9.4

Firen had never been in a fishing cottage. Had never quite experienced what it meant to be so near the docks where barrels of catch were dunked and processed.

The smell was strong. Almost overpowering.

Eris was at the far end, but it did not mean when the wind caught, she wasn’t subjected to another waft of brine and... other odours.

Nets stretched out along the beaches, pinned down and drying in the suns. Men and women alike worked at mending them, backs hunched, wings outstretched to provide some shade from the heat.

She did not expect to see her sister as one of them. She’d expected her to be bustling about in her home, fully prepared to inform Firen of just how perfect her new life was, and how much better a roommate Varrel made than she did.

Eris stood almost immediately, wiping her hands on an apron that had once held some sort of pattern to it, but had bleached near-white from the suns. “What are you doing here?”

Not an accusation, but close to one.

“Mama kicked me out of the stall,” Firen answered truthfully. “Said I had not been attending to my sisterly duties.”

Eris snorted, moving away from the net and coming toward her. “I suppose you haven’t.” She needn’t have agreed. Someone else might have offered a gracious reminder that Firen was busy as well. That their lives had altered quickly, and what mattered most was to make time for one another now they’d settled.

But not Eris.

Firen would not prickle. Would not give back a reminder that Eris had made little attempt at contact, either.

Firen was the older. An example. How many times had Mama said that growing up?

“Well,” she countered briskly. “I’m here to make amends. Can I help in some way? You’d have to show me what needs doing, but I’m happy to try.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot pay you.”

Firen fought the urge to take offense—either at the implication that Lucian could not provide enough coin that Firen was here begging for employ, or that she would not offer help without some promise of compensation.

“Eris,” Firen sighed out. “I’m your sister. You are working hard. I would have asked if you wanted help to scrub your kitchen floor if that’s what you were doing when I came.” And just because she was perhaps a tiny bit perturbed, she added, “I wouldn’t ask for coin for that, either.”

Eris’s lips thinned. “It’s harder than it looks.”

Firen stepped closer, trying to assess that for herself. “Then I will be bad at it, at first. And you can correct me all you like.” And she would, of that Firen was certain.

Eris glanced down at the net and truly seemed to consider the offer. But then she stood a little straighter and shook her head. “Nets can wait. Come inside and talk with me. Isn’t that what mated women do? Exchange stories?”

Tension eased out of Firen to hear her sister acknowledge her new status, and she smiled far more easily. “That sounds lovely.”

And it was true. Just as the little cottage was lovely. Wood rather than stone. White-washed, with shutters softened by long curtains. A table with a pitcher filled with flowers plucked from the sea-fields. Eris had no great fondness for flying over the open water, so Firen suspected they were a gift from Varrel.

It was all one room, the bed—made, to Firen’s surprise—was partitioned with yet more gauze.

“It’s beautiful, Eris. Truly.”

Her sister looked at her for longer than was necessary, obviously trying to judge her sincerity. Had she truly been so harsh with her in their growing up? She couldn’t recall. “Thank you. It was a bit of a disaster when we moved in, but I like what we’ve done with it.” She had no stove, only a large hearth and a hook to move the cauldron closer or further from the flames. Then there was the metal stand where she could fry in a pan if she so chose.

“Did Da make that?”

Eris’ smile grew less guarded. “Yes. Came the next day with it. Just until we can afford a stove.” There was the look again, as if waiting for Firen’s disapproval. Or maybe... “Do you have one? A stove, that is.”

There it was. Firen could not recall when their relationship had become a competition, but she desperately wanted to put an end to it. “Now, yes. We’ve moved into the lodging provided by the Hall for their workers. But we were just in the workroom loft before that.”

Eris had moved to the hearth to swing the kettle above the low fire. “Shouldn’t you be in a tower? Mama said you had a lofty mate. Very important. ”

Firen swallowed, gesturing toward the table with a questioning look, and Eris nodded with a look that suggested Firen was being ridiculous for having to ask. “He’s important to me,” Firen soothed. “Just as Varrel is to you.”

Just the mention of his name was enough to soften some of Eris’s expression, and Firen was glad of it. There would be no quarrelling—not to day. Hopefully not for months to come.

“So,” Eris asked, pulling mugs down from a hook on the wall. “If I wanted to host a supper, he’d come? Here?”

Firen smoothed her hands against the tabletop. It had been well sanded, and her sister added a cloth of bright blue to soften it further. “He is your family too,” Firen answered quietly. “As am I. I am sorry if...” she swallowed. Tried again. “I am sorry I envied you. I am sorry I got caught up in how lonely I felt. I neglected you along the way, and I cannot take that back.” She folded her hands and leaned in as close as she could. “I should have been here before now. And anything you wish to host, we will attend.” She did not remind her that Eris had been the one to reject the invitation to their parents’ home. That her brothers had come, and she had not, and there had been hurt in the rejection.

Eris shifted slightly, evidently hearing all that Firen had not said. “We would have come. To the... to meet him. But Varrel got delayed and I...” she looked at her sister, her eyes too wide. “I did not want to go alone.”

Firen got up from her seat and crossed to her sister, pulling her close. They were not overly affectionate with one another—not since their youngest years. But perhaps that had been a mistake on her part as well. “Perfectly understandable,” Firen assured her. Because it was. Even now, she felt a part of herself was missing. Present through the bond, but it was not at all the same as having him near enough to touch. To glance across a room and find him watching her. For him to press little teasing emotions through the bond just to remind her he cared.

Eris pulled away first, and that was all right. And when she gestured for Firen to sit back down and told her to let her work, she sounded so much like Mama that Firen could not help but smile.

Mama had been right. She’d put this off too long, and now that it was done, she could not pretend it had not been weighing on her.

She did not stay over-long. Eris had chores to finish, she said, ducking her head as if there was something wrong with having tasks that needed doing. Those were matters to sort out on a different day. It was enough they had a pleasant visit, mostly filled with Eris sighing out Varrel’s virtues while Firen nodded and prompted her to continue every so often.

Which was more than all right.

And while there was a tug to go back to her own home, she knew she needed to go back to Mama first. Thank her for her prompting and allow her that brief glimmer in her eye that was a too near to pride at being right.

Again.

Earned, Firen supposed. But difficult to swallow depending on the circumstances.

Besides. She wanted to pick up food for their supper. Something beyond her ability to cook. With spices from across the sea, with flavours that were familiar to Firen only because Da liked to take them all and choose one special stall to patronise each market.

Her mouth watered just a little at the memory of spiced nutmeats and cups of sweetened juices from fruits that looked so marvellous hanging on strings behind the stall-keeps. She’d tried to pick out a seed from her cup, determined she’d plant it outside the workshop so she could have it whenever she liked, but it had swiftly been taken away again.

To preserve the mystery, he’d said.

Which had been heartily disappointing to her, and it had been so long ago she was certain the tree would have grown to be a magnificent addition to their home, the fruit plentiful and perhaps even burdensome unless she dedicated herself to making preserves.

She did not startle her mother again. It was amusing once, but would be a little mean if she did it twice. Besides, there was a customer, and they might find their games off-putting, and coin mattered.

She landed gently, taking her time walking toward her family stall, thoughts occupied with what she meant to buy. Not juice. She hadn’t brought a flask, and the bottles were far more expensive. But maybe it could be considered a celebration, and she should consider something fermented, something bubbly and rich that would sweeten their inevitable kisses and...

Her head tilted as she watched as Mama’s brow furrowed. They did not seem to be paying much attention to the wares any longer. Instead, the woman reached out and put her hand on her mother’s arm.

Mama glanced at it, then seemed to notice Firen, and gestured her over.

She came quickly enough, dread filling her belly when she made out just who the woman was.

“Ellena,” she greeted, a tightness in her voice that shamed her just a little. Gracious in all things. Forgiving.

Strong, too. She mustn’t forget that. “Are you in need of jewellery?” She added that part more sweetly, but it sounded disingenuous to her own ears. “Or chimes, perhaps? Something to liven up your garden might be nice.”

Ellena’s head turned, and Firen did not stop to remain beside her. She slipped inside the stall, the counter between them, and she forced a smile to her face even as she urged her wings to settle down. To show no hint of unease.

The chimes jingled merrily in the breeze. They really would do much for the tower’s garden. Make it feel less forgotten and neglected.

“Oh. Thank you but...” Ellena swallowed. She appeared tired, even beneath the obvious attempts not to seem so. “I had rather hoped to speak with you.”

Firen’s brows raised in surprise. “And you thought I would still work here?”

Which she would have. Or might be. She hadn’t decided what she intended to do.

Ellena’s eyes darted about, as if Oberon himself would soon come up behind her. Maybe he would, for all Firen knew, but somehow she doubted he much cared for the bustle of the market. Not when there were so many common folk about.

“I thought you... might.” Her mouth twisted, and Firen was acutely aware of how much it had cost her to come here. To leave her stone walls just for a conversation.

She seemed the sort that was far more used to summoning. For others to await her leisure.

Perhaps it should have softened Firen some, to see her effort, and maybe it did. But only the smallest bit. “Me, or your son?” Firen asked, giving her a rather pointed look. “This is not his trade, as I’m sure you know.”

Mama put a hand on Firen’s shoulder, and she became more aware of how they’d pulled tight with a strain she promised herself she would not feel.

She took a deep breath.

“This is my mother, Aylin.”

Ellena had graces enough to lower her head, but only just. “We were becoming acquainted,” she assured Firen. “You look much like her.”

Which was likely a compliment, as Firen’s appearance seemed to be her lone attribute they did not fault.

Firen itched to sit down, but her manners were too well ingrained to do so when Ellena could not. “Thank you,” Firen murmured, because that was all she could think to say.

“This is hardly the place for a talk,” Mama insisted.

“Of course. I am keeping you from your work.” Ellena took a step to the side, as if there was someone waiting to take her place. There wasn’t. Most did not care to crowd about. If a stall was occupied, patrons would move on—coming back only if they had a particular need. “Only...” she huffed out a breath, and her hands clasped together tightly down by her hips. “I do not know where else to go.”

This was some sort of trick, wasn’t it? For Firen to feel sorry for her and offer their new address.

What might she have done if they were still situated in the workroom loft? Would she have walked through the smithy and sat on their shoved together beds and be glad of it if it meant seeing Lucian? Or would she have expected to be entertained in her mother’s sitting room, all the while insisting the home was inadequate for her son?

They were unkind thoughts, but they felt too real and came too readily to be dismissed.

“If you have a note, I will pass it along,” Firen offered as gently as she could. “Or...”

Ellena’s expression grew pained, although she tried to hide. “I do not...” She shook her head. “A walk, then. So we do not intrude on your mother’s stall. Please,” she added, her hand twitching out in want of Firen’s arm.

But she curled her fingers. Brought it back against her side.

It troubled Firen how quickly a firm no came to her lips. She wanted no part of bitterness. Of resentment. But she would not be gullible, either.

She’d accept no invitation to that tower. She would not be pinned in alone, walked to her own slaughter. Or perhaps worse, if the damage they meant was for the bond alone.

Except...

Would that even matter any longer? She would miss it. Desperately so, if it was damaged. Or if it was absent entirely.

But the love she felt for Lucian came from her own emotions, not the twist and pull of the bond. The life she wanted with him was for its own sake, not a matter of compulsion.

It was a strange sort of comfort, but it allowed her to nod her head and step out of the stall, glancing briefly at her mother in case she had any objections. “To the end of the row and back,” Firen declared, feeling silly and overly cautious, but wanting someone to know where they might be together.

It was not the answer she wanted, but Ellena still appeared relieved she was being granted anything at all. Firen didn’t like how she felt. Didn’t like how her heart quickened, not in the way her heart sped when Lucian walked in their door. But rather...

What it meant to have power over someone. To grant a desire or to withhold it. For their happiness to depend on an answer only she could give.

Her lips thinned as she stepped out of the stall. Gracious in all things. Protective of Lucian. Of her own family.

That was allowed.

Being cruel was not.

Old habits made her want to fill the silence. To prattle about something while Ellena’s eyes darted about, fingers twisting together in front of her. It took a great deal to keep quiet, to allow her to lead them. Her pace was so slow it was almost laughable, but Firen supposed it was to extend what time she’d been allowed while she collected herself.

“Is he well?” she blurted out at last.

All else aside, this was still his mother. She had been the one to carry him, to nurse him, and she could not help the mate chosen as his sire. That did not excuse everything, not by half, but it made it easier for her answer to come without even a twist of resentment. “Yes.”

Ellena nodded, a wistful sort of smile on her face. Perhaps remembering when she would have been the one to know it for herself, for access to her son to come without need of an intermediary.

“Why did you seek me out?” Firen asked, finding that mattered to her. “You know where to find him.”

Ellena smoothed a hand down her overdress. Deeply coloured—not quite charcoal, not quite violet. Some murky in between that was striking, if not pretty. “Spouses are not permitted in the Hall. Surely you know that.” Her eyes narrowed, and she halted in her steps. “You have not embarrassed him by trespassing, have you?”

Firen took a breath. Then another for good measure. “I have been to the Hall,” she answered her as calmly as she was able. “I have taken tea and been given all sorts of pamphlets so I might be as informed as I ought to be. As all of you should have been.” She kept moving, but not at a quick pace. Ellena could catch up with little effort, although she still appeared scandalised by Firen’s confession. “Did you know your mate was stealing from your son? Lucian didn’t. It hurt him rather badly when he learned of it.”

She took yet another breath because her tone had strayed from the kindly one she was determined to offer.

“Oberon is many things, but a thief is not one of them.”

Firen’s wings rose and fell. “All right.”

She did not need this woman to believe her. It made it no less true, regardless of what she thought.

But Ellena appeared troubled, her mouth opening and closing again, her fingers abandoning their tangle to form into fists at her side. “I came,” she managed at last. “To invite you back to the tower.”

Firen willed her stomach not to fill with dread. It would not happen—they agreed. She had nothing to fear from a simple invitation. “I thank you, but no.”

For a brief moment, Ellena scowled, but she quickly hid it away again. “You will not even present it to my son? You would answer for him?”

Firen looked up at the sky. She’d wanted patience, and she was evidently going to earn it through constant practice. “I will tell him everything we’ve spoken about,” she answered honestly. “But I would save you the trouble of hoping. We are happy where we are. I do not feel safe in your tower, and that matters to your son, even if it means nothing to you.”

A vendor called out to them to come see their wares, but both women ignored him. “It is... unfortunate. The things you heard. But they were exaggerated. Spoken out of too many spirits and too little thought given to their consequence.” She reached out and took hold of Firen’s arm. “There is no such ability. I promise you, this. Your bond is safe. You are safe. I just...” Her grip tightened, but then she seemed to recognise what she was doing and released her hold. “I want my son home.”

A motherly plea.

As if...

As if he was a fledgling in her care.

And not the man he was. The one with a mate. With responsibilities to the Hall and to his new master.

Firen could fling it at her. Could call her selfish and as thoughtless as her mate with her words and her expectations.

But she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

She tried to settle on what she could say. Something that was firm, yet kind. That was truthful, but did not give a false hope that her wish might someday be fulfilled.

It might have. Before. She would have lived in that tower with those people if they’d given just a bit of welcome, a hint that they might come to appreciate her. But they hadn’t, and she needn’t feel guilty for it now.

“We need a home of our own,” Firen settled on at last. “To learn how to be together. Can you understand that?”

Ellena’s answering smile was thin, filled with a pain that felt like an old wound, suddenly weeping open. A weariness shivered through her, and she wiped at her eyes and drew herself up to her full height. Not Firen’s, but close enough. “I should like to visit. To see how he is living.” She paused, her eyes drifting up toward Firen. “Where you both are living.”

It was direct acknowledgement than Firen had received before, but there was no denying how begrudgingly it was given.

Gracious. Kind.

“And if I tell you of our lodging,” Firen posed, the threats too real despite what Ellena now said about them. “Will I find myself put upon while Lucian is at work? Dragged off and experimented upon while you work to free him from me?” She leaned in close, calm and utterly serious. The voice was hers, but the sentiment was not. It was as if a bit of her mate’s caution had seeped inside of her, like those lists he’d made of the workers in the Hall.

Civil to all, trusting of few. Isn’t that what he’d told to her?

Ellena fussed with her hands, taking a step backward. “I told you there is no such ability! Such talk was never meant for your ears, and I am sorry it reached you. But I should not be punished because my mate cannot keep hold of his tongue!”

Truth and untruth all at once.

“I do not fear it breaking,” Firen answered, drawing back and walking placidly onward. “But I am rather wretched about pain, and it is your attempts that concern me more than your success.” She turned her head and watched Ellena take three hurried steps to keep up with her. “Your son would choose me. I want you to know this. Even if you somehow managed it, although you claim you cannot. He would spend the rest of his days with me, regardless.”

Ellena’s mouth dropped open. Firen expected her to make a new plea. But her eyes hardened. And she drew dreadfully calm even as she brought a fist to her own chest and held Firen’s gaze. “If there was a way,” she began, her voice steady and low. “Do you not think I would have used it on myself? Plucked this thing from my body and freed myself and my son so we might live how we pleased?”

It was a terrible confession to make. One that sent a loathsome ache through Firen’s very bones.

She meant it.

There was no mistaking that.

Whatever had driven Ellena to take her own life had never healed. Of that, Firen was certain.

Whoever the girl might have been before Oberon, before their families had grown heady from their own power and importance...

A lump settled in Firen’s throat, and she moved without thought, only feeling.

She took Ellena into her embrace and held her there. Held her until the woman stopped shaking, until her fists uncurled and they rose to come about Firen in return.

Much like her son, Firen thought with a fond sort of ache. “I am sorry,” Firen murmured, and found that she meant it. Perhaps she did not think particularly well of the woman she’d become along the way, but she could mourn for what she might have been.

Try, for Lucian’s sake. To love her as she was.

“For what?” Ellena mumbled, and it was such a motherly sort of reply that Firen had to fight down a chuckle. It would not do to laugh now, not with such a confession still hanging between them. To hate one’s mate...

To want to expunge the very bond that was meant as a precious gift...

It was an insult to the Maker.

And yet...

Firen pulled back, keeping her hands on Ellena’s shoulders. “Lucian is so dear to me. He is kind and thoughtful, and he works hard for me. For the both of us. And I do not think...” she stumbled over her words, and shook her head. “That came from you, didn’t it? And I should have realised, and I should have thanked you for it, and I didn’t.”

Ellena shifted, both her body and her eye line. “He would be someone’s mate one day. I wanted him to be a better one than his father.”

Firen nodded, feeling stricken by how many poor thoughts she’d harboured against this woman. How much resentment. “He loves you. He does not like to speak of it, but I feel it all the same. The... loss.” She brought her hand to her chest, to the source of what she treasured most.

And felt another pang of sorrow that, for Ellena, it was a source of pain and frustration.

Ellena pulled away, her hands coiling as she looked up at Firen in entreaty. “I am still here. Please, I...”

Firen shook her head. “Please, don’t. I...” She huffed out a breath. “We had a terrible start, you and I. So let’s begin again, shall we? As best we can?”

She took a full step back, thinking of the games she and Lucian had to play as they muddled through in their first days. Him so full of misgivings. Her with her host of expectations—the ones she would staunchly disagree existed at all.

She lowered her head and brought her hand back to her chest briefly. “It is a pleasure to meet my mate’s mother. I thank you for your service in raising him. For loving him. And I will endeavour to make you proud.”

The words were old ones. Meant as a prayer as families gathered and gave blessings and got to know one another.

So much had been neglected. Made impossible.

But perhaps not as much as she’d once thought.

Ellena merely blinked at her, her eyes misty and her hand up at her throat.

“Why don’t you come tomorrow? For tea with my mother and I. Lucian did not tell me his schedule, so I do not know if he can stay long, but...”

“Yes,” Ellena burst out before Firen could even finish her thought. “Yes, I would like that.”

They’d turned back already. Were almost back to her mother and Firen was more relieved than she cared to admit. Even if she’d determined to try harder, it was easier when Mama was there to offer her support. “Tea, tomorrow. At my house. Is that all right with you?”

It felt strange and unexpected to be making that sort of arrangement. For her head to be filled with thoughts of treats she should buy and flowers to set the table, and maybe she should go over the kitchen once more before they came just to be sure there weren’t any forgotten crumbs hiding beneath the cupboards.

Mama cast a glance at Ellena, then back toward Firen. “I would not miss it.”

Which could mean quite a few things, and Firen would speak with her about it. And maybe give a few more particulars on what the troubles had been and what her hopes were for the future.

They settled on a time and Firen gave the direction for their house, Ellena’s shoulder relaxing as soon as she was given their address. “Thank you,” she murmured, and Firen believed her gratitude was real, and she nodded before Ellena stepped away from the stall and took her leave.

“You’ll come early,” Firen amended to her mother. “So we can talk first?”

Mama’s lips tightened slightly, and she didn’t look at Firen. “That might be best.”

Firen took a step forward, not wanting her to be cross. “I want to try,” Firen offered. “For Lucian. And maybe even a little bit for Ellena. She’s had a hard life, I think.”

Mama reached out and patted her shoulder, lingering a bit as her eyes grew serious. “And I love you for that. But you are my daughter, and my concern is for you first. And I’ll not see you hurt. Not when I’m about.”

Firen gave a rueful look, and Mama merely smiled sweetly at her. “It is too late to disinvite me. You’ll be seen as rude.”

She was right, and Firen would not have done it, anyway. Not when it just meant that her mother loved her.

She bought the treats.

And she scrubbed the kitchen.

And she even had supper warmed on the stove when Lucian came back through the door. He was tired—she did not need the bond to tell her of it, not when it was so obvious in the lines about his eyes, the set of his shoulders.

“Sleep or food?” she asked, hoping for the latter but knowing only he could decide what his needs were.

He grunted, rolling his shoulders before bending down to slip off his boots. “Both.”

She chuckled, fetching plates and cloths for the inevitable mess, and shook her head when he made to sit at the table.

“Bed,” she declared.

His nose crinkled. “The crumbs...”

“Will be swept up by me. You need a lie down. While I tell you about tomorrow.”

He rubbed at his forehead, the little line between his brows suggesting she’d confused him utterly. “Don’t you mean today?”

“No. I mean tomorrow.” She filled the tray and followed him up to the loft. Where she was rewarded with him shrugging out of his robes, leaving him in shirtsleeves and trousers. She wouldn’t mind him stripping down further, but he seemed contented enough with the effort and reclined onto the bedclothes.

She followed, settling the tray on the bed beside him before making an elaborate gesture with the cloth as she spread it over his shirt. Then followed it with a plate she placed on his middle. “From the market,” she declared. “One of my favourites, so be kind.”

He took a bite with far more suspicion than was warranted. The pastry crumbled, but that was what the cloth was for. A base for all the cheese and vegetables that she couldn’t name because the words were strange on her tongue and she’d asked the stall-keep too many times how to pronounce them and she knew he’d tired of repeating it.

“Any objections?” she asked, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed so she could look at him.

“Yes,” Lucian muttered, taking another bite. “The days are too long, and despite what Vandran says, he seems intent to fit eight years of study into one. Willing to accept me as a ninth my wing.” That part was muttered into the pastry as he poked about the contents. “You meant with the food, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Firen agreed, taking a bite of her own meal. “But that’s all right.” She loved the flavours. Loved how one vegetable had been pickled in some sort of sweet brine, which contrasted nicely with the salt of the cheese.

Liked better that Lucian was home, and she might share it with him.

“What’s happening tomorrow?” Lucian asked, taking another, larger bite. Which was answer enough of how well he liked it.

“Well,” Firen hedged, suddenly wondering if he would find some objection in it. “I invited our mothers for tea.” He stared at her, his pastry hovering over his plate, not quite making it to his mouth. “Here,” she added, voice a little smaller than it had been. “We hadn’t talked about that part. If... if I shouldn’t have said where we lived, or if that will make things worse with your father since I know he’d like nothing more than to make trouble for you, but...”

“Take a breath,” Lucian urged, and she realised her words had strung together and he likely had understood little beyond their mothers coming. “Start again. When did you see my mother?”

She told him.

All of it.

About Eris first, although she tried to keep that part shorter.

About Ellena’s appearance at her mother’s stall.

About promises and bonds and how much she clearly loved her son.

“I feel sorry for her,” Firen finished. “Is that wrong?” She abandoned her plate on the tray and lay down next to him. She’d let him sleep in a moment. Take the dishes and tidy everything while he rested his weary mind.

His arm came about her. Pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “You’ve a kind heart,” Lucian complimented. His voice was low and raspy with want of sleep, and she nuzzled into him briefly. “More than we deserve, probably.”

She hummed. Kissed his chest just the once, then leaned forward to place a kiss on his mouth as well. The proper greeting she should have given when he came home, but she was certain he’d forgive her tardiness. “I don’t know about that.”

She moved to stand at the side of the bed and collected the remains of their supper. Then, with exaggerated movements, brushed any remaining crumbs from his shirt and trousers while he fussed and flinched as if she was going to be brutal about it.

Which she wasn’t.

Might have teased him a little, but only just.

“Go to sleep,” she insisted. “Then you can tell me all your plotting when you wake up.”

He laughed, but it was a breathless, sleep-filled sound as he rolled onto his side away from her.

Well. Away from the lamplight.

So she lowered that too, and if she leaned down to kiss his cheek, that was her prerogative.

He’d not said if he could make time to join them for their tea. Had not scolded her for telling his mother where they lived.

All she’d felt was an outpouring of relief from his side of the bond. So pronounced that it made her want to slide into the bed beside him and hold him to her, because he’d kept it from her so completely. Hadn’t wanted to push. Hadn’t wanted to force her into any sort of obligation.

But he’d wanted it. Privately. Quietly.

Until she was ready to attempt it on her own.

“As if I wouldn’t have done it if you’d asked,” she scolded as she flew back down to the kitchen. “Ridiculous man.”

Which he wasn’t, but she could call him that.

Because he was hers, and she loved him.