5.2

They did not eat in the kitchen.

It should not have seemed strange to be led into a chamber whose solitary purpose was seating a great many people while they dined. There was a long table, a great hearth, the fire stoked high and almost overly warm in the mild spring evening.

There was a grand fixture of candles overtop the table rather than a few lamps settled down its middle. Which was needed, she supposed, since the interior of the table was full near to bursting with platters of food.

She did not ask if his mother had fixed such a feast herself. That would be ordinary, and this family did not believe in such things.

Did not believe in mating outside their circles either, she thought bitterly to herself, but knew better than to voice it to the man beside her.

His mother approached them first, pressing her cheek against his briefly before moving to Firen. “You look lovely, dear.” Then she did the same to Firen—not a kiss, but motherly in a cool sort of way.

“Thank you,” Firen answered, smiling. Wanting to swish the fabric so it might be admired for the finery it was, but restrained herself.

Ellena patted her arm briefly before drifting off toward the other guests. Lucian had spoken of each branch of his family. The brothers of his father, their mates and children.

Dead, most of them.

Which had stirred Firen to offer some sort of comfort, even for people she had never met, but Lucian shook his head and rolled his shoulders. “It will be to our benefit. He cannot afford to disown too many of us, not when there are few left to carry on his house.”

The whole prospect still baffled Firen, when it seemed of such little importance to her. The tower was grand and old, and she did not doubt that the work Lucian and his father performed was of great importance to the governance of the city.

But it was still simply a tower. Made of stone and hard labour. And they were still only people inside, same as any other.

And yet her stomach fluttered strangely as Lucian guided her toward the others, in a way that was new and unfamiliar. And decidedly unpleasant.

His mother’s sister. Nearly identical, save for her darker hair and wings. Then there was the quiet man slightly behind her, with a long, severe face, and he kept his hand on his mate’s shoulder in a way that appeared imposing rather than affectionate.

Their children. Two males, both of which took very much after their father, who felt comfortable eyeing her up and down in a way that felt disrespectful. She could only imagine how she might have felt if she was wearing the dress with the high slit and the low neck.

Then...

A daughter. Seated already, although she was tucked behind her parents, so Firen had not noticed her at first.

A familiar face, in a sea of unfriendliness.

Not that she gave any recognition as she turned her attention to Firen. She did not rise, just as she had not at the fete. But she nodded her head and watched as Firen’s eyes brightened, and she cast a worried look toward her mother.

Orma, wasn’t it?

She had to stifle the impulse to go to her immediately. To take her hand and thank her and accuse her all at once for advice that Firen was grateful for and resentful of in equal measure from moment to moment.

That Orma should not have been at the common fete was a thought that settled slowly.

And Firen could cause trouble if she revealed it.

Then there were more eyes on her, as conversations were abandoned in order to stare instead at the newcomer. A few from Oberon’s side—all with their pale hair and dark wings. Their children utterly lacking in warmth as they regarded her. Some were mated, others were not.

There were no fledglings present, and she wondered if that meant they had not been blessed in such a way yet, or if they simply were not permitted to attend. She would have liked the distraction, the bonds that came from watching a tiny person flutter about in unabashed excitement. She could not imagine a child looking at her the way the rest of them were.

“A pleasure,” she declared, placing a hand on her chest and bowing her head. It wasn’t, but she could pretend that it was. And Lucian had not yet chosen to speak, and while he had— gently— suggested that she allow him to direct most of the conversation, he had not forbidden her from what niceties proper manners afforded.

They looked.

Some scowled. Evidently a trait common to this family.

Others gave her smiles that were decidedly mocking, as they made similar gestures in a way that suggested it was in jest rather than a respectful return.

“Firen,” Lucian added as they continued to look at her. “Of my house.”

She glanced at him, wondering if she should have mentioned that herself, but it had not occurred to her. Those were pleasantries to exchange later. To enquire after families and work and the like.

But not here.

A few hummed.

Then there was Oberon. At the far end of the table, a cup of something already in his hands as he turned to look at his son. “Do you not mean my house ?”

They stared at one another across the long room. Firen did not know where to look, but she felt the urge to step between them somehow. To protect her mate even from his own father, absurd as that might be.

But she kept still.

“Oberon,” one uncle cut in before Lucian could make either his concession or his argument. “You might have inherited this tower, but that does not make the house solely yours. Otherwise I could make an argument that perhaps it is mine, as I am elder, and my tower is taller than yours.” Oberon turned his glare to his—brother? Cousin? She could not remember all the names and people that Lucian had told to her, and she wanted desperately to take hold of his hand and feel his reassurance.

But she didn’t.

It wouldn’t be appropriate. That’s what Lucian had said while indulging in too many savouries, with her resting her head against his arm every so often as she ate. That no, he did not mind her closeness, and would she stop looking at him that way? It wasn’t a rejection. Just... to perhaps keep it away from his family for the time being.

Which had hurt, even if she nodded and said she understood. And accepted a refill to her mug from a pitcher on the tray, and another slice of bread and a nudge from his shoulder that buoyed her far more than any of the rest of it. “I’m trying to look out for us,” he reminded her. And she wanted to believe that. If there wasn’t some niggling concern that he was mostly concerned with looking out for himself alone.

Except now, with that anxious stomach making her nervous, with words spoken and tensions already rising, she felt the bond warm ever so slightly. Felt him... pushing comfort toward her. Privately. Just between the two of them, with no touch required.

And she glanced at him, more grateful than she cared to admit, even as he kept his attention on his family and their discord.

He cared about her. He did. But this was... delicate.

She could be understanding.

Could comport herself well, regardless of what Ellena thought about looks and beauty and common manners.

Oberon gave Lucian a cold glance before settling his attention on Firen instead. “Perhaps you would care to admit your true house, before we quibble about the status of our own.”

Firen swallowed. Did not shrink. Merely smiled graciously. “I belong to my mate, as he said. But if you mean the rest of my family, we are artisans.” And she would hold herself among them, even if her skill did not match her father’s. “Metalwork,” she added, because she realised it might be taken in a multitude of ways. “Jewellery is a specialty.”

And brought in the most coins, but she did not speak of that.

Ellena’s sister looked her over. “And yet you wear none.” She looked at her husband as if that revealed a great more than anything else, and Firen noted the cuff about her upper arm, the twining cords of golden thread braided through her hair. Adornments, perhaps even by her father’s hands, and it was true—she possessed few.

She wore many. In the market, her wrists jingling with bangles and chains, the better to show their beauty as they glittered as the light caught their facets. But anything could be bought or traded. Only a few precious gifts were tucked away in pouches within her chest, and she had not thought to wear them.

“It is a family supper, aunt,” Lucian cut in before Firen could decide on her reply. “She had decoration enough at the fete.”

One uncle turned to Oberon. “If she attended the fete, what are we doing here? I do not care to have my time wasted.”

He punctuated this declaration by roughly pulling out a chair and waving for his mate to take the seat beside him, presumably so they could begin eating and have the evening over with that much more quickly.

“And how many artisans do you know are invited to our fete? Answer me that,” Oberon tossed back, taking his seat at the head of the table. He did not take notice if Ellena sat, and Firen had to push back the sudden thoughts of being so unhappy in a mating that one would... that even fledglings, young or grown, might not be enough to keep one from doing something drastic and permanent.

Had they held this sort of supper after that event? To pick at it and make Ellena feel small? Or had it all been covered up with promises that did not seem to include things like kindness or affection?

The others settled, and Lucian guided her toward a seat. How he knew where they were meant to go, she did not know, but it left him staring across the long table at his father, as far away as he could get. A choice, or an assignment? Closer to the door when they were both ejected from the family line.

“The question seems to me,” one aunt interjected. “Is your objection to the girl, or to your son?”

Oberon glared at his sister. “I think the issue one and the same.”

She wiped her fingers on a cloth before casting Lucian a brief glance. “I disagree. The girl was at the fete. Whether it was by proper invitation, she was there, yes?”

This she directed toward Lucian, her tone taking on the hardened quality that seemed rampant between the family. No room for deceit, for sneaking about with half-truths and omissions. “She was,” Lucian agreed.

No talk of doorsteps. Of guards blocking her entrance because she did not know how to answer his queries—identical ones that seemed of such importance here.

“Which is where your father sent you.” The aunt turned her attention to her brother. “What then, did you expect him to do?”

Oberon stood from his chair, his palms flat upon the table. “I expected ,” he spat out, full of all the rage that had been brewing since that morning. “A son of this great house to be mated to a woman of quality.”

Firen smoothed her hands down her skirt. Felt the threads flat against her palm, not a one of them twisted by the weaver. She bought her own cloth. Or more often, traded for it. And sometimes there were flaws that meant she could afford more of it and simply be mindful of her cutting.

And there was the bond again. Pulling gently. Not as warm as it had been, but soothing. Reminding her that everything would be all right.

Firen took a sip from the goblet at her seat, and did not register the taste.

Lies, all of it.

There was something deeply wrong within this bloodline. Something sinister that lurked in scowls and dark glances. Something that touched at her mate, but she prayed did not hold him fast. Not like the rest of them.

She looked toward Orma. Sickly and pale, who fiddled with a crust of bread upon her plate and refused to look at any of them. She had thought it such a kindness to send her on to another fete. Thought them friends, if only for a night.

Why had she brought her into this? What had she done that meant she must sit and endure such arguments, when old wounds were picked at and she was more than aware that new ones were about to be inflicted?

Another sip, and it was bitter and rich and hardly pleasant at all.

She’d wanted her mate. That was all. And was it so wrong that she’d envisioned large gatherings full of laughter and stories, much as she’d attended when each of her brothers integrated with their mates?

Her heart ached.

Her head even more so.

Lucian leaned closer to her, his body stiff. But it was enough that he could bring his mouth closer to her ear. “Do not run.” A command. Not a plea, not a request.

Her mouth twisted, and she put down her goblet. She had never thought herself particularly spiteful. Eris, certainly. Over any perceived injustice.

But Firen liked things mended quickly. Liked everyone to be kind and for any harsh words to quickly be covered by tight hugs and promises to be better afterwards.

Why then did she suddenly want to rise from her chair and bolt from the room? But not before she announced to the room that she most certainly was a woman of quality. That she had not dallied with any outside of her bond. That she’d worked and learned and loved her family well as she waited for their son.

And that she hated the lot of them for making her regret it. For making her want... someone else.

Someone that would look at her softly. Would hold her hand and kiss it in front of his parents, just because he liked to touch her. Wanted her to feel treasured and cherished, even if they were with company.

It felt a betrayal of her bond, just to indulge in that momentary fantasy. To find that, she meant it. If only for a fleeting moment.

Where was her loyalty? Her fervent defence of a mate that had been born for her. Fated to her.

She swallowed a miserable lump in her throat, closer to tears than she cared to admit.

“I am sorry.” It was an interruption. One that was as clearly as unwelcome as her presence there. But she’d said it, and they were looking at her. “I went to a fete in good faith, under an invitation that was freely given.” She did not look at Orma, and she wouldn’t. Whatever her reasons, Firen chose to believe they had been kind ones. “I went, and I saw Lucian, and he was mine.” Her throat tightened, and she wished he would take her hand, would give some sign of his approval. Either of her speaking, or of... of her.

But he didn’t.

Which was all right. Other than it wasn’t.

“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t yours as well, and I... I do not know what to do. What you expect to happen now. Because I cannot give him up. Not now that I have found him. But I wish to try. To... to please you. To make this as a transition with as little trouble to anyone as possible.”

More lies. Because they frightened her, and she did not think she would come to care for any of them, but she needed it to be true. Could pretend that it was until it somehow became so by sheer force of will.

She sat back against her chair and did not dare give Lucian a look.

There. She’d said what she could, and her voice hadn’t wavered, and she’d even managed the hint of a smile as she’d done it.

The bond was quiet, but she could well imagine the waves of irritation he was keeping from her, if only she reached out the smallest measure.

Or simply glanced at him.

But she didn’t.

She chose a few items from the feast in front of her, and put them on her plate because it was polite, although she had little intention of eating any of it.

“You wish to please,” Oberon answered, leaning forward and giving her such a look that if he’d possessed such power, there would have been no need of poisons at all. “You wish us to be merciful to Lucian, yes?”

She met his eye because to cower would likely make him strike harder. “Yes,” she agreed. “I do not wish him to hurt. Not because of me.” Or for any other reason, although she thought that did not require saying.

Oberon’s eyes glittered.

“Then sever the bond.”

She blinked once, even as one uncle stood and crossed over to Oberon, his hand coming to his shoulder as he squeezed hard. “You are intoxicated. You will be silent.”

“Why?” Oberon turned, shrugging off the hold upon him. “She offered. Did you not hear her? Looking so pale and pitiful.” He straightened his robes. “It is pathetic.”

Firen did look to Lucian then. Because severing was impossible. Everyone knew that. So asking it was simply another barb to throw. To see it land and watch her eyes flicker with the hurt of something she could not do, even if she wished it.

And yet his eyes grew dark as he looked not at her, but at his father. “That is a discussion to be had in private,” Lucian bit out from a tight jaw and tense shoulders.

“It might have been,” Oberon agreed as he took his seat once more. “But your mother insisted upon bringing in the family. So here we are. And since that girl beside you has so graciously volunteered to do what is necessary to please us, I think we have settled on our solution.”

Firen swallowed, feeling suddenly very, very cold. “Lucian, what is he talking about?”

Because this did not feel abstract. It felt like a certainty. As if they had some knowledge that she did not, of something so terrible and wretched that yes, it should be locked away in a fortress of books and stone so that no one would ever have to endure it.

Her voice was soft, because she did not care to hear the answer from anyone else. He was her mate, and she was not just some girl he’d plucked off the street. That he’d taken into his bed and held her until she slept. Loved with her. Perhaps even made a fledgling together, although she suspected that the wanting there was solely one sided.

So she would be denied even that.