1.2

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.