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.