6.3

Lucian was gone in the morning.

Which she would not panic about.

She wasn’t.

He was hardly her prisoner, and she really must stop expecting the very worst of him. She opened the shutters, and the suns were higher than she’d realised, and Da was usually tinkering away by now.

Which sent a guilty twinge through her. She had not considered that part. That suddenly his domain was invaded, that he would have to work around their sleeping rather than tend to his work whenever it pleased him.

She hurried into fresh clothing and scrubbed at her teeth, then bound her hair in an untidy knot before she slid open the door and shut it fully behind her. No more soot—she’d had her fill of scrubbing the night before.

Da was there, after all.

The forge was quiet, but he was seated at his worktable, making use of his largest magnification glass as he bent and twisted impossibly small chains together.

“Sleep well?” he asked, not moving his head from his work.

Firen smoothed at her hair and promised herself she would buy him something nice next market day. For the inconvenience.

“Yes.” She would have gone closer. Perhaps kissed his cheek and patted his shoulder, but she knew better than to interrupt the fiddly work. “Da,” she began, needing to say it, needing to acknowledge that she’d imposed, and he’d indulged her. But the sacrifices were to be for Lucian and herself to make, not... not him.

“Hmm?” Her father hummed, then he made that pleased smile when two joints settled neatly into place and he could move on to the next.

“I’m sorry. For intruding on you. He’s agreed to the week, but I realise now that isn’t fair to you. This is your workshop, and you can’t be expected to...”

“Firen,” Da stopped her, his hands dropping slightly against the worktable as he looked at her fully. “You were not intruding when you had just grown your flight feathers and headed up into that loft in the first place. You certainly aren’t now when you need a place to gather your thoughts and figure out what comes next. There’s plenty of work that needs doing that doesn’t require pounding away at an awl at all hours.” He glanced back down at his task. “If that’s what you were fretting about.”

A lump settled in her throat, and she hurried to him and put her arms about his neck from behind, hugging him to her. His wings were low so she did not receive a face full of feathers, and she was rewarded with a pat upon her arms. “I love you, Firen. You know that?”

Her eyes burned and she would have tightened her grip if it would not have risked choking him. “No,” she choked out, an old tease.

“Hmm,” he chuckled. “Then I’ll have to work on that.”

She smiled, and released him, brushing at her eyes as she did so. “Does Mama have Lucian making breakfast?”

Da’s eyes drifted quickly back to his work. “Not breakfast, no.”

Firen did not pause to give any sort of parting word as she hurried to the shop door, accompanied by her father’s laughter at her urgency.

She opened the back door as calmly as she could manage, although her heart raced and apologies were already at her tongue—both to Mama for not being up earlier to help with meals, and to Lucian for whatever he’d endured in her absence.

“Firen,” Mama greeted, rolling her eyes as she took in her daughter’s haste. “Do be careful with that door. I don’t need you slamming it about.”

They were seated. Not tending to cauldrons of porridge and slivering nutmeats and dried fruits.

Instead, Mama was sipping at her tea while Lucian had a pile of papers in front of him, an inkpot and one of Da’s metal quills tucked between two of his fingers as he looked down at it thoughtfully.

Firen closed the door as quietly as she could, trying to appear less alarmed than she felt. “Morning,” she murmured to her mother, trying desperately not to fidget.

Or to go over to inspect the papers and see what Mama had Lucian doing.

“Not even a fair one?” Mama teased, nodding toward the stove. “Kettle is hot. Fetch yourself a cup before you fall over.”

She wasn’t as flustered as all that, and there were other needs that needed attending first. “In a moment,” she hedged. She didn’t like it, but she slipped away to the washroom, peering as discreetly as she could as she passed the table.

His penmanship was a spiked scrawl of black ink—legible, she was sure, if she had a good lamp and time to work out the lettering.

She could not recall the last time she hurried so much. The bond was quiet, so Lucian was not angry about his task, but that was little comfort. He was trying, for her sake. To be a good mate despite their... difficulties.

And she wasn’t certain she was trying in the ways she should. It was easy to defend herself, her family. But Lucian needed more from her.

No more running off.

How many times had he asked that of her?

Her throat itched and her mother was right about needing a cup of tea.

She wasn’t used to feeling awkward and uncertain in her mother’s kitchen. But as she took a mug and watched as hot water splashed onto dark, shrivelled leaves, she breathed in deeply. Calm. Lucian was calm, so she should be, too.

She cut a piece off the loaf on the counter, not fully aware of herself while she did it. She placed it on a napkin, only to hear her mother’s pointed sigh, then replaced it with a plate while she took the seat beside her mate.

This couldn’t count as being nosey, surely. Not when her own mother was involved. “So what’s this?” she asked as pleasantly as she could. As if this was normal and expected rather than enough to send her heart into fluttering palpitations.

Mama sipped at her tea before answering. And it wasn’t infuriating. It wasn’t. Even if it somehow made Firen feel the outsider in her own mating.

Lucian’s hand reached out beneath the table and settled on her thigh. He squeezed it gently, his attention still on his work.

“You’re not making him draw up some sort of contract for us staying here, are you? Da said it was all right.”

Mama gave her an exasperated look. “That is what you take me for?” Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head briefly. “Settle your feathers, dearest. You’re taking up the entire table.”

Firen flushed, and she glanced behind her to find that yes, her feathers were standing on end, and they were intruding rather a lot because she’d settled so close to Lucian, and it took three full breaths to get control of herself.

“You are a wonderful woman, dearest. I know this. Your mate knows it. But making plans is not one of your strongest attributes. And you need a plan.” She reached out and tapped the papers.

Firen’s eyes drifted downward and if she squinted hard enough, she could make out the words.

Not words.

Names.

Was she supposed to know them?

They were not her siblings, to be sure. So it was not a matter of pressing them into other accommodations.

“Do I know these people?” she asked, still bewildered. Distant relations, perhaps? Maybe it was about other sorts of work, something closer to Lucian’s skills without having to resort to smithing by default.

“No,” Lucian answered, his hand leaving her leg, and she missed its weight instantly. “But I do.”

She looked again. They were not his relations, either. At least, none of the ones he’d told to her. Not the ones at the horrid supper.

She squinted, one sounding at least vaguely familiar. “This one. He’s...” He’d come to the market. Rarely, and when he did, there was always a flurry of whispers to accompany him. With robes decorated in gold filaments that glittered as brightly as his smile as he mingled amongst the merchants.

His pride and joy, he’d said. About the market and its many stalls. Started lower than a Proctor, but look how high he’d risen.

Which was meant as a buoy to the masses. They could rise in rank and station, just as he had done.

And while the smiles had been polite, the chatter afterward had been less than friendly. They liked their lives. Their craft. They were under no law, no compunction that tied them to their lifelong trades. Firen had thought little of it at the time, her head too filled with the life that would come after the market—or in truth, scanning each passerby for any sense that her mate was nearby.

“Not my preference,” Lucian finished for her with a grimace. “But he is the oldest of them, and he has only daughters. None of which had an interest in the law. His disappointment has echoed through the Hall for years.”

He underlined the name twice, then moved to another.

“He would be preferable. But he has a son that is nearly a mancer in his own right. I doubt he would think favourably of beginning again.”

“Hardly the beginning,” Mama interjected. “Surely the apprenticeship under your father would count for much.”

Lucian glanced up, eyeing her mother steadily. “That depends on the master. And how much they wish their apprentice to be shaped into their own view of the law itself.”

A lump settled in Firen’s throat, not only because of the subject, but because of how far removed she was from it.

Which was a silly complaint. There was none better for advice than her mother, and she was happy to share her with Lucian.

She simply wanted to be included in that sharing. To know what they’d concocted while she’d been blissfully sleeping the morning away in the loft. “Mama, what is all this?” She did her best to make it sound like a simple enquiry, but she’d always been rather poor at keeping her emotions out of her expressions.

Mama stopped looking at the paper Lucian pushed toward her, eyeing Firen carefully. “Your mate’s trade is in the law. If his father will not continue his education, and subsequently, supply him the position that will see there is food for my daughter and presumably her future children, then I am helping him to consider his other options.”

Firen’s throat ached.

She took a sip of her tea and relaxed her shoulders.

This was a good thing.

What she’d hoped for.

She did not need to be jealous of her own mother and the ease with which they seemed to talk with one another.

Mama pulled out a sheet of paper and another pen from the slim case Da had made for her. The ink bottle was charcoal rather than the deep black Lucian used, but it was one of her favourites.

But rather than start sorting out her thoughts directly, she passed it all to Firen. “All right, dearest. Start making a list beneath each name in order of priority. And most especially, who would be most open to the arrangement. Then we’ll start on the contingencies.”

Firen beamed at her, feeling like the girl she had been when awarded with a very important task. Mama rose, taking her cup with her. She’d fill the kettle again. Tea made hard work easier. No problem was too large that could not be riddled out with a full stomach and ample paper for note taking.

But before she did any of that, Mama came over and patted Firen’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly as she passed. “You’ll be all right,” she murmured, and it felt far less a lie when it came from her.

◆◆◆

They planned so long that Firen had to fix a lunch for them.

It also felt less like plan-making and more like plotting.

Most especially when Lucian started making amendments that included things like particular persuasions. Such as known shop-debts. Or proclivities of unmated offspring that included visits to less than reputable areas, and wouldn’t that be a shame if that became common knowledge, most especially when it came time for their mating?

Firen frowned at that, not because she was so na?ve as to think that such dalliances did not happen, but because she would rather believe someone would want to help because they wanted to, not because they were under some sort of duress.

And then there was the other part. The one she was not the least bit proud of, that... wondered.

Not if he’d actually indulged in... some sort of... assignation. He’d said he’d waited for her, hadn’t he? She thought he had. Or maybe she’d been the one to make that assurance, even when he’d not asked it of her. But this was a different sort of life, one she knew little about. Where you dined in a special place in a secret room. Where your goods were bought at a shop that was available on more than just market days.

“What would someone write about you?” she asked instead, her finger moving just a bit over damp ink, and Lucian pushed it away with a scowl as the edge of one letter smudged. Her chest tightened when he did not answer right away, and she supposed that was response enough. “Oh.”

Lucian glanced at her, then over her shoulder where her mother was attending to the dishes. “It does not make them right,” Lucian reminded her. “And if the most sordid part of me is that my wife came from the fourth district, I think I can endure.”

She smiled, but it was thin, watery thing.

Firen did not know if her mother counted as company, but she wrapped her arm about his and put her head against his shoulder. She wanted to say she was sorry, but she wasn’t. Not about her family. Not about her neighbours. She’d be held against him, and it would make things harder for him, but if he would not regret it, regret her , then she would not do it for him.

Mama left out the back door, with two cups of tea in her hands. She’d be a while, then. Would likely sit across from Da and make him break and rest his shoulders after hunching all morning.

“Did she pounce on you?” Firen asked as soon as the door was firmly shut and she was certain Mama was a few steps away from it.

She ran her finger over one of the lists again, feeling strangely fond of them. Protective. Lucian’s future was tied to those pages, and therefore her own.

“If by pounce you mean was she in the kitchen offering food and assistance, then yes.” He made another notation at the bottom of a sheet. “She is very kind.”

Firen beamed at him. “She is.” Then came the concern, leeching some of her satisfaction. “Is it hard for you? To be here with mine instead of with yours?”

Lucian turned his head, and she expected the furrowed brow, the tight set of his mouth. “Why should it?”

“Sorry,” Firen said with a sigh. “That’s not... I shouldn’t have said it like that.” She reached for his hand and gripped it, because the last thing she wanted was a quarrel. It was not a competition between mothers. It was not about who had the better parents, the more welcoming home. “I feel guilty, I suppose. Forcing you to be here.”

Lucian huffed out a breath, then turned in his chair so he could face her fully. Could reach out to ensure she was looking at him. “Do I appear to be under duress? Must we dwell on misgivings? It is done. I have accepted this. I am attempting to build a future.” He grimaced, and his hand fell away. “One that resembles what I had hoped for as much as possible.”

Firen glanced away from him, her heart beating a little too quickly. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she wanted to get this right. Wanted to be a support to him rather than a hindrance. Except what came out was girlish and fretful. Utterly lacking in anything helpful.

“Why is it easier to talk to Mama than it is to me?”

He glanced at her, his brows raised. “What?”

She wanted to retract it as soon as the thought had slipped from her lips, but she couldn’t. She could stammer out another apology, but it would still lie there, weighing on the both of them.

“It’s just... it seems easier, with her. Is it like she says? That she’s a planner? Knows how to make the best lists and make big things seem manageable?” She felt all the sillier as soon as she put it that way.

He was going to get up. Was going to pace about the kitchen and ask her how this could possibly be of any importance at all when he was trying to determine the rest of his life.

Instead, he turned and used his foot to push at her stool.

Then his hands were at her waist, and he was pulling her onto his lap. The movement was so quick that she startled by it, her hands coming to his shoulders as she fought to keep her balance—not that it was needed. His hands were strong at her waist, then firmer still as he used one to cup her cheek and hold her head in position.

So he could kiss her once.

Then pull back with a look of utter exasperation.

“It is easier,” Lucian agreed. “Because when I am with you, I am reminded of all the ways I am failing you. That you must sleep in a blacksmith loft because I cannot even provide a family to support us during this transition. Because my profession was tied so intimately with a bond that would never happen. And it shames me. Infuriates me. So yes, I feel it difficult to talk of it with you, because it should not have to be so difficult.”

“Lucian,” she murmured, and her throat was too tight and the bond was too warm. Made her want to hold him to her, made her want to kiss him all over because that was theirs. What they knew how to do well.

“Do not look at me that way,” Lucian urged, and his hands went back to her waist and he was going to move her off of him, and she did not want that. Not in the least. “I will not kiss you in your mother’s kitchen,” he added lowly when her hands went about his neck so she could hold herself steady. “I am going to tuck these papers away, and dress properly, and then I am going to make my rounds in the Hall.”

His hand went to the back of her neck and she shivered as his thumb smoothed against the delicate skin he found there. “Or did you imagine you had bartered for a full week of my sole attention?”

She made a guilty sort of hum because, in truth, she had. But she could share. When it was this important. When he was so troubled.

“I won’t ask if it would help if I came with you.”

And she wouldn’t let it sting, either. That it would be an impediment when she was used to being...

Well, liked .

Even if they were just... common folk. The ones she’d known since birth, that worked and tended to their stalls and made no trouble for anybody. That might have gossiped a bit too much. That were a bit too harsh in some ways, but were kindly underneath the rest of it.

“I thank you,” Lucian answered, petting her hair, and she found it soothed her in ways she had never imagined. “I dislike disappointing you. Despite what you may think.”

Her throat tightened, and she took a breath that was so full of him it almost made her dizzy.

He would not kiss her.

Which meant she ought not to test matters by seeing if she could get him to respond to her kisses . A fun sort of game for another place. Somewhere private, where she would not have to endure the mortification of her mother or father walking in on the two of them in a compromising position.

Did sitting on his lap count?

She did not know these rules. Knew only that she liked it best when she was with him. When they touched, and he said sweet things to her. About devotion. Commitment.

And maybe that made her greedy and a bit too possessive.

She didn’t know that either.

But when she settled back onto her own stool, she kept hold of his hand. She watched him drink lukewarm tea from one of the mugs she’d used since childhood.

“So, you’ll go to the Hall, and I’ll...” She hesitated, not knowing what she might do with herself. Help Da with his craft? Or maybe visit Eris?

She’d need to find her own things. Ways to keep busy. To contribute.

“I’ll do something productive,” she declared after a moment’s hesitation. And watched Lucian smile ever so slightly. “And we can supper together?”

He squeezed her hand. “Yes.”

And her heart had no business warming as it did. For the bond to hum and be so distracting when they had things to do that did not include returning to their cots and assuaging it with more of their delightful congress.

But they could.

Later.

Which was rather a pleasing thought.