2.2

“My family,” he began slowly, his thumb coming to touch her bottom lip. And that was something, wasn’t it? “Is an old one.”

Weren’t they all? Everyone came from someone. On and on it went, beyond memory or books or even the legends of white cities and eggs and creatures from the sea.

But she didn’t tell him that was ridiculous. Not when the bond wavered uncomfortably, and she had to take a sharp breath inward until it settled again.

“All right.”

If this tower was his home, then she supposed he meant it was an important family. Perhaps his father was an arbiter. One of the negotiators when the trade ships came from foreign lands, wanting to settle or simply sell their wares at the market before taking to their vessels again. Some to return, others to take tales of winged folk and their fine city.

“A lawmancer,” he continued, trying to catch some hint of recognition in her features. Not just the keeper of law. But the crafter. That could sit and twist and poke at it until it was all orderly again, new and whole for a fresh generation, with all the complications therein.

Firen swallowed, standing straighter.

And he let her go. Let her stand and look down at him as he sat where she’d insisted. They studied. There would be rooms dedicated solely to books in this tower. And because his family was old. Because the station had presumably been held in perpetuity, they’d grown lofty in their opinions of themselves.

“Mating is outside the law,” Firen reminded him, her voice a little too breathless, a great deal too tight. “Even a lawmancer could not fault a bond.”

Lucian nodded his head. “That is true. But he could fault a son for going outside of his approved circle. He could make his mate feel small and unwelcome. Could give away this fine tower and all the knowledge within it, and leave us without funds or shelter.”

Firen nearly rolled her eyes at that. Perhaps Lucian was without skill in a trade, but she was not. No fledgling of hers would starve while her family lived, nor while she could craft a chain, practical or decorative.

But she needn’t make him feel worse. From the way he was tugging at his hair, was glancing at her with full assurance she would soon fly through the window once more. He knew theirs was not an equal pairing. Not in the way he thought. Not her with her home in the fourth district. With hands that knew hard work rather than ample book-learning.

But because her father would never dream of treating her mate with anything less than respect and welcome. Because there would never be talk of disinheritance. Of being without a home or coin enough to live.

And it made her sorry. Even if he did not know to be.

She sat down beside him. Did not take his hand, but she wasn’t leaving. Not at the moment.

“I came to you,” she reminded him, feeling silly for recounting what had occurred only an hour or so before. Was it longer? Maybe it was. They’d flown. They’d quarrelled.

They’d... kissed.

Her heart gave a flutter, absurd as it was.

“How can you be blamed when you were precisely where you were meant to be?”

With her , she wanted to add. But didn’t.

He gave a derisive sort of laugh. “Father has a way of finding fault. So for what it is worth.” He turned his head to catch her eye. “I am sorry for what I said. And for what he will say. When he knows.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “Because he’ll have to know.”

Perhaps a better mate would offer to keep it hidden. To spare him whatever censure his father would give him. But the prospect of that was unthinkable. Almost... as if there was shame in it, which there was not. Not a bit of it.

“I could take you home. We could live in my old room and you could apprentice as a smithy.” Her hand went to her circlet without a bit of self-consciousness. “Make pretty things like this. Tend the stall with me. You’ll have to smile more if you wish to sell anything, but I can train you. I’m rather good, I hear.”

She meant every word of it. Not every son did as their father did. Some worked with their father’s-fathers. Some took after their mother’s kin.

Surely there were no laws about that in his father’s books.

But he looked at her as if she’d recited the tale of the birth of the second sun, not a conceivable plan for them both. For their life.

For their children.

Her heart gave another flutter, one that pulsed and lingered in places she could name, but only because her mother had shown her in a book once.

Well. And because she was thorough with her washing and she wasn’t a complete fool about matters.

But it was different to feel. For stories to become known. For vague whispers to turn into very real sensations. Desires that settled so rightly and yet... didn’t. Because they were at odds, weren’t they? Even now.

So there could be no pleasant exploration. No encouraging those first, fleeting pulses to their conclusion. But they certainly were distracting. Another ache she was supposed to ignore.

Wasn’t this supposed to be the end of all the longing? The wanting? Because she had him now. The rest shouldn’t matter.

She swallowed thickly. “I’m quite serious,” she added, in case he did not know.

“I do not doubt that,” Lucian answered, not with the mocking tone he’d used earlier, but a weary one. “But as you do not wish to abandon your family, I do not care to abandon mine.”

Firen could not argue with that, even if there was a small impulse to do so. They did not sound particularly kind. Did not sound warm. Accepting. Not the sort of people she could imagine helping to raise her fledglings.

And yet...

She had faith that bonds were made for a reason. So perhaps Lucian was merely being dramatic. That there were hopes, yes. Always that. Even Mama had hope for certain mates from certain backgrounds—mainly when the house needed repair and she might call upon favours rather than coins to see the kitchen tap fixed, or the stones near the roof reset after a winter storm.

They hadn’t met her. Didn’t know her. And once they did, it could all be just fine. There was no going back, no pretending they might ignore one another.

But she could be sorry, for Lucian’s sake. For the consequences he seemed to think would be very real.

She didn’t want to be in this strange room. It was growing darker as the light from the moon shifted, and she could see too little of him. She wanted home. Wanted her father’s fierce optimism that everything would be all right.

Wanted more, her mother’s pragmatism. Everything would be all right once you planned well enough and had the determination to see it so.

“What are we going to do?” Firen asked at last. The first hurdle, for any new couple.

Other mates surely did not hear quite that same sigh, however. Didn’t feel the lump of disquiet settle so firmly.

“For tonight? Or for later?”

Either. Both.

“I wish you would come home with me,” she said at last. “If... if things are to be as bad as you think they will, perhaps it would be better to have a welcome to hold on to.” She tucked her arm about his, hugging it to her. He was stiff beside her, but the bond hummed pleasantly, so he must not find it too disagreeable.

“But if you would rather wait...” She felt the weight of that and wondered if her parents might worry. Or if... if they would know. When she did not come back until the morning. If they would rightly assume that she was otherwise occupied.

She bit her lip, wishing it was from the burst of mutual warmth of wanting and... well... the joining that would come after.

“Might I see your room? If we are to stay here?”

He shifted, and she could feel his eyes narrowing, although she did not turn her head to look. “Why?”

She did not let his tone dissuade her. “Because. I’d like to know more about you. And presumably there are belongings to be seen there.” Her head tilted slightly, and she did glance at him then. “Or did you pack your trunk like you were meant to?” He looked away from her, his shoulders tenser than they’d been before. “I’m not cross,” she soothed. “I stopped doing it a long time ago.” But she’d done it that morning. Convinced herself that it wouldn’t actually happen. Not on her first attempt at seeking him out for herself. But... better prepared, Mama said.

And she’d been right. As usual.

“I don’t...” He shifted, his head ducking to stare down at the floor.

She squinted.

No. Glare down at the floor.

“I cannot recall the last time anyone else was in there.”

Firen blinked, not quite able to comprehend that. Perhaps Da had become a bit more reserved in entering her chamber as she’d grown. But there was always a sibling pushing in. Mama with a query or a reminder.

Always someone.

“Oh.” She tried to reorient herself. To know if she should press or to retreat. But they would need to sleep somewhere for the night. Together, surely? Or did he expect her simply to... go?

She shifted again, eyeing him more carefully. “Do you wish me to go home?” she asked, trying not to let her voice waver. Trying to be understanding even... even as her throat tightened and her heart raced. And not in the pleasant way it had when he’d kissed her and she’d pulled him close. “Alone?”

She hated the thought of it. Despised it with every bit of herself. But... maybe that’s what he needed. To prepare his room and his thoughts. His family too, if that’s what was required.

He was not a fantasy. This was her mate, and his needs mattered, even if she could not share in them.

He snorted softly and shook his head. “If I’d wanted that, I’d have let you fly out the window.”

Her shoulders relaxed.

Her throat too.

“Good.” She took his hand again. “But I don’t think we should stay here. Not if it’s meant for somebody else.” She could not imagine how cross her mother would be if they messed a room that had already been cleaned for another’s use. That was not how she wished things to begin with Lucian’s parents, especially if they would already be tense.

He sighed and stood. “I suppose.”

He sounded resigned, but not entirely pleased at the prospect of moving. “My room,” he muttered to himself, and she nodded.

“I won’t be too nosey. I promise.” It was the first vow she’d given to him, and it was the one that she already knew would be the hardest to keep. But she’d said it, and she’d meant it, so whatever she saw in his chamber, she’d... try. To not be too great a bother. And if he was anything like her brothers in their earlier days, she’d try not to judge too harshly if his room was untidy without a mother to remind them they’d have mates one day who would not tolerate a slovenly bond-mate.

He muttered something else, but it was too low for her to hear.

She didn’t know if he’d insist on breaking through the shutter and window from the outside, but was almost relieved when he crossed to the main door of the room. The hinges were well-oiled, and it swung inward, and there was suddenly a great deal more light than there had been before.

She stepped forward without giving it much thought, wanting to see more of it.

His arm came out, keeping her within the chamber even as he stepped out and peered in all directions. It was eerily quiet. Firen’s home had become quieter as each of her brothers found their mates and settled into their respective lives. But there were always the sounds of her father working. Of Mama fiddling in the kitchen. Eris humming as she dusted in the living quarters.

She poked her head over Lucian’s arm. It was an open chamber—not with candles and lamps to light it, but glowing stones cut mortared into the stone of the tower itself. The resulting cast was strangely white and almost cold compared to firelight. The doorway opened to a ledge—almost a balcony if it had been set to the outside of a building.

“A difficult home if one should break a wing.”

She whispered it, but her voice echoed through the tower, and she winced, already expecting Lucian’s glare. “Sorry.” It was more the movement of her lips rather than sound, but he sighed and nodded.

He kept careful hold of her hand and stepped off, pulling her upward until her wings did the rest of the work for him, taking her even higher. There were so many doors. All of them looked quite the same, although if she squinted as she passed, perhaps there were carvings about the mouldings that distinguished them slightly.

They should be labelled. In a flowing script. Washing room. Guest chamber. Lucian’s abode.

Or perhaps they were all book-rooms. Da had a small bookcase in the workshop. Plans and particulars for all sorts of craft. He rarely looked at any of them anymore, so far was he from apprenticeship.

But she did. Sitting at one of the worktables, looking at the diagrams and calculations, the pencil lines so faded that she doubted her children could read them. Certainly not their children.

Which was... sad. She’d always intended to do them all over. To make fresh markings with new ink and coal, but there had always been something else to do, hadn’t there? Even... even if that something else had been to sit in her window and wile away the afternoons with frivolous daydreaming.

Or so Mama said.

It wasn’t the very top, but near to it. The doors were larger; the ornamentations carved into the stone arches about them were more elaborate. Silly, since Lucian said no one had been there in an age.

Even the landing had decorative columns to accent the balcony—the tops and bottoms fashioned to look like crashing waves. She knelt so might better marvel at how the craftsmen had recreated sea-foam from a solid cut of rock, only to feel Lucian tug at her hand. “What are you doing?”

His hand was on the latch of the door, and she stood as she was bid, although she’d liked to have lingered longer. Perhaps with a cloth or a very fine brush, as dust cluttered the edges. “It’s beautiful.” She gestured toward the column and Lucian spared it barely a glance.

“If you say so.”

Her mouth opened, but she remembered the way her voice had carried before and did not think it was worth another of his glares.

He pulled her into his room.

Which might have included an excited sort of thrill if he wasn’t so tense. If they’d greeted his parents first and she did not feel as if they were skulking rather than moving freely about a home they’d a right to.

He released her so he could see to the lamps. It was somehow even larger than the chamber they’d left before. A thick rug of dark green and grey covered most of the floor. Tapestries lined the walls, woven so fine and detailed that they depicted all sorts of stories she’d forgotten since her youngest days when Da would read them from the thickest tome on the modest shelf in the living room.

The hearth was large enough that she—could not stand upright—but could sit comfortably with no risk to her head.

And she thought he’d be willing to live in her modest room? With its slim bed and quilts made by her mother’s mother. With the only true ornament, the chain of delicate links her father had made to twinkle over her bed when they caught the lamplight when she was small.

The walls curved gently. The bed—larger even than her parents had in their room—was built onto a frame that had obviously been crafted with those unique specifications in mind. There was a table behind, with another lamp and... She moved a little nearer, trying to see which items held such attention he’d want them so close while sleeping.

Right. She mustn’t be nosey. She’d promised.

Hated that she’d promised.

But she’d done it. And she was here, and this was his room. Her mate’s room.

“Has this always been yours?” she asked, trying to keep her movements subtle rather than flit from one end to the other as she wanted to.

He grunted in a way that she supposed was a confirmation, before settling into a large chair before the hearth. What had been embers had been stoked into a cheerful blaze. The chair itself suited him well. It was large and heavily cushioned, and he looked quite at home seated in it.

There was not another. Which was to be expected. And left her free to... drift. Softly. Toward the window where she might see the view that was his. To wonder if he might see her district at such a height when it was daylight. If he’d looked out when she had and if that had been when the ache was hardest—staring but not seeing.

But it was dark and she could barely see anything at all, so she allowed herself to settle on the rest of it.

The trunk that was large—certainly larger than hers. Closed and sealed, although she doubted there was much of anything at all inside of it. A wardrobe. An entire bookcase that was taller than even her that curved about the inner wall, some so old that the bindings had turned split and papers were tied with stringed to keep them together. Others new and glinting with their golden lettering pressed into linen covers.

The mantle held more personal items. A silvery ball balancing on a simple wooden cup. A watercolour of a woman with a child still young enough to be held in her arms. “Your mother?” she asked, hoping that did not count as prying.

He shifted, his eyes drifting up from the fire to settle on the picture. He stood. Walked over and quickly picked it up. “Yes,” he answered, more a grumble than a proper response, then took it to his trunk and hastily lifted the lid and stowed it inside.

All right. Possibly prying.

His shoulders were tense. His back too. And she felt so lost as she watched him, uncertain how she’d hurt him but very aware that she had.

Had she died?

She could ask it gently. Her voice low and full of compassion. Birth wasn’t always easy. Or perhaps it was a sickness.

She could take the chair. Other mates would offer immediately since there was only one to be had in the entire chamber. But things were already so... difficult.

Firen settled on the floor. It wasn’t uncomfortable—the rug was so plush and fine that she did not think she’d felt anything like it. But she was met with another of his scowls when he turned and saw her there. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. She wanted to tell him he was nothing like she expected. Wanted to tell him she was sorry if something had happened to his mother. That she wanted to go home, but only if he was willing to take her and be pleasant to her parents.

She crossed her legs and stared into the fire. Bright and cheerful. Just the same as any other. Its surroundings might be fancier, but the rest of it...

“You should... take the chair,” Lucian got out, although nothing in his tone suggested he truly meant it.

Irritation would only lead to sharp words. She knew that. One did not grow up with a house full of siblings without knowing that harsh tones and biting words would lead to altercations. Some verbal, others physical.

And all of them would mean talking to by either Mama or Da. Sometimes both.

But there was no interfering with mates, was there? They had to work it out themselves.

“I don’t need your chair, Lucian,” she insisted. “But I would like for you to talk with me.”

He crossed his arms. “About what?”

Firen shook her head, praying for calm that felt entirely too far away. “ Anything. Anything at all.” Which led him to looking as lost as she felt, and she did not know if she intended to laugh or cry at the mess of it. “What would you have liked to have done tonight? Instead of attending the fete. There must have been something. You were late.”

He glanced away from her. “As were you,” he added tersely.

“Yes. But it was my second for the evening. You’ve already admitted you only attend the one.”

That was enough to set him pacing, and she tried desperately to contain her sigh.

“If I was from a tower,” Firen asked, picking at her skirt over and over. Easier not to look. Easier to say it to the room rather than to him. He stilled. “If I was from an old house,” which was still an absurd notion to her, but she wouldn’t argue over it. “And your parents would be delighted with me. Would you be so different?”

Still, she did not look.

“In what way?” he asked lowly.

He could not be serious. What sorts of matches had he witnessed that would lead him to believe that this was common? Most of her friends would have already made use of the bed once they found their mate, not these stuttering conversations that were so unbearably awkward and too often steeped with insult.

She wasn’t angry. Not exactly. But she was sad enough that she could look at him. To gesture toward the space between them. “Would you answer her questions? Would you sit with her and touch her, and make her feel as if she was not the greatest inconvenience thrust upon you?”

It ended more harshly than she meant it to be, but she could not call back the words, or the hardness of her tone.

He took a step forward, his hands curling. “In that scenario, we would have known one another from our fledgling days. You would know my family and I would know yours. Talk and... personal items would not hold such interest!”

She rubbed at her chest, trying to soothe a bond that she hadn’t created. Not all on her own. And she wasn’t the one that was jangling it about, causing it to hum discordantly between them. Didn’t he feel it? Didn’t he hate how uncomfortable it was when they were at odds?

Better when they were kissing. Far better. When it was warm and intoxicating. Plying them with sensations and...

Firen shook her head. She would not cry. She wouldn’t.

But she did not have to sit here and tolerate his anger, either. “I think I shall go home after all. To sleep,” she clarified, although she could not promise that it would not be a longer separation than that. He should sort through his disappointment, and she would try not to allow hers to curdle to resentment. “Things often look better in daylight.” Those were Da’s words. When she worked too long in the shop, her eyes tired and finger fatigued, and the piece she’d been so passionate about suddenly looked ugly and wrong in the moment.

Lucian groaned. “Would you...” His jaw tightened. “Stop trying to leave. Please. Just...” He tugged at his hair, and his pacing resumed.

She would. She dearly wanted to. “If you can make me feel, even the smallest bit, that you want me here.” Her throat was too tight, and she needed some water, but she did not know how to ask for even that. What sort of mate had she got for herself? That did not know how to sense her most basic needs? “Could you try,” she continued, and maybe she would cry a little. Just... because. “To use this,” she pressed her fist against her chest where the bond felt strongest. “And feel that I am hurt as well? That I had dreams and hopes and you...” she stopped herself short of calling him a disappointment. She wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t. And even if things were difficult at the start, she knew that their pairing was meant for something. Something great, if they could only sort out the rest of it.

“You are my mate,” she said instead. “And those obligations, those privileges... ” Firen waited, trying to let her emotions settle so she might continue. “They should matter to you.” She rubbed at her face tiredly. “But I come from a family that isn’t so old, or so important. So maybe I’m wrong and got filled up with too much romance, and your books tell the proper way of it.”

She wanted a blanket. Wanted tea. Wanted her mother.

But she had... him.

Who was stiff as he approached her.

Who ignored the chair—or she thought he did. As he knelt down beside her and glared at the floor.

But when he looked at her, it wasn’t a scowl as she expected. He’d shifted it to something near to neutral, and she supposed that meant he was trying. “You are not wrong. It should matter. You should matter.”

The words should warm her, but she was waiting, she realised. For him to finish it with a biting remark that she should... but she didn’t.

And it hurt. A throbbing, twisting knot in her chest that was foreign and horrid.

And he sighed. “I do not know how to do this,” he admitted, hanging his head briefly.

Firen sniffed, some of the anger seeping out of her. “And you think I do?”

He grimaced. Or maybe it was a smile. She was uncertain she could tell the difference with him, not when there was such a stiff, unnatural quality to his expressions.

He stood. And he really was quite tall when they were positioned so. Maybe he’d fetch water for her, if she asked. Or...

He held out his hand for her to take. And if it appeared to shake ever so slightly, it was just the flicker of the firelight, surely.

She took it. She did not have to think, did not have to wonder. It was as natural a reaction as it was to draw her next breath. For him to want for her touch and for her to give it. For his hand to grasp hers and to pull so that suddenly she stood next to him. But not for long.

Not when he sank back into his chair, and this time he pulled her with him. And it took some shifting to be comfortable, and her wings had to open and resettle to accommodate the plush arm, and they still were not talking. Had accomplished little.

But his arm was about her waist, and the fire was warm, and the bond was a quiet, pulsing thrum that said this was better. That they needed this first. To touch and be still.

“This is nice,” she murmured after a while. When she found that if she shifted just so, she could place her head near to his. To feel his hair against her cheek and it was softer than she’d expected.

He needn’t agree with her. She hadn’t wanted to prompt them to conversation—not when those were going poorly thus far.

But when his grip tightened about her, when his head turned slightly and his eyes were a little softer than they’d been before...

Her heart swelled. The bond too. “I suppose it is.”

Everything would be all right. It had to be.