10. Choose

“Firen, if you move those flowers one more time, I’m going to tie you to this chair.”

Mama didn’t mean it. She glanced at her anyway, and received a stern glance in answer, and Firen’s hands fell away from the jug without moving it left just a smidge as she’d intended. “But...”

“No buts,” Mama insisted. “Everything looks lovely. You look lovely. Now it’s time to stop.”

She sat, but she wasn’t happy about it. Lucian had left extra early—before Firen was even awake. She’d received a kiss on the cheek and hurried word that he loved her and no, she didn’t have to be up yet, and to go back to sleep. The words were slow to register, and he’d been gone before she’d woken up enough to remind him of the day’s details and receive a firm answer about if he might come.

“I shouldn’t have set a place,” Firen fussed. “Not if he isn’t coming. It’ll make it more obvious if...”

Mama tapped at her hands as she reached out to take the plate and cup away. “It’s fine. Better than you bustling about trying to make him feel welcome at his own table if he can come.”

Firen sank back against the chair and sighed. “I’m nervous.”

Mama smiled at her. “I know you are.”

Firen gave her a miserable look. “I want this to go well.”

Mama reached out and took her hand. “It has a much better chance if you don’t dwell on all the ways it won’t. How much did you sleep last night?” Firen grimaced. “I’ll take that to mean you lay awake for hours playing out the entire event.”

Firen’s wings wilted a little further. “Maybe.” She picked at her fingertip, not meeting her mother’s eye. “It was Lucian’s fault, really. Fell asleep before I could talk it all out with him. That would have made me feel better.”

Mama shook her head. Opened her mouth, likely to remind Firen that there was no point in all her worrying, that everything would proceed exactly as it was meant to, and she was only tormenting herself with all her endless ruminations.

But she didn’t.

Because a bell jingled merrily, and Firen had not even realised they had such a luxury, so she startled far more than was reasonable.

Then was met with one of Mama’s firm looks, and she rose without stumbling over herself. She wouldn’t rush. She wouldn’t grow flustered and awkward. This was her home, and Ellena was a guest.

The water in the kettle was bubbling gently. The leaves were waiting in the pot.

She didn’t pause to ask Mama if she looked all right before she went down the hallway to the door.

She wished Lucian was there. That he was the one pulling open the latch, was the one greeting Ellena with all the enthusiasm that only he could give.

But he wasn’t, and it was just her, and the hinges were well oiled and the only effort at all came from her own nerves.

She realised she’d expected Oberon to be behind the door. To loom in wait, to bully his way inside. To spoil everything.

Again.

But it was only Ellena. Looking as nervous as Firen felt. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she looked mildly surprised that Firen opened the door at all.

“Ellena,” Firen greeted with a smile she hoped was warm, despite the little anxieties pulsing through her mind, urging her that things were going to go badly, and soon. “Was it difficult to find?”

Ellena glanced about the courtyard, and she was left with the distinct impression this was not the first door she had tried. “The fault was mine,” she graciously offered. “I can’t help feeling I’m doing something wrong by being here. Being so close to the Hall.”

Her smile was thin, and Firen took a step backward, the better to usher her in. “Well, hopefully a nice visit here will help that.” Ellena entered, her attention drifting every which way, much as Mama’s had done the first time she’d come. It wasn’t an insult—it was motherly concern, and Firen would not grow cross at any of it. Not even if she found fault.

Even Mama had said the layout was a little odd, the kitchen smaller than was preferable, but softened the critique with the reminder that it would do very well while there were just two of them to live there.

“Mama, Ellena is here,” Firen called, as if she did not know. But it allowed her to come from the kitchen, to draw her in and take over the hosting. And perhaps that was rather cowardly, but Firen was grateful for it. She knew better what to point out, what a mother would care to see when it came to how her child was living.

Mama’s smile was warm, but Firen could see that it was slightly false about the edges. Her loyalty was to Firen alone, and she would try, for her sake. But beyond that...

It felt so strange, walking through each of the rooms. Trying to imagine what Ellena saw. She’d unpacked as much as she could, trying to put personal touches in each of the rooms so they might feel a little more like home. But Ellena would not know that. She might just see clutter along the tables, the hearth that took up the sitting room wall. The one where Lucian had been the one to add some of the pictures from his trunk, but only at Firen’s urging.

“It’s our home,” she’d insisted as he sat in one of the cushioned armchairs and watched her flit about the room. “If they’re all my things, you’re going to think it’s just mine.”

“Would that be so bad?” Lucian asked, flipping the page on his book and looked wholly disinterested. “It’s worked out rather well, thus far. Better than when you were in mine, anyway.”

Her hands went to her hips, and she would not quarrel with him, so she did not allow her foot to rise and fall to punctuate her point, but she certainly would not let it go either. “Lucian,” she began. And when she was not rewarded with his full attention, she pushed aside his book and perched on his lap, and watched him quirk his brow and pretend he was cross with her for intruding while he read. “You have things,” she reminded him, twining her fingers behind his neck and letting him scowl as long as he pleased. “Things that mean something to you.”

Lucian swallowed when she wriggled and smiled sweetly at him. There would be time for that later, but she would allow him to think she would make time for it now if it furthered her cause of capturing his attention. “And those things should be out where we can see them. Unless...” her smile fell slightly, and there was very little of it that was for show. “They are so personal that you’d rather I didn’t see them? Even me?”

Her family, perhaps she could understand. Not that they would tease him for family pictures or little treasures. But he wouldn’t know that. Couldn’t know. Not until he’d experienced it for himself.

His mouth twitched, suggesting that he would not keep his scowl for long. And, most likely, his insistence that all his belongings remain in the trunk. “Do you mean to live here with me?” she asked, leaning forward and not quite kissing him. If she did, she might forget what her true mission was, and fall prey to his seductions.

And then they would not move in properly at all.

Just christen another of the rooms, which, she supposed, was rather an important goal, but not what she’d promised herself she would accomplish before day’s end.

He rolled his eyes, but his free hand settled on her hip so he could not be that irritated with her. “You know I do.” The corners of his mouth turned downward and his eyes shadowed, and she would not have him doubting, not when she meant to be teasing and welcoming.

“Then I think you should unpack your trunk,” Firen urged, kissing the corner of his mouth. Then the other side, but pulling away before she could get carried away. “I think you have half the mantle to fill with keepsakes. And then when you’re away at the Hall at all hours, I can look about and remember that I have a mate after all, and I didn’t make you up.”

He huffed out something that was between a laugh and a scoff. “You would have that power, wouldn’t you?”

She hummed, and then indulged in just the one kiss, because she was near to victory and she deserved a reward for it. “I would. But I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

And then she’d wriggled off of him, and she liked the way his hand lingered on her, as if sorry to have her go.

But he’d gone to the loft.

And fetched some of his things to take their place on the mantle, just as she’d said, and he’d given an exaggerated gesture afterward in want of her approval.

Which she’d given.

And if he’d gone to her and pulled her to him, and whispered low in her ear about rewards and how they should make use of the shuttered windows and warm fire, then she would not argue with him.

Maybe it should have felt strange, then, to be in that same room with their mothers. To watch Ellena cross over to the mantle to look at the pictures Firen was certain she’d painted. Given to her son to tuck away along with his memories of moments that were dear and worth the remembering.

The one of a woman with the fledgling in her arms. The one that was tenderness itself. That made Firen wish she had such talents so she might make a likeness for both herself and her mother. A gift, if ever there was one.

“A lovely room,” Ellena declared at last.

“We mean to have a rug,” Firen offered, because Ellena’s voice was a bit too tight and her eyes blinked a little too often. “For warmth in the winters. But I have not decided on what colours I like best.”

Ellena opened her mouth. Closed it again. Maybe she’d meant to offer suggestions. Or vendors she had used that would likely take an entire year’s worth of coin to pay for.

But when she tried again, her eyes had a wistful look, and Firen did not have to decline her recommendations after all. “I was so afraid to buy anything, at first. To make any changes at all. I suppose that’s common when you move into a home already situated. I think this is nicer. To make it yours from the start.”

Firen’s smile was wide and genuine. “I hope so. That is, I hope I am up to the challenge.”

Ellena did not smile back, but nodded absently. “You’ll do fine.”

Which felt a greater compliment than was reasonable, yet still warmed her all over because it was the first that felt genuinely given.

They did not ascend to the loft, and Firen was grateful as Mama urged them to the kitchen for their tea. She hadn’t any idea if it was typical to show off one’s personal quarters, but she found herself happy to keep them separate. She’d spend part of the morning tidying the bed and folding clothes that had somehow escaped out of her wardrobe, but those could be to her benefit alone.

Ellena’s head turned about when they entered the kitchen. Mama was right when she said it was not large, but there was room enough for the table, and bright windows that let in morning light, which she thought her flowers appreciated.

“No room just for dining,” Firen commented before Ellena could do so. “I thought we might sit here. But if you’d be more comfortable in the sitting room, we could go there or...”

“This is fine,” Ellena stopped her before she could continue to prattle on with more options.

Mama urged her to sit, gesturing toward one chair as Mama took the one opposite. Which left the head for Firen—not that she would sit yet. She had water to pour, and treats to put out on their pretty plate painted with blue flowers along the edge.

Nothing matched. Not the cups and not the individual plates she’d set at each table so they would not have to resort to putting pastries on cloth napkins. She was certain Ellena had a set of dishes that were all from the same artisan—poured, painted, and fired to be displayed all on the same table.

Hers were little treasures she’d collected when she could afford them. A piece here, another there. Ones that were pretty and caught her eye amongst the other remnants. She hoped her table might be seen as charming. She’d spent a good portion of the night preparing herself to accept any criticisms Ellena might put to her, but she could not pretend she was ready for any of them.

Firen asked a silent blessing over the pot before she poured. Perhaps it was a silly thing to do, as tea could do much, but it could not mend everything. “I’m afraid my only contribution is the table and the tea. Everything else was made by someone else.” She’d considered trying to make something, but every time she plucked a recipe from her meagre selection, she grew too nervous and dismissed the venture entirely.

“You’ve more knowledge than I have, then,” Ellena countered. “Even my tea is prepared for me. I do not even make the selections for my guests. I say only how many are to attend, and it all appears.” She did not say it boastfully—it was simply how she lived. What she knew.

And Firen was reminded yet again how little they knew one another.

Mama’s head turned marginally toward Firen, but she did fully glance her way. “I cannot tell you how much I longed for just such a service when my children were small. Sometimes the last thing in the world one wants to do is cook.”

And so it went. Little revelations that were smoothed over by Mama—or Firen, once she got the hang of them.

Ellena never visited Oberon in the Hall?

Mama was certain her mate would prefer his workshop all to himself without her intrusions, either.

Lucian spent little time at home?

Neither did Mama’s sons. Not after they had mates and most particularly once the children came. Visiting had to be done in their own homes—much easier when there were little ones about. Didn’t she agree?

Which inevitably led Ellena to giving Firen a rather thorough glancing over, as if she might tell if a child had rooted there. Should she be honest? Tell her of Lucian’s hesitations?

Those were private. Personal. It was one thing if Lucian was there to speak for himself; it was quite another to speak his mind for him.

She had been very good. Hadn’t tugged on the bond at all, even when the temptation swelled each time Ellena’s words grew a little tighter, a little less gracious. She was trying—Firen could see that quite plainly. But every time she relaxed, so would her caution.

It was not awful. Not enough that Firen had even considered stepping out of the room to cool her breath and the rising of her blood, but there were little things that troubled her.

The frown she gave when Mama talked of her sons’ fledglings. The glances over her shoulder that seemed to grow in frequency the longer they sat and talked.

It took Firen far too long to realise the source. Her first thought had been she did not like being seated in a kitchen, or that their conversation was not to her liking.

But then there was a sound, and her head turned, eyes over-bright as she turned almost fully in her seat. There was no tinkling of bells hidden behind walls. Just the sound of the latch being pulled, the door opening wide.

Firen was the first to stand, as she had the best view of the door itself, but Ellena was not far behind. It was not a competition—Firen did not purpose to be the first to hurry to greet Lucian. It was instinct only that had her fluttering her wings down the hall to quicken her steps as they skimmed along the bare wood.

“I did not know you could come,” she chided, for he could have left a note to reassure her.

His smile was sheepish, but he accepted the kiss on his cheek by gripping her waist, no matter how briefly. “I wasn’t sure I could manage it. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

He did not release her, but his attention went over her shoulder, and Firen turned her head to see Ellena watching the both of them, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Lucian,” she murmured, almost contrite.

No.

Afraid.

Of him? His reaction?

They had not quarrelled. And yet she looked at him as if she was uncertain if he might eject her from the house.

Lucian took a step forward. His arm fell, and she wasn’t sorry about it. He should greet his mother properly, and she would not be foolish and jealous about his familial ties.

If she was patient, she could also be generous of his person.

Pretty lies at the moment. But they might be true someday.

“Any tea left for me?” he asked, tilting his head down to Firen. Because she was the hostess. And then she would be the one to leave him, rather than force him to pull away first.

“No. Gluttons, the lot of us. But I suppose I could be persuaded to make more.”

He hummed and pressed his lips briefly to her temple, and it did not feel awful after all to leave him with his mother for a moment. To share a look with hers while she refilled the kettle and settled it back onto the heat, before taking her seat again.

And didn’t stare.

She didn’t.

She just couldn’t help that her seat was angled so, and it would have been rude to shut the door to the kitchen when they would come through again in just a moment.

And it certainly wasn’t her fault when she did look, because it was only because Lucian lost control of the tight hold he kept on his emotions through the bond. It was just a moment, just a slip as his arms went about Ellena and he held her, whispering something too low for Firen to hear.

But that was all right. More than all right. Because she felt his relief, felt something in him settle for the first time in ages, and this was right, and they could do this. Could build something even with people that were... more of a challenge than Firen had previously encountered.

“Stop spying,” Mama urged, poking at Firen’s shoulder as she took another pastry.

“I wasn’t!” Firen objected, but she averted her gaze and simply revelled in what the bond granted her. “I’m happy for him. That’s all. Which isn’t a bad thing.”

“No,” Mama agreed. “But those are private folk. And it wouldn’t hurt you to allow them to stay that way.”

Firen opened her mouth. Not to argue—certainly not. But to remind her that Firen had accomplished a great deal by being a bit too forward, and complaints usually gave way to thankfulness when she could add another friend to her ever-growing list.

Ellena would be one of them.

Mama gave her a look, and she closed her mouth again.

“I suppose I could work on that,” she said instead, and Mama gave a silent laugh, shaking her head as she ignored Firen’s look of outrage by taking another sip of her tea. “You do not think I can?”

“I think you can do much when you set your mind to it,” Mama soothed. “And you can be beautifully stubborn about those you’ve determined to care for.”

Firen got up to fuss with the teapot, dumping out the old leaves and exchanging them for new. “I feel your compliments are at an end.”

“But,” Mama finished with a rueful smile. “Sometimes people need to be cared for in ways that aren’t your preference, and that’s hard for you. That’s all.” Firen’s eyes narrowed, and Mama held up her hands. “Honest. No more comments on your character. Just tea and more of these lovely pastries.”

Firen snorted, shaking her head and wishing she felt brave enough to ignore her mother and peer down the hallway again.

But she wasn’t, and it did not matter anyway, because Lucian and Ellena joined them soon enough.

And when she sat, Ellena had to dab lightly at the corners of her eyes with a cloth, and Lucian swallowed down his first cup of tea a little too quickly before asking for another.

Firen did not comment that he must have scalded himself and that it was for sipping and not for guzzling. But she thought it.

Also that it was rather wonderful to have him so happy, but she did not say that either.

Instead, she sat. And let Lucian guide the conversation while she ensured the teapot was never empty and the plate of pastries did not run out.

They asked him about his work. About what he was learning—all of which he answered with the vague sort of nothingness that filled a great deal of time while revealing nothing of import.

It was a strange thing to witness, when he’d been so candid with her parents before. It was his mother, then, that made him keep the particulars to himself. He was reading a great deal. Yes, there was plenty to eat, and no, he had not withered away since his mating, but was Ellena sure she hadn’t?

She passed her hand over her robes self-consciously before giving him a tight smile. “The tower is empty without you.”

“Mother,” Lucian sighed, but said no more.

She sniffed and waved her hand. “I know. You can’t come back.” She said it so morosely that Lucian leaned forward, catching her eye a little too long.

“How unhappy are you? Truly?”

Ellena swallowed, her eyes darting toward Firen and her mother.

“Really, Lucian, this isn’t the place.”

But he held firm, his voice serious. “Yes, it is. Our talks will be here, now. These people will be our family. So I need to know how you have been feeling.”

Ellena grasped tightly to her napkin, looking very much like a hunted woman, penned and flighty. “That is not for you to fret about,” she insisted.

His brows rose, and he sat back in his chair. “Do I appear to be fretting? Or making an enquiry?”

Firen frowned ever so slightly. Reminded herself she wasn’t to interfere. To overstep. They had a dynamic she was only beginning to understand, and yet...

Mama’s caution was fresh in her mind, but she still found herself reaching out. Grasping hold of that hand that trembled beneath hers, and smiled at her softly. She was in no danger. There was no threat here, despite Lucian’s firm tone. “You’ve had quite a lot of change in a very short time. And I think you thought you lost someone very dear along the way. I hope you know you haven’t. That you’re welcome here. That we care about you.”

Ellena lost hold of her composure, her eyes welling and tears spilling. “I have not forgotten my promise, Lucian,” she insisted. “You will bury me someday, but not because of something I have done.”

Firen glanced at her mother, who watched them all with a grim sort of awareness. They had not mentioned this part, had they? Had not shared what despair and hopelessness might do.

Ellena sniffed and wiped at her eyes as best she could, pulling her other hand free of Firen’s. “This is morbid talk. Not at all appropriate for a family tea.”

Lucian frowned, but nodded. “You are right. My apologies.”

He’d slipped into some other person. No—just another version of himself. Stilted and formal. Clipped words and precise niceties, and she did not particularly care for it.

She stood.

Took hold of her chair and was more than aware of how they watched her as she went to Lucian’s side of the table and set it down. It was an awkward fit, not helped at all when he did not shove his own seat over to accommodate her, but that was all right.

Anything to remind him of where he was. Who he was.

“This is better,” she insisted. “I’m sorry,” she told their mothers. “We rarely sit across from one another, and it felt a little too strange for me.”

She would not comment on how they usually took their meals. Her feet sometimes tucked on his chair, her posture not at all proper as she lounged about and hummed happily to herself to have him close by again. She would have kept their hands tangled if he’d let her, but he insisted there would be some propriety during meals, which meant he wouldn’t let her sit in his lap either.

Which she understood better, because that would mean battling food stains in the laundry as she inevitably grew distracted and spilled—either on herself or onto him.

But he’d allow her stockinged feet to slip beneath his leg. Would let her sprawl and giggle to herself as they ate at her own table. Nothing scandalous about it when it was just the two of them nestled in her kitchen. Their kitchen.

She wouldn’t do it now, although she could feel some of his trepidation through the bond that she might, and she could not help the curl of her lips as she glanced at him, letting him wonder if she would embarrass them both in such a way.

Mama passed down her cup and plate, although she’d emptied both and felt over-full at the prospect of more of either. And she might have rolled her eyes a little, but there was a faint smile at the corners of her mouth. She wanted Firen happy in her mating, and would overlook some peculiarities that accompanied the newness of it.

Firen wanted to ask if there had ever been a time, no matter how short, that Ellena had longed for Oberon’s company. That he’d been tender and indulgent, nurturing the bond so it might grow strong. A buoy when life brought inevitable hardships.

For as good as Firen’s imagination might be, she could not picture it.

Perhaps it had been wrong of her to move beside him. To take hold of his arm and pull it to her, just briefly. To make him look at her and watch as his expression softened. Only to succumb to the rolling of his eyes as he plastered on a scowl. “We are with our mothers,” he reminded her—although there was a warmth in him and in the bond that she’d needed to see again.

So she dropped his arm and sat demurely in her place, and nodded. “So we are.”

He hummed, and she could not explain how his demeanour changed, yet it did. Perhaps it was the lightness in his expression when he asked after his mother’s paintings. If he might ask for some to hang upon the bare walls since he did not think his mate was proficient in tapestry.

“I could be!” she protested, because she was skilled with her hands and would have time enough to learn. But any true argument died on her lips as she saw Ellena smile so brightly at the request, and if he showed her the wall he wanted filled, she would make something special.

She did not expect him to pick up her hand. To bring it to his lips and to press a kiss to her knuckles. “Of course you could,” he soothed, and there was that look in his eye that he gave when he was merely indulging her, the smirk that she found loathsome—most particularly because she wanted to kiss it off of him, and this was not an appropriate moment to do so. “Stubborn creature that you are.”

Which was not a flattering thing to say, and had no business making her stomach tighten and her lips to part, because he was a wretch after all, and both their mothers did not need to know that as well as she did.

If this was meant as a punishment for bringing her chair closer to him, he was doing a very fine job.

Although she had far too much pride to move it back again.

Mama was asking Ellena about her painting, lamenting how she had no talent for the craft, despite her appreciation for the skill.

Which left Firen room to smile sweetly and lean in close so her words were for him alone. “Talk like that will set you up for a new tapestry for each and every one of your name-days for the rest of your life.”

She leaned back again.

“Promises, promises,” he murmured back, and Firen was left with the distinct impression she really was going to have to learn tapestry, and that he’d goaded her because...

He liked them too.

And she didn’t huff, did not poke him with her elbow, but she wanted to.

He simply might have asked her to learn.

But she supposed this resulted in much the same outcome.

Fuelled by her own indignation and determination, which she supposed could be considered a better prompt than pleasing the mate she loved.

Not by her, of course, but someone.

She wanted to stay cross at him, but he brought his hand to her leg and squeezed it gently, and it was so unlike him to do anything of the sort when family was about that she grew a little breathless as she glanced at him.

He wasn’t looking at her—was instead watching his mother talk with a great deal more animation than she had previously, all about charcoals and pastels and really, she’d be more than happy to provide something for Aylin’s house if she only told her the orientation and colouring of the room...

But the bond was warm, and so was his hand when she tucked it between hers, and she did not know how long they might have before he had to leave again. Vandran seemed to be a kindly sort of master, but a strict one, and she wondered what exactly Lucian had to barter in order to earn a reprieve from the schedule.

She hoped it would not be a late night, but she supposed it could be.

A sacrifice. A worthy one, but she was selfish and did not want to make it.

It made the rap upon the door feel even more abrupt—as if Vandran himself was coming back to collect Lucian. It was enough that Firen turned to her mate first and gave a rather accusing look. “You did have permission to slip away for this, didn’t you?”

She was rewarded with his rolling eyes as he stood from the table. “Of course I did,” he answered curtly, and then she was filled with visions of Vandran growing jealous of tea and company, deciding it was his right as master to trespass on a family party simply because of affiliation.

But it was not Vandran at the door. She would not have known immediately, except that she’d been nosey, and followed Lucian toward the door. She’d kept at the kitchen threshold, just close enough she might have gone forward and tried to smooth over any unpleasantness if Lucian had stayed longer than Vandran had agreed to, but when he opened the door and she saw the dark robes, the fair hair, the grim expression...

She was more than glad she’d stayed where she was.

“Father,” Lucian greeted, and if he was surprised at his appearance, he ensured nothing in his voice or posture revealed it.

What surprised her was the way he stood in the doorway. Almost...

Liked he was blocking entry.

Not taking the customary step backward.

Not making the sweeping gesture to punctuate one’s welcome.

Just... standing.

No hand to his chest, no bowed head.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She could just see Oberon’s’ expression over Lucian’s shoulder, and she was ashamed of how her pulse raced just at that glimpse of him.

This was her home. Her mate stood at the door, and she had absolutely nothing to fear.

But that did not stop the other possibilities from pushing at her. What if Lucian hadn’t come? What if it was her at the door, uncertain and a great deal too afraid, not knowing if she should be hospitable and allow him entry or if she could allow her stubbornness to rule and keep him out?

Ellena’s chair made a grating sound over the wooden floors, enough to draw Firen’s attention. Her face was pale, her breath caught in her throat, and she shook her head furtively. “I did not tell him,” she choked out, then repeated it more firmly. “Firen, I did not bring him here.”

She got to her feet and clutched once at Firen’s arm, then made her way down the hall.

But Firen caught her halfway down. Held her still. “Let them talk,” Firen soothed, praying that was right. She could not interfere with mates—no one could, and she was uncertain this counted as doing so. Her grip was not hard, just an arm about Ellena’s shoulders. Bracing as well as supporting.

She could feel the woman’s fear as tangibly as if they had a bond between them. At first she thought it was simply because of Oberon’s presence. Or that she had not told him of their meeting, and she had some repercussions she would endure once they were home again.

But no...

Because she repeated she had not brought him, as if...

As if her main concern was for Firen and Lucian. That they believe her innocent, that she had not betrayed them by bringing an unwelcome presence to their home.

That she had told him where to find them.

“He’d only have to ask the Registrar,” Firen whispered to her. “You did nothing wrong.”

Her shoulder slumped and then Firen truly was the one supporting her. “Oberon, please, why must you...”

His attention drifted from his son toward his mate. “Do you know, dearest? That the bond only feels a certain way when you are with our son. Which makes it so very easy to know where to find you.”

Ellena’s hands turned to fists, and she pulled away from Firen’s arm.

Pushed past Lucian’s frame.

Or tried to.

Except that he put his arm out and held it there, keeping her inside the house.

Which left an uneasy feeling in Firen’s belly, because that truly constituted as interference between mates, and they weren’t to do that, couldn’t do that, and yet...

Ellena grasped Lucian’s arm and pulled it down, giving him a firm look.

Then stepped out onto the stoop.

“I am happy when I am with my son,” she bit back. “Which should mean something to you.”

It was a hiss, a rage that had built and simmered. Bubbled freely now, as she stood to her full height and...

Shoved at Oberon.

She had not the strength to push him over, but it was enough that he had to take a step backward to keep hold of his posture.

And he was angry. Of that, Firen was certain.

She knew because it was the same jaw he shared with Lucian. The silvery eyes that flashed and smirked and did everything to appear sardonic and mocking rather than simply express honestly.

She could kiss it away in Lucian.

Because he was not his father, and he did not want to be cross with her.

Oberon was a wholly different matter.

“You will not steal this from me,” Ellena insisted, her voice shaking. “You will go home, and we may talk when I return.”

His eyes widened, but it was not in surprise. “You are giving me an order?”

Ellena paused, her hands curling into fists as she stood a little taller. “I am telling you,” she started again. Firmly, but with more composure than she’d had before. “To leave them be. To leave me be when I am with them. You did not want them—you made that perfectly clear. But I do, and I am doing my best to mend what you have broken, and you are making that far more difficult than it needs to be.” Her breath came in great heaves by the end of it, and for one terrible moment, Firen expected Oberon to reach out. To take hold of his wife and...

She could not even supply what she thought. Shake her? Strike her?

Those things were not done.

Not between mates.

Not ever.

And yet... she thought it.

Briefly.

As he looked at her, then swivelled his attention to his son.

To Firen.

“Your mother’s loyalties have always been so backward,” he commented, strangely cool and unaffected by his mate’s words. “The moment our children were born, they always held so much more of her attention.”

Firen reached out. Curled her hand about Lucian’s. “Some mates would be thankful to have such devoted mothers for their children. I am sorry you could not appreciate it.”

There was that look again. The one that was growing most tiresome as eyes drifted down toward her middle.

Wondering looks.

She made no answer—he, of all people, did not deserve one. He’d have no part in the life of her children, not unless he grew penitent. If he would not try to feed them little lies about bloodlines and old families, and what a pity it was their mother was so beneath the rest of them.

She had more to protect than Lucian’s feelings. Or would. Someday. She would have children to shield, to protect. To offer the truth to them gently, when they were old enough to understand it.

Not expose them to Oberon’s poison as Lucian had been. To prey upon their age and inexperience. To fill them with doubt. With prejudice.

“This is a family matter,” Oberon answered Firen with a curl of his lip that hid none of the disgust he must have felt toward her. It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t twist something inside her, the part that had flourished in her girlhood. That wanted so desperately to be liked by everyone, for them to smile at her, be pleased with her, and he... wouldn’t.

Not ever.

She couldn’t know that for certain, but it was not a wager she was willing to make.

“Kindly remove yourself, so we might finish it in private.”

Her mouth did not drop open at his impudence, but it was a near thing.

And for one horrible moment, she almost did as he asked.

Back to her mother. To pace around her kitchen table and spill out all the things she wished she might have said, but hadn’t. Around and around, until Lucian came back and pulled her into his arms and assured her he was gone and could not be so wretched any longer.

But Lucian’s grip tightened on her hand, and he took a half-step forward.

“A family matter,” Lucian repeated. “Was precisely what we were attending to before you made your appearance. Uninvited, I might remind you.” Another step, and his hand pulled from hers, and she let it, because she would not clutch at him, grasp at him. Not when something needed saying.

A poison pulled from a wound that had festered far too long. “You wanted to pluck me out of our family line. Disinherit me, leave without means to provide for myself or my mate. Deny my right to our ancestral home.” His words were tight, but he was not caught in a rage. Truth, harshly spoken, but no less honest. “But I have made a remarkable discovery along the way.”

He waited, allowing his father to shift his weight and give him his attention, a lone brow raised in question. “The family I care to keep followed me. ” Ellena’s hand came to her chest, where Firen was certain the bond throbbed with Oberon’s displeasure. “Your line will end with you. And someday you will regret your actions, of that I am certain. Most especially when mine has gone on.” His head turned, but just a fraction. “When ours has gone on,” he amended, and Firen’s heart filled with warmth.

He sounded so certain, and those little doubts eased. That he was indulging her, that he agreed only to please her.

He wanted it.

Someday.

And she was patient. Would be.

Because it mattered to her for them both to be ready. For him to not be exhausted from days spent in the Hall, with no hours left to devote to loving their fledgling.

Loving her.

And if selfishness was the fuel for her patience, was that such a bad thing? To want to covet his time and his attention, and be willing to wait for when she could have plenty of each?

It took a great deal to stay where she was. Not to go after him and take his hand again, or maybe his arm, and thank him for his words. His promises.

Because that’s what they were.

For her. For Oberon.

He did not answer immediately. Merely watched his son and mulled over his words, and she wondered if that was one of his tactics or if Lucian had been chastened into silence. Ellena did not seem to know who to look at, her attention drifting between both men, her hand creeping up toward her throat as the quiet wore on.

“Go home,” Ellena tried again. “Please. No good can come of staying.” The anger had drained out of her, leaving only a weary sort of plea that Oberon ignored with only a flicker of his eyes in her direction.

“The Hall, then. You and I will meet in private. To finish this discussion.”

Lucian rolled his shoulders, and glanced upward. Praying for patience, perhaps? Or merely trying to keep hold of his own temper. “What do you imagine will change when we are alone?”

Oberon did not answer immediately, but when it came, Firen had to struggle to keep hold of her own response. “Alone, you will not be trying to impress your mate. To do what you must to keep her willing and pliant. It will be more... productive.”

Firen could not see Lucian’s expression, but she saw the tightening in his shoulders, the tremble in his wings. “Enough,” he said at last. “There will be no private meeting. When our work in the Halls demands our discourse, I will allow it. Other than that, we are finished.”

He turned, and Firen braced herself for more of Oberon’s vitriol, but Ellena stood between them.

Grabbed hold of his face and brought his attention down to her.

“Enough,” she insisted, repeating Lucian’s sentiment. “For today.” One of her hands drifted down his chest, where she laid a hand over their bond. Whatever manipulation she offered internally, Firen could not guess, but she held his attention and that seemed to be her aim. “We will go home,” she insisted. “Let matters settle.”

Firen could not say he softened. But his mouth twitched, and he seemed to truly see Ellena rather than fight to keep his attention of his wayward son and his apparent challenge.

“Did you think I would not know you came here?” he asked her, his voice lower. Not quite as mocking, but not what Firen might consider gentle, either. “That I would not know you had seen him?”

Ellena closed her eyes, but only briefly. “I would have told you. Afterward. I would have a tray sent and we would have shared it and you’d get to feel how happy I was for a little while.” Her smile was a sad, wistful thing. “But you couldn’t wait, could you?”

He grunted. Took her chin between two fingers, and placed a kiss upon her lips. It was the most affection Firen had seen from them, but she could not decide if it was genuinely given. Ellena did not relax beneath his touch, but watched, waiting to see if he might yield to her request.

“Home,” he said at last, putting his arm about Ellena’s shoulder and bringing her to his side. She smiled, and Firen could not deny the relief she saw there, but that was not all. She was sorry their meeting was at an end. Worried it might not happen ever again.

Firen wanted to reach for her. To bring her back and offer her a proper embrace. Whisper promises of her welcome, that she did not blame her for today, that they’d try again soon.

But she couldn’t.

That was not her mating, and Ellena had to navigate it how she thought best.

But it left Firen feeling oddly shaken. Elements of old teaching and new awareness warring with one another in ways that left a sickly lump in her stomach.

That might have been her. If Lucian had not been caring. Been gentle. Had put her above his family and their ideals.

Except...

She had a family to go home to. That would have taken her in and held her while she ached from the poisoned bond, filling her mind with empty promise of love and protection if only she’d go back where she belonged, back to the man that didn’t love her, didn’t value her...

She’d seen Ellena’s family. Seen them as cold and calculating as Oberon.

She’d had so few choices available to her.

Only one.

Terrible as it had been.

Firen swiped at her eyes and laid her hand on Lucian’s back between his wings. He turned his head slightly, and she was certain he felt her pain through the bond. She couldn’t help it, not now, and she was sorry for its distraction while his parents still stood in their courtyard.

It was a strange sort of stalemate, as Ellena waited for Oberon to leave first, and he gestured for her to ascend before him.

She didn’t want to—that much was clear from the way her eyes darted back toward her son. Then to Firen. “Thank you, my dear,” she murmured softly. “You set a fine table.”

And then she left before Oberon to reprimand her for even that compliment. He turned as if to follow, but paused, his wings outspread. “I will protect my family,” he cautioned, eyes severe as he looked at his son. “I will not permit false rumours to spread throughout the Halls.”

Lucian stood firm. “I will ensure to only protect mine with the truth, then.” He bowed his head, but only just, and turned his back to his father and took up Firen’s hand. “Come along, love,” he murmured, and she swallowed thickly, nodding her head and allowing him to lead her back into their home.

He bolted the door with shaking fingers, and before she could even think to move toward him, she found herself wrapped in his embrace. It was as if all the tension he’d held in his frame came shuddering out of him, and it was all she could do to keep him upright. “I am so very proud of you,” she soothed, her fingers combing through his hair, the edges of his wings, the spot on his neck that pained him when he poured over his books for too long.

Her arms ached with the weight of him, and she must have made a sound or he felt a twinge through the bond, for he suddenly stood upright. Pulled her into their sitting room and sat in his favourite chair.

And was not content until she was sitting on his lap, his face buried somewhere between her shoulder and her hair.

Sheltered. Safe.

Which was strangely endearing—that she might be that for him. That he needed her in such a way. She’d thought him so intimidating at the start. Imposing in his stature and the harshness of his eyes, but that seemed so long ago. “I never wanted you to have to choose,” she admitted quietly. She would need to check on her mother, but not yet. She was needed here far more. “I never wanted you to have to lose out on anything just because of me.”

He snorted, but did not emerge from the sanctuary he’d made for himself. “As if it was any hardship to lose it.” It was a comment bitterly given, and she could not let it stand.

She shifted, coaxing him unhappily out so she might touch his cheek and smooth her fingers through the edges of his hair. “That isn’t true,” she chided gently. “That was your home. The family you loved. Still love. It’s all right to miss it. To wish you could have it back.”

His eyes hardened, and she had not meant to upset him, but it wouldn’t quite be them if they did not quarrel before they loved. Which they wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not with her mother in the kitchen, but there would be later. When she drew him back into her embrace and peeled his clothing from him one at a time, until he was bare and all hers.

Until everything else fell away for a little while. Books and responsibilities and family alike.

Just the two of them.

But for now, they would squabble, and she smiled softly as he glared, gesturing toward the kitchen down the hall. “Your family would be worth mourning. Your family would be a loss. Do you think I could not see it? The way they...” his voice caught, and he closed his eyes. “The way they love you? Would have accepted anyone through their door, because it was enough he was your mate.”

He shook his head and when he opened his eyes, there was no mistaking the pain he harboured there.

She pulled him back to her, let him hold her as tight as he pleased. “I could not give you that. Could not give you what you’ve given me.”

Firen stilled, mulling over his words. She needed to be careful, could not dismiss him when it obviously troubled him so greatly. But one thing was evident to her, and he needed to hear it. To believe her. “That was not your job,” she promised him. “It was theirs. Your mother is trying, despite it all, and I will come to love her. I’m sure of it. As for your father...” She lacked the words to express quite what she felt about him, but she didn’t need to. “He might come to regret his choices. Not yet, but someday.” Her fingers moved through his hair again, and she felt the shudder go through him. “Do you have any fond memories of him?” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I should like to hear one, if there is one to share.”

He was quiet far longer than he should have been. So long that she almost regretted asking it of him.

“I was young. Had my flight feathers, but not for long, I think.” Firen nodded, and waited for him to continue. “He brought me into his study. Which was... not something he’d ever done before. Set me on his knee and showed me the first book of governance. An old one, passed down through our family since...” he grimaced, which she only just caught before he tucked his face away again. “Well, the beginning, I suppose you’d say.” Beginning of what, she did not ask. It wasn’t the time for those lessons, not when he was hurting. “He said I had a marvellous future ahead of me. One steeped in tradition and responsibility, but he was certain I would excel.” He snorted, shaking his head. “That sentiment did not last.”

Her throat hurt. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled back with a sigh, leaning against the chair rather than hiding away in her shoulder. “It wasn’t just you,” he admitted. “He thought I lacked ambition. One should not simply be content to work in the Hall, one should want to rule the Hall.” He rolled his eyes and his grip on her waist tightened. “I suppose I’ll have to do that, after all.”

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his. “Not for me,” she murmured softly.

He kissed her, just the once. “Yes, for you. For your family. To make sure they are cared for properly. That the laws protect their interests.” She knew too little about this. Had paid no attention to how anything worked beyond the Proctor coming through the stalls to make his inspections and collect fees.

But she’d learn.

So she could encourage Lucian properly, could thank him for the work he’d done. Was going to do.

“I liked when you talked about our family,” she admitted, her arms coming about his neck just because she needed to hold him to her. “Our children.”

He hummed. “I thought you might.”

She didn’t say more. Would press for nothing. But he ought to know when she was happy, to know when he’d made her happy, regardless of what the bond communicated for her.

She wouldn’t grow lazy and complacent. They’d work every day at talking with one another, of saying what they meant and understanding one another.

And maybe then their quarrels would feel more like teasing. Would come from jest and play simply to rile the other up so punishment could be enacted with kisses and hungry threats of congress.

She stopped her thoughts there, lest she remember other times she’d perched in his lap. When comfort had taken other forms. Impassioned ones that she’d tucked away in her heart and would revisit in her daydreams.

Then scolded herself for doing so because she’d get herself far too worked up while he was off at the Hall, and there would be no respite until he was home again to tend to her.

A wretched business, having responsibilities during their earliest years of mating.

Which made her remember her mother, tucked away in the kitchen.

“I’m going to check on Mama,” Firen told Lucian, punctuated with a kiss of apology to his cheek.

“Of course,” he agreed, helping her to her feet and holding steady while she felt the blood settle back where it belonged. It was not the most comfortable way to sit, but in other ways...

It was.

She didn’t expect him to follow her. She thought he’d use the time to retreat to the loft. To revel in the quiet before he had to return to the Hall and his studies.

But he didn’t.

Mama was washing the dishes. Firen should have known she would, her elbows deep in lather and warm water. Her progress was evidenced by the clean pottery nestled on a crisp cloth on the counter, waiting for someone to dry and put them away.

Firen fetched another cloth and made to pick up one of the mugs, but stopped when she saw the dried tears on her mother’s cheeks, the hunch of her shoulders betraying just how much she had heard.

“Mama,” Firen started, but her mother shook her head and pulled her hands out of the water.

Dried them with far less care than was usual.

And went to Lucian and pulled him into an embrace.

She said nothing. Not a word. There were no promises of family and affection, no talk of pride and thankfulness.

Just a motherly hug, followed by a sniff and damp towel across her cheeks. “I think I’ll leave you two be,” she determined, waving off Firen’s objections with the shake of her head. “It’s all right,” she assured her. “I’ll come back in the morning. I just...” She swallowed. “You need some time for yourselves. And I’d like to see your father.”

She was usually so calm, and a need for Da was not an admission she made often.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Firen offered, needing to say it. She’d only been there because she wanted the support, and now...

“Don’t you dare,” Mama countered, her voice clipped and serious. “You’ve done nothing wrong, so I’ll not accept any of your apologies.”

Firen smiled thinly. “Can I thank you for tending the dishes instead? And for coming?”

Mama wrapped her arms about her next. “If you must.”

Which made her sound a little more like herself.

“Next time will just be us,” Firen promised. “And we can talk about... all this.” Her smile was rather grim, and she didn’t dare glance at Lucian. They were private folk, like Mama had said. Maybe he wouldn’t like the idea of his family business being discussed while he wasn’t there to defend it.

Mama hummed. Patted her arm and gave Lucian one more glance. “Right. Tomorrow, then.”

Firen made to say something else, but Mama was already gathering her things and heading for the door.

And she let her go. Back to Da and his comfort and his reassurances. That Firen would be all right because she had Lucian. That he could not help where he came from, anymore than they could.

The house felt suddenly empty in a way that had felt new and exciting only the day before. It would again, once she’d taken a few breaths and rubbed at her forehead, willing the pressure that had formed there to dim.

Only for her fingers to be replaced by Lucian’s as he looked her over, his thumbs at her temples as he pressed lightly, but firmly.

It had no business feeling as good as it did, and she could not quite help the little hum she gave in approval.

“Your mother is very kind,” he offered, which soothed her just as well as his touch did.

“I like her,” Firen agreed. “I think I’ll keep her.”

His laugh was just a bit of air rather than sound. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To exchange troublesome family so you could pick and choose the ones you liked best?”

Firen thought ever so briefly of Eris, then felt horribly guilty for it. She was her sister. She loved her. Then why must it be so... so difficult?

She heard her mother just as well as if she was still in the room with them, patient yet ever so slightly exasperated that it needed saying at all.

Because they needed each other. Perhaps they did not see how, did not understand why, but there was a reason they were put together in a family, to exasperate and quarrel, and still love one another afterwards.

If she thought of it that way, she supposed it was a strange sort of precursor to her relationship with Lucian.

Squabbling. Saying the wrong thing.

Loving in the aftermath.

She wasn’t sure she’d be as good at the forgiving part if Eris hadn’t tested her.

She wouldn’t give up on Lucian, and she wouldn’t give up on her sister. Even if the less flattering parts of herself insisted, it would be easier.

“You could draw up the paperwork for it,” Firen teased back, easing against him and letting him hold her. “Family exchange. No questions asked.”

He brushed his lips against the top of her head, and she was certain he was smiling. “I pity those foolish enough to take on mine. Perhaps I would give just a bit of warning. On a tag, maybe. That Father could wear when someone comes to claim him.”

It was a morose sort of vision. People waiting to be picked. Their flaws written out for onlookers to consider.

And inevitably, to move along.

“I’m glad we’re stuck together,” Firen admitted, a lump in her throat. “Even if we have to wait a very long time to like one another, I’m glad someone else gets to do the picking. I think it would be a very tiresome thing, having to pick one’s family as well as one’s mate.”

His hand came to the back of her head, combing through the delicate hairs he found there as he urged her head back so she would look at him. “Others do. Did you know? They’ve no bond to tell them who to mate with. They choose a partner and live away from the ones they were born to.”

Firen swallowed. “Are they happy? Doing that?”

Lucian skimmed his thumb against her bottom lip. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

He was going to kiss her. He was going to tease her with his mouth, was going to pull her into him until she was warmed all over. Until she was the one that took his hand and brought him up into their bed. Until she was the one pulling at his clothes and insisting that Vandran did not own him, not as she did, and he had responsibilities to her first.

She did not ask if he was happy. There wasn’t a need. Not with the bond nestled so gently into her chest it was like a friend. Like he was so deeply a part of her, she could not believe she’d ever resented him. Wanted someone else. Something else.

She didn’t feel guilty for it any longer. They’d forgiven one another, somewhere along the way, and she would not harbour it as some private grief for a beginning she could not do over. It was theirs, tempers and all, and she was rather satisfied with the outcome.

She let him kiss her. Let her pulse race, let her fingers delve into his robes, holding him close to her. But there was something else that needed saying, a reassurance she needed to give, even if he did not need to hear it. “We’ll keep your mother, too. And Orma.”

He hummed, massaging the back of her neck in a way that seemed to turn her muscles to liquid, and it wasn’t fair that he could affect her so.

But then, she could do much the same to him. When her fingers skimmed through his hair. When she touched him, teased him, and his eyes would close at first, then open again when she paused for too long, his look heated and not angry—no, not angry. But willing her to do something else, to touch him, to take hold of him and...

“If you say so,” Lucian agreed, as if only to please her.

The bond said otherwise.

Warming. Tugging.

Pulling her back to him, to kiss him, to make her claim and keep her with him.

“Is Vandran expecting you back?” she asked, because some part of her was responsible. Some part of her was not quite as selfish as the other parts.

Small though it might be.

“Yes,” Lucian murmured into her skin as he allowed his lips to drift against her neck. The shell of her ear. Which tickled and made her squirm away from him, which left him looking strangely bereft when they were suddenly an arm’s length apart. “Tomorrow. Early, but...”

Which was far better an answer than she’d anticipated.

Made it easier to take his hand. To urge him up into their loft.

With the bed that fit the both of them so nicely.

To be pleasantly surprised when it was Lucian that reached first. That started with her hair, pulling out the delicate ribbons she’d twined into the braids at her temples, massaging her scalp to ease any of the tension he found there. “You have such lovely hair.”

She did not consider herself one that needed very many compliments, but she supposed she would have to amend that—for her heart swelled and she felt far more pleased than she ought.

“I like that we match,” she confessed. “A proper pair.”

He shook her head, and perhaps he thought her silly.

But then he was tugging at the ribbons at her shoulder, and she didn’t mind so much if his amusement came at her expense.

“I question your standards, but I won’t complain.”

She couldn’t either, not when he dropped the tie on her shift as well and his hand was at her breast, and wasn’t she supposed to be the one pinning him to the bed and divesting him of clothing?

Mama had always said daydreams weren’t visions.

Weren’t snippets of the future.

They might feel that way, sometimes. When she sat at her kitchen table, her finger making little patterns on the wood.

When she imagined Ellena coming back. Sometimes for tea, other times to bring a new piece of art to decorate their walls.

She imagined Mama struggling through learning tapestry with her, just because she did not want her to face the challenge alone.

Of the children they’d make. Fair-haired and with wings of a soft-grey sky. A bit of both of them, melded together.

She would visit her mate when he had an office all his own. She would rub his shoulders and insist that he worked too hard, but that she was proud of his dedication.

To her people.

To her.

She did not doubt Oberon would make trouble. Would argue about mastery and years, and all the matters that made so little sense to her.

But they’d sort it.

He’d be a full member of the Hall.

He’d take Vandran’s seat when the time came, and he’d do what was right for more than just those privileged enough to live in a tower.

He pulled her to him, and she sighed softly as he touched her. Teased her. And she’d do much the same to him. In a moment. But for now, this was rather nice, and she liked his initiative.

And the dishes were done, and their mothers had been seen, and he wasn’t needed until morning.

By none but her.

Which was just as she liked it.