5. Supper

She was in a dress shop.

Intellectually, she’d known they existed. Just because she had two parents that could craft and made such places wholly unnecessary did not mean everyone held those same advantages.

Some had to stand on this strange circle in the middle of a shop, while measurements were taken with a long strip of cording. Prodded at and viewed in a critical eye while a man and woman fluttered about and clicked their tongues at everything they saw.

While Lucian watched, as if this was natural.

Which it was. Would be.

Might be.

But if they made one word against the clothes she’d fashioned for herself, or her embroidery, or the special way she cut the cuffs of her tunic so she could add little flounces to the hems just because she liked the way they moved...

“Black?” the male tailor asked. Not to her. To Lucian.

Was this some custom she had never heard of before? She despised it already, if it was.

But she said nothing. Allowed them to tuck and pin and wonder at her frame, most particularly the set of her wings upon her shoulders and just how much room they would have to allow to accommodate them.

So much the better. There was nothing worse than clothes cutting too tightly into the base. Mussing feathers until they quirked out of alignment, aching and raw until she could bribe Eris into fixing them should their mother be too busy.

Firen had not worn black a day in her life. The dyes were common enough, which surprised her, as it seemed to be the favoured colour of lawmen.

The severity helped, she supposed. Commanded a sort of respect that paired well with glares and stony expressions.

She thought Lucian would look well in a deep blue instead. Or perhaps green...

Like the cloth from his bed. He looked... quite becoming with that about him.

Lucian gave her a look, and she was more than aware of how the bond had warmed at the turn of her thoughts.

She would wear it, if it would help. She couldn’t imagine how it might, other than they would look more like a proper pair.

Lucian circled as the others had done, and it felt different when it was him. Weightier. As her insides curled and tightened. Loosened. All depending on where he was positioned and how the set of his jaw ticked ever so slightly as he watched her. “You do not think it too harsh?”

Which was laughable, as his hair was paler even than hers. His skin, too, hidden away in his towers. He stepped nearer to her, his hand reaching out to touch her cheek ever so slightly. “Purple,” he declared, his thumb moving over the mark just once before he pulled his hand away entirely. “As deep as you have it.”

Not to match, then, as her markings were considerably lighter than that.

It shouldn’t fluster her. To be touched in view of others, to have him dress her. Not physically—although that would likely elicit some rather strong reactions if ever it occurred. But for him to declare his preference, to bring her somewhere he was known and state that his mate required attire for a rather important supper...

It was exciting. Thrilling, even. Tempering her trepidation, the lingering hurts.

Some had mended well enough under her parents’ care. The story Lucian offered them was not a deceit. It was simply... condensed. He removed the portions about Firen’s banned entry. Focused solely on seeing her. Meeting her. Of knowing it was her and feeling...

He could not settle on a word. Sorry, was what Firen privately thought he meant most, but he refused to give it.

“Captivated,” he finished at last.

While Mama continued to glance between the two of them. Seated across from one another, rather than beside. They did not touch, hands were clasped around cups rather than each other, and that was all right, wasn’t it? She’d held his hand as she brought him down. Allowed him to choose his seat, and hers was taken from sheer habit. It had always been hers.

Firen had blinked at him, wondering if he had trespassed into a lie—something she could not abide. Not for two of the people she held in the highest esteem. But he met her gaze and held it there, and she swallowed thickly.

“And yet you kept so calm,” she countered with a quirk of her brow and a smile that she hoped was teasing rather than imploring. She wanted it to be true. So badly. “A result of my profession. I am studying to become a lawmancer. Apprentice to my father.”

He did not grimace. Did nothing to suggest that the partnership would be over if this impending supper did little to change Oberon’s mind. There were others in the city, surely. Ones that would be pleased to teach Lucian and situate him in the halls without need of his father’s permission.

Ones that respected the bond more.

“A difficult position,” Da offered. “You are certain you would not prefer to learn how to tinker?” It was given in jest, but Lucian did not know that.

“At the moment, I am uncertain of anything. Only that... I have obligations. That I mean to fulfil, to the best of my abilities.” This he said to Firen. A promise. He would do right by her. Would try, for her.

Firen kept them from talk of lodging. Instead, she prattled about a supper she knew nothing about, of meeting family and she was nervous, as they had only met with his parents that morning.

If they thought it strange they received no invitation, they did not say.

“Certainly,” the female tailor acknowledged, already delving into the racks in search of something suitable. “If we had been given more notice, we would of course have made it to her exact specifications, however...” She pulled out two outfits, in styles Firen had never worn—nor seen before. They appeared... restrictive. Not the flowing layers she was used to, but dresses so fitted that she wondered if one would be able to walk. Fly, certainly, and she supposed there would be no risk of anyone seeing anything untoward, but she did not relish the thought of wearing either of them.

Her smile grew brittle. They were beautiful. The fabrics were fine. She should want to wear them. If it would please Lucian, would make him think her a worthy mate then...

Her pulse fluttered, and her stomach clenched, just to think it.

She was those things already. In clothing made by her own hands by Mama’s hands. She was no lesser just because a tailor was an extravagance unknown to her.

Lucian moved closer to the offerings, touching each in turn before turning to Firen. For her opinion? Or to make his declaration on how his mate should look, how she should act. Never mind, speak, for there surely would be no cause for that at all.

A sickly feeling spread through her. They’d changed her into a measuring garment, and it was that alone that kept her rooted in place rather than escape into the afternoon air until her mood settled and she was herself again.

She’d wanted a dress from her mother’s wardrobe. Had asked if she might borrow one of her prettier pieces, and Mama had looked at Lucian in that stern, knowing way of hers. And before Firen could redirect, retract the request and laugh it off as nothing of important, Mama asked if it was not Lucian’s responsibility to see to her needs. Which it was. Only... it meant coming here, with things she could not afford. Did not want to afford.

“You’ve no preference?” Lucian asked, although it was hardly a question at all.

She did. But not for either of the ones still being held for their inspection. “You know what is expected.” It was as gracious a comment as she could make. She wasn’t arguing, but she did not doubt he could feel her unease flowing steadily through the bond.

“Would it be presumptuous,” he began, turning to the woman, “To have a moment to look with my mate?”

If the request was an odd one, neither tailor said so. They fluttered and nodded, and their smiles were wide as they retreated to the workspace in the back. Doubtless to gossip amongst themselves about the strange couple in their display room, with a too-silent mate and her scowling...

He wasn’t scowling. He was running a hand through his hair as he looked at both garments returned to their places on the racks. “You hate them.”

She sighed, smoothing her hand down the thin muslin with its many stitches that presumably indicated measurements. “I didn’t say that.”

He cast her a look that made it more than clear they did not require words between them to make their displeasure abundantly plain. “Is it the colour?”

There was something in the way he said it—as if it might hurt him in some way if that caused her unease.

“No,” Firen insisted, abandoning her post on the circle so she could make herself better understood. “It is the... styles.”

Lucian glanced down at them again, picking at one with two of his fingers as if he was afraid of damaging it. “What about it? Robes are appropriate.”

Firen laughed a little breathlessly. “I do not mind that. It is this portion, see?” She held out the... it was a dress. Must be, as there were no leggings to suggest it was simply a fitted tunic. That might have made the slits she found to be more tolerable, but as it was...

Perhaps there were even limits to her immodesty.

“It’s this, see? My mother would have a fit if she saw me in a dress like this.” She pulled out the fabric so he could better see what troubled her. Then, to fully illustrate her point, she took his hand and pulled it to the place on her thigh where she imagined it would fall on her. And now that she looked properly, it was at the front rather than the side, which made it even more scandalous when she pulled his hand more inward. “You might be used to seeing your family in such attire, but I’m not.” She swallowed, trying to smile at him as he looked down at their joined hands. “But I’ll wear it, if you want me to.”

He scowled at her. “Of course not.” He started ripping through the other racks, grumbling all the while. About dips and sodden dresses, and slits that belonged on nothing but a nightdress and if she thought for a moment that she would be presented before his family in such a manner...

It shouldn’t amuse her. Truly. But this was something she had never imagined teasing her mate about. That he should think her lovely, most certainly. But not the way he might covet her. Might grow offended on her behalf if others got to partake of a little too much of that loveliness, even if he had only just become acquainted with it.

He pulled out another. Not nearly as deep in colour. Not so dissimilar from the dress she’d worn to the fete. Gathered with drawstrings in a becoming fashion—only these cords were of intricate lace to match the hem and neckline. She took it from him, holding it up to her person. Not a slit to be seen. But perhaps she might convince him to dance with her, if only so she might better experience the swish and flow of a skirt so voluminous that the cost alone must be staggering.

She gave Lucian a worried glance, but he did not catch it. He was eyeing her, from foot to collarbone, then down again. There was a robe—if it might be called that. Attached at the shoulders, draping down low in the back for the sake of her wings. “This is very pretty,” she commented softly. She would not grow attached. It was not her purse that would pay for it, and she would accept what he offered.

He leaned down so he could look her fully in the eyes. “And you like it.”

“Well, yes.” She was growing flustered at his scrutiny, the bond a curling, warming entity in her chest that it should matter to him—for her to be pleased. “I thought dresses were only for fetes. Special occasions, maybe.”

Lucian stood back to his full height. “I cannot think of a more important occasion at the moment.”

She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on it. Not when it would only make her nervous. She resented even that, as she was not the sort to fret about such things before. Sometimes she could be too bold, or so Eris said, hand clutching at her tunic as she tried to urge her back home rather than to make yet another visit to a market stall for a chat.

Especially if they were new. From some foreign place that Firen would never see. She would want to be welcomed if she found herself in a strange land with different folks.

But she was about to be, wasn’t she?

They didn’t go home again.

Not after Lucian had told the tailors to apply the price of her dress to the family account—which was done with a nod, as if it was a common enough practice to use credit rather than coin.

Lucian took her trunk when they left her parents. She hadn’t dared ask if it was presumptuous given... everything. She’d just watched as she picked it up by the leather-tooled handles and flew it up the tower and into his chambers directly.

When he’d unlatched the shutters, she did not know, but he’d obviously had the foresight to expect he would not wish to make use of the front door.

Then it was to the tailor shop. Then...

He rubbed at his temples as they left, and Firen cast him a worried glance. The dress fit well. At least by her standards. There was more tongue clicking and fussing, insistence that it should be nipped here and there. If it was the market, Firen would be suspicious that they merely wanted more coin for their troubles, but it wasn’t, so she kept quiet about how the whole thing was constructed of drawstrings and laces, designed to fit and move as a woman ebbed and flowed with time and fledglings.

Clothing that couldn’t was frivolous. Wasteful.

Like having a dress for one supper, no matter how important.

But those were the practical thoughts. Then there was the thrill at the extravagance. That it had been picked just for her. That she did not have to spend her evenings attending to each detail. Just... come in. Say that she liked it. Watch as his eyes darkened as she swished and flounced before he called the tailors back in to tell them of their selection.

“Are you hungry?”

He wasn’t looking at her. She could see nothing of particular interest that should hold his attention, but he was being thoughtful of her. Of her needs, without her having to insist upon them.

“A little.” Perhaps a bit more than a little, but not enough that she would risk running into either of his parents in the tower’s kitchen.

He nodded, running his hand through his hair. “Are you all right carrying that?”

The gown had been wrapped in paper. Then more paper. Then a third layer that was absurd because the second layer had been waxed so not even a rainstorm would have seen any damage to it. A ribbon of crisp white was tied about the entire concoction, the smiles genuine when they looked at Lucian. She expected them to lessen when they looked at her. And perhaps they did, but only just. His mate, they seemed to recognise. And they wanted her pleased, because that would mean more custom.

Firen laughed. “It’s hardly heavy.”

Lucian nodded. His clothes must be heavier. Severe in cut, the outer robe that drifted beneath his wings was of a thick wool that billowed rather imperiously as he walked. Difficult to launder, Firen decided.

A future chore of hers? Or, he had mentioned a service...

He led her to another of the shorter buildings nestled between the towers. He seemed lost to his own thoughts, and he did not hold her hand as they moved, just trusted her to keep to his side. They were shops. With a second storey on top—perhaps even more than one. Lodgings? Clever in design, as one would not have to sacrifice days away from home to tend a market stall as Firen had.

They might have flown, but he chose instead to walk. His stride a little too long, even for her legs. She slowed her pace. Then did it again, simply to see how long it would take for him to notice that she lagged behind.

Two buildings. And he paused, turning his head left and then right, before turning around entirely and watching as she made her way slowly back to him. “I like these buildings,” she declared. Some of them were of the same white stones as the rest of the city, but some had been added later. Wooden beams showed the greatest differences, crossed and supporting plaster and what bits of stone were used for the foundations.

Lucian’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at them as if he had not even realised they were there at all. “Why?”

Firen shook her head, smiling to herself. “I do not know. I like how that one placed a planter box outside the window, see? For kitchen herbs.” She pointed to the one she meant. Crisp and green against the dark woods and unrelenting white. She would put flowers. Then begrudgingly put herbs when she tired of having to fly all the way down to the garden for a forgotten sprig to flavour her soups. “Don’t you?”

He squinted in the glare of the suns. “I have never seen those before in my life.”

Firen laughed, but it was a scoffing, incredulous thing. “You do not walk this way often?”

He gestured toward one of the shops, a sign hanging overhead with a basket of breads sticking out of it. “Nearly every day.”

Firen cast him a look, and he frowned slightly. “I often have a great deal on my mind. It keeps me from peeking at kitchen windows and their herbs.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was hardly peeking. Just admiring.”

He kept moving, opening the shop door and gesturing for her to enter. “I’m sure there are plenty of things to think highly of. A window would not be one of them.”

An absurd statement. It was not just about the window—although a fine pane and a comely outlook were hardly to be dismissed. It was more than a window box and herbs. It was... a life.

A family lived up there. Working and living and yes, it was most certainly worth admiring.

Must they disagree on everything?

He held open the door and ushered her in. She’d expected a stall within a building. A counter and some baskets to make selections.

Instead, they were met with an approaching woman, her smile warm as she looked to Lucian with recognition, then at Firen with something that could only be considered surprise. “A room, or would you care to view our selections?” Formal, as if she had made the same queries hundreds of times before, but there was a certain interest that suggested she would gossip about Lucian’s guest in the kitchens just as soon as she was able.

“A room.”

She took them through to a hallway, then into small, individual chambers that boasted tall windows—closed, although the shutters allowed light in. Then there was the table and low, cushioned benches.

If there was more to her usual hospitalities, Lucian put a stop to them as he gestured for Firen to sit and ordered a full spread and two mugs of house brew.

The woman left again with a nod, and Firen sat, her excitement dimming with her confusion on what such a space could possibly be for. “You come often,” she repeated. “Why?”

Private rooms simply to eat? Did they not have homes?

Lucian made a sound low in his throat. “Deals are better struck when stomachs are full and mugs are empty.”

She supposed that would be true, but it still felt strange. Better still for deals to be made beside a kitchen hearth. But she knew nothing of such matters.

“Deals with...”

She settled her package beside her on the bench, hoping Lucian would tell her more of his actual profession. She’d never had cause to utilise the hall of justice, never had a complaint against a market-goer that could not be settled by the Proctor.

“Merchants, mostly.” He waved his hand, as if that was of least importance. As if ports and trade were not how most everyone made their livings.

He leaned forward, his hands steepling as he regarded her. She refused to acknowledge the way her insides squirmed, as if he was about to find fault with her for no reason at all.

Instead, she leaned forward also, perching her chin on her hand as she looked at him. “I’ve never been to a place like this,” she admitted, although doubtlessly he could tell. “Or been secreted away for private dealings.” She smiled, and she found it was genuine. “Do you intend to fill me up so that I’ll look dainty and demure at supper, barely eating a thing?”

Lucian rolled his eyes. “More like I intend for you to be full so you’ll eat nothing at all, lest it be poisoned.”

Firen’s smile fell, and the door opened, the woman’s arms full of a large tray, heavily laden with all sorts of delights. Little pots of spiced jams, bread cut into slices, others cubed. Salted meats and vibrant fruits, all cut and arranged in a way Firen could never hope to duplicate.

Then there were the mugs, silvery and with intricate handles—and Firen squinted hard to make out if perhaps her father had been involved in their making. She would look at the bottom for his stamp, but that would likely be rude.

The woman retreated, leaving them with too much food and a threat hanging awkwardly between them.

“That was a jest,” Lucian clarified, reaching for his mug. There was something pale and lightly bubbling inside, little wafts of mist rising from the cup as he tipped it to take a full sip. “Eat whatever you like, here or at supper.”

But Firen frowned down at the food, not mistrustful of him. Not exactly. But those were not the teases she was used to—most particularly when she was more than aware that her presence was seen as a blight rather than an exciting fresh addition to an established family.

She took a breath.

Stood up.

And she could see Lucian already tensing, the way his jaw worked and his eyes darted about as if preparing himself to catch hold of her.

She’d only run the once. Well, twice. And she could not promise she would not resort to it again.

But as she moved about the table, she did not make for the door. Instead, she settled down beside her mate, and felt his confusion mixing with relief. “All right,” she agreed. “Show me which of these are best and then... and then you can talk me through tonight. And just how I will not be poisoned, and who will be there, and how not to embarrass either you or myself.”

An impossible goal, she was certain.

And at the look he gave her, Lucian thought much the same.

But he nodded.

And perhaps she did not hear all about merchants and foreign trade agreements. But she did learn that he liked the spiced jams the best. That he preferred cubed bread to the slices. That he always bit into the fruit first rather than pop a whole segment into his mouth at once.

And if she had to learn about people that she did not know and most certainly would not like her, she found it was better to do it with a fully belly and an empty mug, just as Lucian had said.

Most especially when he was the one that moved just a little closer so their arms might brush and occasionally, their hands too.

And that was her favourite part of all.

And the cheese. But she would not tell him that.

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