in his dress, his hair trimmed neatly. His hands were smooth and not at all calloused.

She pushed away the unease. Or... tried to. This was new, that was all. Eris’s mate was slow in his speech—his every word carefully considered before it passed from his lips. Which suited them just fine, as Eris knew how to speak enough for two.

Firen could do that.

Goodness knew Mama had bustled her out of the kitchen more than once to help her father, and Firen suspected she’d done it out of want of a bit of peace from her chatter.

She had always imagined so much touch when they found one another. Had always imagined being pulled into his arms and wrapping herself in the warmth and safety that only a mate could bring. Even now, she ached for it. Wanted to solidify the bond in some fashion, even if she could not yet have the kiss she’d craved for so long.

“Do you want to go in?” she asked, uncertain why he was so still. Why he was looking at her in that way. Wanting desperately for some hint of approval to creep into his expression, some indication that he was glad that he had found her.

He made a sound low in his throat. Not quite a scoff, and not quite a laugh, but somewhere in between. “I did not wish to attend at all. There is even less reason for it now.”

She felt some of the tension ease out of her. He was talking with her, and there would be no need of any more fetes for either of them.

No more arguing with ridiculous doormen, either.

“Where shall we go?” she asked, her heart a little lighter. She glanced down at their joined hands, wondering if she should let go of him. Which wasn’t like her at all. She was a little too bold, Mama said. She acted from her heart rather than her mind, and sometimes that wasn’t always akin to politeness.

But there was that trepidation again. The one that wasn’t hers.

She frowned, glancing downward. It was... his?

His.

She smiled, then. Not because he was nervous, but because it meant that the bond was real—was working. That it would help her through this just as it worked to help everyone else navigate such a sudden change with a stranger.

She squeezed his hand gently, trying to suffuse as much warmth through the bond as she could. Everything would be all right. He’d see. They could go to her home if he wasn’t quite prepared to take her to his. She had her trunk ready. Her parents would be thrilled for her.

Wouldn’t his feel the same?

She looked over his features. He did not appear younger than herself. Not a great deal older, either. But it still meant that he’d had to wait a rather long time, just as she had done.

And it was over.

Firen stepped nearer to him and rested her head against his arm as she allowed a little sigh to come from her lips. “I’m so glad,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Laughter trickled from the open door. And what should have been a moment of peace, of settling and understanding, instead sent another bolt of unease through this strange mate of hers.

She sighed. Just a little. Mama had tried to warn her. Over and over, that she shouldn’t fill herself up with expectations when the truth of it might be utterly different. There wasn’t regret—she refused to even contemplate that. But there were wistful little feelings too near to disappointments that it wasn’t quite as she’d dreamed.

Which was absurd. A private shame, one that she would never, ever share with him.

“And where do you call home?” he asked, looking down at her, but not moving. Which was something. He did not put his arm about her to pull her nearer, but nothing suggested he was truly bothered by her hold on him.

“Third district,” she answered immediately. “Seventh row, crossed with the diagonal. My father is a smithy. Of fine works,” she added hastily, because she was proud of him. He was an artist, even if he was just as capable of making something practical when Mama asked it of him.

Lucian turned, giving her that look again. The one that was a little too critical, a little too appraising. Even as his hand lifted and he ran his finger along the circlet tucked into her hair. “A craftsman,” he repeated, his tone neutral. Which might have meant something if she did not also feel a flare of something a little too near to displeasure through the bond.

She frowned.

Didn’t want to disentangle their hands. Didn’t want to feel the churning unease in her own belly.

“A fine craftsman,” she insisted.

Lucian nodded, humming a little, even as he put his hand on her shoulder. The bond settled. Quieted, and she tried to trust it, tried to lean into the experience and reassure herself that she had misinterpreted it entirely. They were learning, that was all. About each other. She shouldn’t take offense so easily.

“And you?” she asked, and she was pleased that she didn’t sound the least bit cross. She wanted to know everything about him. His favourite meals, if he had any siblings that she would soon befriend. If his parents were living, and were they as eager for him to find her as hers had been?

She was smiling again. Could feel it spread through the rest of her, the warmth and excitement that had momentarily been stifled by too many uncertainties.

Until she watched his eyes narrow. His eyes flashing slightly as he caught her eye and held it. Not grasping at her as he did before, but pinning her with his expression alone. “And you do not know? You did not lie here in wait until you could pounce upon me?”

She did not mean to laugh, but it came anyway, a burst of sound that was more incredulity than sheer humour, although she could not pretend she did not find amusement in it.

“I am not some predator, ” she insisted, wiping at her eyes and wondering if she was meant to take him as seriously as he seemed to take himself. “I am your mate.”

He almost hissed. Caught himself. But he drew back, and his lips moved, and there was no mistaking—yes, he was glaring at her. As if... as if the reminder was an unwelcome one.

It stung. She could not pretend otherwise.

And it was with a baffling sort of reluctance that she reached for him again. Not his hand. This time, it was his outer robe. A handful, trying to keep him in place as she tried to make sense of the tangle of emotions. The hurt in hers. The wild, jarring snap of his as he went from one to another without lingering on any of them.

He opened his mouth. His eyes were too harsh, his breath too tight in his chest as he glanced down at the hand that held him, and she wanted that warm glow to come back. But it couldn’t be forced, and his discord had jangled the bond between them. Badly.

It was enough to leave her breathless, to send an undercurrent of desperation through her. To fix thing, to smooth them over. To make things gentle and kindly and really, anything at all if it meant he would stop looking at her with something that appeared too much like suspicion.

There was a burst of laughter behind them, and his shoulder was knocked as a few individuals came through the door. They wore the heady smiles of ones too far into the fete casks, although one man had his arm about a giggling woman, so perhaps they were intoxicated on the bond rather than the cider.

Lucian removed her hand from his robe and pushed her behind him, shielding her from view.

As if a few party-goers were a threat, and yet his posture suggested that it was.

It was enough to keep her still. To put her hand on his back, nestled between his wings. To take a private appreciation for the strength she found there, liked the way he stepped between them, keeping her to himself.

Something soothed. Quieted. And she allowed herself to enjoy it.

“Lucian,” one of them greeted, and it might have sounded warm and friendly if not for the hint of mockery she detected at the edges. “I thought you said you’d rather be tied to a boulder and dropped into the sea before you attended another of these.”

Lucian grunted. “And I meant it, I assure you.”

The girl tried to peer around his shoulder, and he countered the movement with one of his own. “Who do you have back there? Midna? She always did say she’d get you in the end.”

Firen felt a flare of something far too near to jealousy and very nearly pushed her way beyond her mate’s protective stance in order to ask precisely where this Midna might be and that she most certainly would not be getting Lucian in any capacity.

Her heart was racing, and Lucian tilted his ever so slightly back in her direction, as if startled by the turn the bond had taken.

She felt properly abashed. Jealousy was nonsensical. He would never belong to anyone but her. That was entirely the point. Behaving in any other manner was petty and beneath her.

And if she needed three breaths to ensure she didn’t ask her query anyway, then... she was simply overwrought. That was all.

Things would settle down when they were in their new home. Unless... perhaps he had not procured one? He would imagine a man being very upset at finding his mate without a place to keep her. She would not have minded a family home. Not if his parents were welcoming, and they had privacy enough between them all.

They needed to talk. Alone. Touch a little more. They needed that too. Steal the kiss she craved, and maybe then he would smile at her and hold her close.

Two of them broke off and made to push around him. The better to get a look at her.

And suddenly she found his large, black wings spread out, shielding her from view. “Be gone, the lot of you. I have... matters.”

They laughed again. The kind that bred from familiarity and knowing one another.

And there was that spark again. Hot and heavy in her chest, that made her grip the back of his robes even tighter—to hide for her own sake, and not simply because he had deemed it necessary.

“Enjoy your matters, ” one of them called, but it was farther away than it had been, as if they were moving off. The sound of wings cutting through the still night air came next, and she wanted desperately for Lucian to turn. To tell her why he had not wanted to introduce her, if those were friends or something else entirely.

His wings settled back into place. Or tried to. She had to move out of the way, so close as she nestled against him, and she was reluctant to move.

She didn’t know herself. Not in that moment. Didn’t know him either.

And for once, his eyes softened, if only briefly. And his voice gentled as he reached for her hand. “Come along,” he urged, and that was better. It had been unexpected, that was all. A surprise for the both of them.

She did not ask him where. Did not ask him to tell her if it was a cottage by the sea where her sister now lived. If his trade was in a craft or in food production. Or if he thought himself so important because he had so many flocks that he had hired hands to do the real work of it, and his days were spent pouring over ledgers and seeing the stock supplied to the market.

Everyone knew how to fly in tandem. It was a skill learned first with a mother’s pull, a father’s amusement—holding onto an ankle rather than a hand as they raced as fast a fledgling could manage.

So when Lucian ascended, when he kept his hand clasped about hers, she was not frightened they could become a tangle of wings and limbs.

This was her mate, after all.

And he would let no harm come to her.