5. Supper

She was in a dress shop.

Intellectually, she’d known they existed. Just because she had two parents that could craft and made such places wholly unnecessary did not mean everyone held those same advantages.

Some had to stand on this strange circle in the middle of a shop, while measurements were taken with a long strip of cording. Prodded at and viewed in a critical eye while a man and woman fluttered about and clicked their tongues at everything they saw.

While Lucian watched, as if this was natural.

Which it was. Would be.

Might be.

But if they made one word against the clothes she’d fashioned for herself, or her embroidery, or the special way she cut the cuffs of her tunic so she could add little flounces to the hems just because she liked the way they moved...

“Black?” the male tailor asked. Not to her. To Lucian.

Was this some custom she had never heard of before? She despised it already, if it was.

But she said nothing. Allowed them to tuck and pin and wonder at her frame, most particularly the set of her wings upon her shoulders and just how much room they would have to allow to accommodate them.

So much the better. There was nothing worse than clothes cutting too tightly into the base. Mussing feathers until they quirked out of alignment, aching and raw until she could bribe Eris into fixing them should their mother be too busy.

Firen had not worn black a day in her life. The dyes were common enough, which surprised her, as it seemed to be the favoured colour of lawmen.

The severity helped, she supposed. Commanded a sort of respect that paired well with glares and stony expressions.

She thought Lucian would look well in a deep blue instead. Or perhaps green...

Like the cloth from his bed. He looked... quite becoming with that about him.

Lucian gave her a look, and she was more than aware of how the bond had warmed at the turn of her thoughts.

She would wear it, if it would help. She couldn’t imagine how it might, other than they would look more like a proper pair.

Lucian circled as the others had done, and it felt different when it was him. Weightier. As her insides curled and tightened. Loosened. All depending on where he was positioned and how the set of his jaw ticked ever so slightly as he watched her. “You do not think it too harsh?”

Which was laughable, as his hair was paler even than hers. His skin, too, hidden away in his towers. He stepped nearer to her, his hand reaching out to touch her cheek ever so slightly. “Purple,” he declared, his thumb moving over the mark just once before he pulled his hand away entirely. “As deep as you have it.”

Not to match, then, as her markings were considerably lighter than that.

It shouldn’t fluster her. To be touched in view of others, to have him dress her. Not physically—although that would likely elicit some rather strong reactions if ever it occurred. But for him to declare his preference, to bring her somewhere he was known and state that his mate required attire for a rather important supper...

It was exciting. Thrilling, even. Tempering her trepidation, the lingering hurts.

Some had mended well enough under her parents’ care. The story Lucian offered them was not a deceit. It was simply... condensed. He removed the portions about Firen’s banned entry. Focused solely on seeing her. Meeting her. Of knowing it was her and feeling...

He could not settle on a word. Sorry, was what Firen privately thought he meant most, but he refused to give it.

“Captivated,” he finished at last.

While Mama continued to glance between the two of them. Seated across from one another, rather than beside. They did not touch, hands were clasped around cups rather than each other, and that was all right, wasn’t it? She’d held his hand as she brought him down. Allowed him to choose his seat, and hers was taken from sheer habit. It had always been hers.

Firen had blinked at him, wondering if he had trespassed into a lie—something she could not abide. Not for two of the people she held in the highest esteem. But he met her gaze and held it there, and she swallowed thickly.

“And yet you kept so calm,” she countered with a quirk of her brow and a smile that she hoped was teasing rather than imploring. She wanted it to be true. So badly. “A result of my profession. I am studying to become a lawmancer. Apprentice to my father.”

He did not grimace. Did nothing to suggest that the partnership would be over if this impending supper did little to change Oberon’s mind. There were others in the city, surely. Ones that would be pleased to teach Lucian and situate him in the halls without need of his father’s permission.

Ones that respected the bond more.

“A difficult position,” Da offered. “You are certain you would not prefer to learn how to tinker?” It was given in jest, but Lucian did not know that.

“At the moment, I am uncertain of anything. Only that... I have obligations. That I mean to fulfil, to the best of my abilities.” This he said to Firen. A promise. He would do right by her. Would try, for her.

Firen kept them from talk of lodging. Instead, she prattled about a supper she knew nothing about, of meeting family and she was nervous, as they had only met with his parents that morning.

If they thought it strange they received no invitation, they did not say.

“Certainly,” the female tailor acknowledged, already delving into the racks in search of something suitable. “If we had been given more notice, we would of course have made it to her exact specifications, however...” She pulled out two outfits, in styles Firen had never worn—nor seen before. They appeared... restrictive. Not the flowing layers she was used to, but dresses so fitted that she wondered if one would be able to walk. Fly, certainly, and she supposed there would be no risk of anyone seeing anything untoward, but she did not relish the thought of wearing either of them.

Her smile grew brittle. They were beautiful. The fabrics were fine. She should want to wear them. If it would please Lucian, would make him think her a worthy mate then...

Her pulse fluttered, and her stomach clenched, just to think it.

She was those things already. In clothing made by her own hands by Mama’s hands. She was no lesser just because a tailor was an extravagance unknown to her.

Lucian moved closer to the offerings, touching each in turn before turning to Firen. For her opinion? Or to make his declaration on how his mate should look, how she should act. Never mind, speak, for there surely would be no cause for that at all.

A sickly feeling spread through her. They’d changed her into a measuring garment, and it was that alone that kept her rooted in place rather than escape into the afternoon air until her mood settled and she was herself again.

She’d wanted a dress from her mother’s wardrobe. Had asked if she might borrow one of her prettier pieces, and Mama had looked at Lucian in that stern, knowing way of hers. And before Firen could redirect, retract the request and laugh it off as nothing of important, Mama asked if it was not Lucian’s responsibility to see to her needs. Which it was. Only... it meant coming here, with things she could not afford. Did not want to afford.

“You’ve no preference?” Lucian asked, although it was hardly a question at all.

She did. But not for either of the ones still being held for their inspection. “You know what is expected.” It was as gracious a comment as she could make. She wasn’t arguing, but she did not doubt he could feel her unease flowing steadily through the bond.

“Would it be presumptuous,” he began, turning to the woman, “To have a moment to look with my mate?”

If the request was an odd one, neither tailor said so. They fluttered and nodded, and their smiles were wide as they retreated to the workspace in the back. Doubtless to gossip amongst themselves about the strange couple in their display room, with a too-silent mate and her scowling...

He wasn’t scowling. He was running a hand through his hair as he looked at both garments returned to their places on the racks. “You hate them.”

She sighed, smoothing her hand down the thin muslin with its many stitches that presumably indicated measurements. “I didn’t say that.”

He cast her a look that made it more than clear they did not require words between them to make their displeasure abundantly plain. “Is it the colour?”

There was something in the way he said it—as if it might hurt him in some way if that caused her unease.

“No,” Firen insisted, abandoning her post on the circle so she could make herself better understood. “It is the... styles.”

Lucian glanced down at them again, picking at one with two of his fingers as if he was afraid of damaging it. “What about it? Robes are appropriate.”

Firen laughed a little breathlessly. “I do not mind that. It is this portion, see?” She held out the... it was a dress. Must be, as there were no leggings to suggest it was simply a fitted tunic. That might have made the slits she found to be more tolerable, but as it was...

Perhaps there were even limits to her immodesty.

“It’s this, see? My mother would have a fit if she saw me in a dress like this.” She pulled out the fabric so he could better see what troubled her. Then, to fully illustrate her point, she took his hand and pulled it to the place on her thigh where she imagined it would fall on her. And now that she looked properly, it was at the front rather than the side, which made it even more scandalous when she pulled his hand more inward. “You might be used to seeing your family in such attire, but I’m not.” She swallowed, trying to smile at him as he looked down at their joined hands. “But I’ll wear it, if you want me to.”

He scowled at her. “Of course not.” He started ripping through the other racks, grumbling all the while. About dips and sodden dresses, and slits that belonged on nothing but a nightdress and if she thought for a moment that she would be presented before his family in such a manner...

It shouldn’t amuse her. Truly. But this was something she had never imagined teasing her mate about. That he should think her lovely, most certainly. But not the way he might covet her. Might grow offended on her behalf if others got to partake of a little too much of that loveliness, even if he had only just become acquainted with it.

He pulled out another. Not nearly as deep in colour. Not so dissimilar from the dress she’d worn to the fete. Gathered with drawstrings in a becoming fashion—only these cords were of intricate lace to match the hem and neckline. She took it from him, holding it up to her person. Not a slit to be seen. But perhaps she might convince him to dance with her, if only so she might better experience the swish and flow of a skirt so voluminous that the cost alone must be staggering.

She gave Lucian a worried glance, but he did not catch it. He was eyeing her, from foot to collarbone, then down again. There was a robe—if it might be called that. Attached at the shoulders, draping down low in the back for the sake of her wings. “This is very pretty,” she commented softly. She would not grow attached. It was not her purse that would pay for it, and she would accept what he offered.

He leaned down so he could look her fully in the eyes. “And you like it.”

“Well, yes.” She was growing flustered at his scrutiny, the bond a curling, warming entity in her chest that it should matter to him—for her to be pleased. “I thought dresses were only for fetes. Special occasions, maybe.”

Lucian stood back to his full height. “I cannot think of a more important occasion at the moment.”

She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on it. Not when it would only make her nervous. She resented even that, as she was not the sort to fret about such things before. Sometimes she could be too bold, or so Eris said, hand clutching at her tunic as she tried to urge her back home rather than to make yet another visit to a market stall for a chat.

Especially if they were new. From some foreign place that Firen would never see. She would want to be welcomed if she found herself in a strange land with different folks.

But she was about to be, wasn’t she?

They didn’t go home again.

Not after Lucian had told the tailors to apply the price of her dress to the family account—which was done with a nod, as if it was a common enough practice to use credit rather than coin.

Lucian took her trunk when they left her parents. She hadn’t dared ask if it was presumptuous given... everything. She’d just watched as she picked it up by the leather-tooled handles and flew it up the tower and into his chambers directly.

When he’d unlatched the shutters, she did not know, but he’d obviously had the foresight to expect he would not wish to make use of the front door.

Then it was to the tailor shop. Then...

He rubbed at his temples as they left, and Firen cast him a worried glance. The dress fit well. At least by her standards. There was more tongue clicking and fussing, insistence that it should be nipped here and there. If it was the market, Firen would be suspicious that they merely wanted more coin for their troubles, but it wasn’t, so she kept quiet about how the whole thing was constructed of drawstrings and laces, designed to fit and move as a woman ebbed and flowed with time and fledglings.

Clothing that couldn’t was frivolous. Wasteful.

Like having a dress for one supper, no matter how important.

But those were the practical thoughts. Then there was the thrill at the extravagance. That it had been picked just for her. That she did not have to spend her evenings attending to each detail. Just... come in. Say that she liked it. Watch as his eyes darkened as she swished and flounced before he called the tailors back in to tell them of their selection.

“Are you hungry?”

He wasn’t looking at her. She could see nothing of particular interest that should hold his attention, but he was being thoughtful of her. Of her needs, without her having to insist upon them.

“A little.” Perhaps a bit more than a little, but not enough that she would risk running into either of his parents in the tower’s kitchen.

He nodded, running his hand through his hair. “Are you all right carrying that?”

The gown had been wrapped in paper. Then more paper. Then a third layer that was absurd because the second layer had been waxed so not even a rainstorm would have seen any damage to it. A ribbon of crisp white was tied about the entire concoction, the smiles genuine when they looked at Lucian. She expected them to lessen when they looked at her. And perhaps they did, but only just. His mate, they seemed to recognise. And they wanted her pleased, because that would mean more custom.

Firen laughed. “It’s hardly heavy.”

Lucian nodded. His clothes must be heavier. Severe in cut, the outer robe that drifted beneath his wings was of a thick wool that billowed rather imperiously as he walked. Difficult to launder, Firen decided.

A future chore of hers? Or, he had mentioned a service...

He led her to another of the shorter buildings nestled between the towers. He seemed lost to his own thoughts, and he did not hold her hand as they moved, just trusted her to keep to his side. They were shops. With a second storey on top—perhaps even more than one. Lodgings? Clever in design, as one would not have to sacrifice days away from home to tend a market stall as Firen had.

They might have flown, but he chose instead to walk. His stride a little too long, even for her legs. She slowed her pace. Then did it again, simply to see how long it would take for him to notice that she lagged behind.

Two buildings. And he paused, turning his head left and then right, before turning around entirely and watching as she made her way slowly back to him. “I like these buildings,” she declared. Some of them were of the same white stones as the rest of the city, but some had been added later. Wooden beams showed the greatest differences, crossed and supporting plaster and what bits of stone were used for the foundations.

Lucian’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at them as if he had not even realised they were there at all. “Why?”

Firen shook her head, smiling to herself. “I do not know. I like how that one placed a planter box outside the window, see? For kitchen herbs.” She pointed to the one she meant. Crisp and green against the dark woods and unrelenting white. She would put flowers. Then begrudgingly put herbs when she tired of having to fly all the way down to the garden for a forgotten sprig to flavour her soups. “Don’t you?”

He squinted in the glare of the suns. “I have never seen those before in my life.”

Firen laughed, but it was a scoffing, incredulous thing. “You do not walk this way often?”

He gestured toward one of the shops, a sign hanging overhead with a basket of breads sticking out of it. “Nearly every day.”

Firen cast him a look, and he frowned slightly. “I often have a great deal on my mind. It keeps me from peeking at kitchen windows and their herbs.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was hardly peeking. Just admiring.”

He kept moving, opening the shop door and gesturing for her to enter. “I’m sure there are plenty of things to think highly of. A window would not be one of them.”

An absurd statement. It was not just about the window—although a fine pane and a comely outlook were hardly to be dismissed. It was more than a window box and herbs. It was... a life.

A family lived up there. Working and living and yes, it was most certainly worth admiring.

Must they disagree on everything?

He held open the door and ushered her in. She’d expected a stall within a building. A counter and some baskets to make selections.

Instead, they were met with an approaching woman, her smile warm as she looked to Lucian with recognition, then at Firen with something that could only be considered surprise. “A room, or would you care to view our selections?” Formal, as if she had made the same queries hundreds of times before, but there was a certain interest that suggested she would gossip about Lucian’s guest in the kitchens just as soon as she was able.

“A room.”

She took them through to a hallway, then into small, individual chambers that boasted tall windows—closed, although the shutters allowed light in. Then there was the table and low, cushioned benches.

If there was more to her usual hospitalities, Lucian put a stop to them as he gestured for Firen to sit and ordered a full spread and two mugs of house brew.

The woman left again with a nod, and Firen sat, her excitement dimming with her confusion on what such a space could possibly be for. “You come often,” she repeated. “Why?”

Private rooms simply to eat? Did they not have homes?

Lucian made a sound low in his throat. “Deals are better struck when stomachs are full and mugs are empty.”

She supposed that would be true, but it still felt strange. Better still for deals to be made beside a kitchen hearth. But she knew nothing of such matters.

“Deals with...”

She settled her package beside her on the bench, hoping Lucian would tell her more of his actual profession. She’d never had cause to utilise the hall of justice, never had a complaint against a market-goer that could not be settled by the Proctor.

“Merchants, mostly.” He waved his hand, as if that was of least importance. As if ports and trade were not how most everyone made their livings.

He leaned forward, his hands steepling as he regarded her. She refused to acknowledge the way her insides squirmed, as if he was about to find fault with her for no reason at all.

Instead, she leaned forward also, perching her chin on her hand as she looked at him. “I’ve never been to a place like this,” she admitted, although doubtlessly he could tell. “Or been secreted away for private dealings.” She smiled, and she found it was genuine. “Do you intend to fill me up so that I’ll look dainty and demure at supper, barely eating a thing?”

Lucian rolled his eyes. “More like I intend for you to be full so you’ll eat nothing at all, lest it be poisoned.”

Firen’s smile fell, and the door opened, the woman’s arms full of a large tray, heavily laden with all sorts of delights. Little pots of spiced jams, bread cut into slices, others cubed. Salted meats and vibrant fruits, all cut and arranged in a way Firen could never hope to duplicate.

Then there were the mugs, silvery and with intricate handles—and Firen squinted hard to make out if perhaps her father had been involved in their making. She would look at the bottom for his stamp, but that would likely be rude.

The woman retreated, leaving them with too much food and a threat hanging awkwardly between them.

“That was a jest,” Lucian clarified, reaching for his mug. There was something pale and lightly bubbling inside, little wafts of mist rising from the cup as he tipped it to take a full sip. “Eat whatever you like, here or at supper.”

But Firen frowned down at the food, not mistrustful of him. Not exactly. But those were not the teases she was used to—most particularly when she was more than aware that her presence was seen as a blight rather than an exciting fresh addition to an established family.

She took a breath.

Stood up.

And she could see Lucian already tensing, the way his jaw worked and his eyes darted about as if preparing himself to catch hold of her.

She’d only run the once. Well, twice. And she could not promise she would not resort to it again.

But as she moved about the table, she did not make for the door. Instead, she settled down beside her mate, and felt his confusion mixing with relief. “All right,” she agreed. “Show me which of these are best and then... and then you can talk me through tonight. And just how I will not be poisoned, and who will be there, and how not to embarrass either you or myself.”

An impossible goal, she was certain.

And at the look he gave her, Lucian thought much the same.

But he nodded.

And perhaps she did not hear all about merchants and foreign trade agreements. But she did learn that he liked the spiced jams the best. That he preferred cubed bread to the slices. That he always bit into the fruit first rather than pop a whole segment into his mouth at once.

And if she had to learn about people that she did not know and most certainly would not like her, she found it was better to do it with a fully belly and an empty mug, just as Lucian had said.

Most especially when he was the one that moved just a little closer so their arms might brush and occasionally, their hands too.

And that was her favourite part of all.

And the cheese. But she would not tell him that.

◆◆◆

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.

“Lucian,” she repeated, and she closed her eyes and tugged as hard as she could on a bond that felt like wisps within her mind, that was fluttering and pulsing but not as strong a tether as she had always imagined it might be. “Answer me, please.”

He did turn, then. Eyes full of fire, and she had to work hard not to flinch. “It doesn’t concern you.”

She nearly laughed. A breathless, hysterical bubble of anything but humour. “It sounds like it does.”

“You were quite right, Ellena. I do feel much better.” Oberon smirked at them from over his goblet, and Firen was ready to retreat. Just when she’d made up her mind to do so, Lucian’s hand reached out and grasped hold of her arm. Not hard. Certainly not enough to hurt, but a restraint all the same.

“It is not safe,” Lucian remarked, keeping hold of her but allowing his attention to drift back to his father. “You know this.”

Oberon frowned ever so slightly. “That is your priority? When I am providing a solution to this problem? You should thank me. Should have come to me and told me it was necessary. Not brought that girl into my home, pretending as if she would have a place here.”

Firen stood. Lucian could tug all he liked, but she was going to be sick if she stayed there a moment longer. “I am a woman grown,” she informed the room. Not that any of them cared. “Not a girl. And this talk is as close to blasphemy as ever I’ve heard.”

Bonds were sacred. Perhaps some couples had dared to admit they did not care for their partner, that they wished for another, but she did not know of it. “Please, excuse me.”

“Firen,” Lucian called, and he could continue doing so for all she cared.

She did not run. Her steps were unhurried and her head unbowed. The Maker had brought them together, and to talk of dissolving it, to sever it...

It was an amputation. An abomination.

She did not answer him. Not when it would be choked and surely mocked the moment she left the room.

And they let her go.

He let her go.

And she did not for a moment believe that he would fight for them, fight for her. He would sit and glare and nod when it was appropriate, and she would have to endure...

What exactly?

She could not bear to even indulge in a moment’s consideration of what it might feel like. For as often as she dallied with regrets, to know there would be no one else? That he was gone, living out his days in this wretched place with those horrid people, and find that preferable to the family they might make with one another.

She allowed the door to the dining hall to close behind her, then stood in the central hall feeling as despondent as she ever had. There was nowhere to go. Home, she supposed. With her parents and their understanding. But it made her ache all the more, because they had one another, and loved each other so. While she...

She swiped at her eyes and opened the main door. She did not want the street and the people. Not when they’d look and wonder at her. But she needed out. Needed air, and the skies were hers. They could evidently take much from her, but not that.

There was a niggling thought of the dress she wore. The hair she’d taken such care with, tucked away in Lucian’s bedchamber. Trying to feel pretty and herself, filling her head with fantasies that could not have been further from reality.

She wanted the sea. Wanted to dive and not come up again. Not until these feelings of betrayal were purged out of her. Until she could smile and forgive him, forgive them, and pretend that everything would be all right again.

She did not fly.

She walked instead. For all their talk of finery, there was little land that belonged to them. Da had a bigger lot, where he had his home and his workshop, and room for a garden beside.

They had a courtyard. Walled with yet more stone. Useless, as any could simply fly overtop if they’d a mind to it. But it wasn’t about that, was it? It was for privacy, for seclusion. So they could set themselves apart and think nothing of nodding to neighbours and being friendly.

There was even a fountain in the middle, and it might have been pretty if she was not in such a foul temper. There were trees, but they were cut into severe shapes. It was early yet for flowers, but there should have been evidence of their beginnings by now. Pushing through the cobbles beneath her feet, ignorant of how unwelcome they were in a garden with far too much stone.

It wasn’t useful. Ornamental. That was all.

With a bench with mosses creeping up its base, in hues of deep rose and brown. As if the stone itself was bleeding.

She sat.

Allowed herself to grieve. To cry. Because no one would come after her, she was well aware. She would be expected to go back, to apologise for her discourtesy, and they’d tell her it little mattered because they knew she would be uncouth and ill mannered, so why was she pretending to be otherwise?

What was happening to her? She used to have such a cheerful manner. Anyone and anything would be her friend, and she could forgive easily with a hug and a kind word, and everything was right again.

But there was a bitterness taking root, and she did not care for it. A resentment toward Lucian that would accomplish nothing. Beget nothing but heartache and misery, likely only for herself.

Because Lucian did not care.

It was an ungracious thought, one that made her tears pour all the harder. Because she feared it was too near the truth.

She could feel him, even now. Feel the anger that festered, and she wondered how much of it was truly directed at her. For existing. For not being of high enough quality.

She tucked her arms more firmly about herself, the dress she’d felt so pretty in now feeling silly and absurd. As if it could cover the faults that were so outside of her control, yet were determined to make her responsibility.

“Would you mind if I sat with you?”

Her head popped up, hands already coming to swipe at her eyes as she saw Orma standing in the courtyard’s entrance. She looked truly poorly, and even if Firen wished to remain alone, she would not have been able to deny a sick woman the use of the bench.

“Yes, of course.” Then paused as she watched her move closer. Which was rude. To watch the shuffle, the uneven gait. To wonder if it was some defect from her birth, or some injury that even now seemed to cause her pain. “They won’t wonder why you went after me?”

Orma smiled, a weary quirk of her lips that held nothing resembling good humour. “They notice little when they are yelling at one another. I’ll go back soon enough.” She sat, sighing a little as she eased down onto the unyielding bench beneath her. “I am sorry.”

Firen snorted a little, shaking her head and staring out at the tree circled in stone. Its roots pushed some of the cobbles out of alignment. A little rebellion. She loved it for that. “Why did you send me there? Why were you even there?”

She had not meant her voice to sharpen, and she stifled her urge to apologise.

Orma didn’t look at her. Just stared at the garden wall, a little frown upon her face. “I like to see the bonds. They’re real for me. Tendrils between people. In all sorts of different colours. And yours was so bright, so strong. And it seemed a shame to watch you wasting your time.”

She sighed and turned her head so she could look at Firen properly. “And maybe I was selfish. And when I saw your colour, and it resembled Lucian’s...” She glanced down at her lap. “Maybe I wanted someone kind within our family.”

The tension in Firen’s shoulders left her, and she felt suddenly... wilted. “A fellow prisoner,” Firen offered—a jest that was too near to being not a jape at all.

Orma did not agree, but she did not correct her either. “I like Lucian,” Orma murmured after a time. “He just wants his father to be proud of him. And I don’t think he’s ready to admit that it will never happen.”

Orma glanced at Firen. Then, with a hand that shook just a little, she placed it on Firen’s arm. A whisper more than a touch. “Forgive me. Please. I don’t... I can’t bear to think that I...” She swallowed, her hand pulling away, back to sit miserably in a tangle with her other. “He needs you. And you were so vivid.”

She said this as if it meant something. As if it was natural to see the bonds that were so deeply ingrained, so personal that the mere thought of that was near a violation.

But Orma spoke of it with a wistful sort of reverence. Something beautiful that only she could see.

“I haven’t heard of that sort of ability,” Firen admitted. “If you set up a stall at the market, you could amass quite the fortune, directing people to their pairing.”

Orma laughed. A soft, gentle sound that lightened the lines on her face, the weight she carried. “Wouldn’t that horrify them?” Nothing in her tone suggested that might be a bad thing. “I’d even have to talk to people.”

There was quiet between them for a moment. Each lost in their own thoughts. Firen to her troubles, Orma perhaps as mistress of her own stall, with coins to call her own and a home besides.

“Orma,” Firen asked, not wanting the answer, but needing it. “You can’t actually sever a bond, can you?”

Orma turned her head, eyes grim. “They can try. And that should frighten you more than if they actually succeeded.”

Firen’s throat grew tight. “How?”

“Potions, to begin. Herbs from books so old they’re hardly books at all. Horrible tinctures that sting at your nostrils, that burn and curdle. And when that does not work, then they’ll try to burn. And when that does not work, they will try to cut. Because it’s physical, isn’t it?” She reached out, two fingers tapping at Firen’s chest where the bond settled. “And if they can find it, pluck it out, then you’re just a person. Broken, to be sure, but you could go back home, and they could settle their son with a widow of their choosing, and pretend like you had never happened at all.”

Firen tried to keep the horror from her face, but she doubted she was the least bit successful. “Did they do that to you?” Surely not. Not when they were kin. But... her mate...

Orma sighed, her hand dropping away. “You asked, and I answered,” she chided softly. “Do not let them.”

Firen took a breath, her heart racing. She was certain that Lucian would feel fear trickling through the bond if he was paying the least bit of attention, and she tried to stifle it as best she could. She did not want to see him. To see any of them.

“Would Lucian?” she asked, voice hoarse and heart numb. “Let them?”

Because somehow that mattered more. She’d never had to consider if there were evil people in the world. So wrapped up in their own selfishness that they’d hurt others and be glad of the outcome.

But Lucian was meant to be more than that. He was supposed to love her. Keep her safe. Keep their family safe.

Orma reached for her again. Just the brushing of their hands, but a touch all the same.

“You’ve little faith in him,” Orma answered, and if it was supposed to be a chastisement, it was so gently given that Firen did not hear it as one. “I thought he knew better than to model after Oberon. Was I wrong?” She turned her head, looking Firen over more carefully. “Does he hurt you?”

That it was even a question soured her stomach.

Her feelings? Most certainly. But his hands were careful of her, his manners were dour, but he tried, when she asked it of him. He’d put her on his lap and stroke her hair. He’d hold her close and treat her gently.

If only in private.

The bond flared, hot and biting, and Firen had to stifle her gasp as she rubbed at her chest, trying to soothe the spot that seared and twisted.

Orma’s hand withdrew, and Firen tried to smile, but something was wrong, and she did not know what to do about it. Stay calm. That was important. Don’t let fear mingle with anger. They would only fuel each other. Coiling tighter and tighter until Firen could not breathe, and it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

And then he was there.

Scowling and glaring, his form taking up too much of the courtyard’s archway as he stared at them both just briefly enough to confirm their presence.

Then he was stalking forward.

If he made to grab her, she would scamper away. His temper was too volatile, and there was that horrible, niggling suspicion that his loyalty was to those wretched people in there, and he meant to bring her back to them. To lay her out as some sort of sacrifice, to let them do their worst as they tried to pluck the bond from her chest while her supposed mate stood by and allowed it to happen.

But he didn’t.

He paced, instead.

Back and forth. Over and over.

“Lucian,” Orma murmured, and he paused, just long enough to settle his eyes on her. “If I leave, will Firen be safe?”

Because Firen hadn’t answered, had she?

And there it was again. The flare, the burn, and she rubbed harder at the spot, although it did not seem to soothe anything at all.

“Why would she not be?” he retorted, jaw tight and his hands curling into fists. “You think that of me? Truly?”

Orma rolled her shoulders and stood. “I do not wish to. But we come from strange stock, you and I. Better to be careful.”

Firen did not watch her leave. Instead, her focus remained on her mate. As he glared up at the sky. The first sun had already set, and the second was sending out rays of purple and green into the skies. The clouds turned grey and mottled, and it was a rather dismal display. Pinks were prettier. The blues and rich oranges that accompanied the first.

But perhaps it was appropriate.

“I dislike them,” Firen declared. “I do not think I’ve ever truly disliked anyone before.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She should be gracious toward the people he loved, even if they were horrid. But she wanted to be honest with him, and that was the most truthful thing she had to offer.

He snorted, shaking his head and stilling, if only for a moment. “The feeling is, sadly, mutual.”

She’d known that—they’d made it abundantly clear, so why did it still hurt?

She pulled at her skirt and smoothed it out again. She wanted her own clothes. Or... wanted to go somewhere else. To be someone else. Where she could dance. Seduce her own mate. Do all the things that were natural and right without that itching feeling coming under her skin, that everything wasn’t.

Couldn’t be.

She wiped at her eyes again, but the tears hadn’t started.

She wanted him to sit with her. Wanted him to keep his distance. And both were in equal measure, pushing and pulling at her until she feared she would go mad.

Her mouth was dry, the sips of dry vint doing nothing to help quench her sudden thirst. The trickling sound of the fountain only added to her distress, and she suppressed the urge to laugh until she cried anew. Because she did not even know where to fetch herself a cup of water, and every pull drew her back home.

Where she’d have to go, alone.

“Are you going to let them do that to me?” she asked him at last, because that seemed of greatest importance. To know if she should hold him amongst the rest. To allow that resentment to linger into something that felt a little too near to hate.

He took a step nearer to her.

“No.”

She could breathe, but only just. Everything was too much of a tangle in her heart and stomach, leaving little room for anything like comfort or relief.

She released a breath and looked at him. Wanted to gesture for him to sit beside her, but didn’t. Couldn’t. “Why?”

He blinked at her, his brow furrowing. “You ask me that?”

And if it had been anyone else, she’d have understood. The insult was extreme. But this was Lucian. Born into... that family. With ties and desires that she was only beginning to comprehend.

“I do,” Firen affirmed, sitting as calmly as she could. As if... as if something was not breaking inside. The doubt too strong. The uncertainty. “Because you accepted me against your will, and please don’t pretend otherwise. And they’re offering you a way out. Even if... even if Orma tells me it would be rather...” She struggled to find a word that seemed adequate. They were all too small for so brutal, so horrible an experiment.

He stalked toward her. His eyes were bright and angry as he moved closer, not stopping until...

He did not grasp her shoulders. Did not pull her up to meet him, to shake her as his expression suggested was to be his aim.

Instead, he knelt. Pushing his way between her legs and she forgot to tell him to be careful of her skirts and the fabric. Could not think of anything at all but the look in his eyes, the way he cupped her face between his palms, ensuring she see nothing but him.

“Do you dislike me as well?” he asked, his voice tight. She could feel his battle for control through the bond, felt the tension and the wrestling just as she experienced it for herself.

She did not know how to answer him. A fervent no rested on her lips, but there was more. All that she did not know. All that she was afraid to know. And yes, she would dislike him as much as the others—perhaps even more so. Her disappointment in him would be so acute if he sided with them. If any part of him could embrace that sort of...

Evil.

That’s what it was.

There were laws about this. Everyone said so. Even if... even if she could recite none of them.

Was that on purpose?

“I want you to be mine,” Firen answered instead. “I want you to want to be. I want you to be as disgusted by your father’s solution as I am.” Her own anger flared, and she had to pause before she lost control of it. “I want it to be so unthinkable that you would...” She stopped herself. She could not command his actions. Just because her temper insisted that she leave when situations grew too heated for anything useful to come of them, that did not mean that she must insist that Lucian do the same.

But she could hope. Could conjure all sorts of fantasies. Of Lucian denouncing the entire lot of them. Of claiming his mate and taking her into his arms and flying her back home where they could be safe and happy.

Those pictures came easily.

What to do with this man—the whole of him. Real and damaged, even if neither of them knew precisely how badly.

That was not so easy.

“I am not safe here,” Firen said instead. Lucian rolled his eyes and his hands fell away from her, but he did not move from his position crouched before her. “I... I admit I thought you dramatic. Before. But I think you were perhaps a little too careful with how much I’d be despised.” She could say it so calmly, even though her heart raced, and she saw him flinch. And she hadn’t meant to cause that.

It made it easier to reach for him. To touch his cheek and offer a moment’s comfort for them both. “I’ll not stay here,” she finished. “I know you won’t follow. And that hurts more than I care to admit. But Lucian...”

She did not want to say it. They were family. He loved his mother. But Firen could see little better in her side of it than her mate’s.

“I don’t belong here. They will not let me. So I will go home. Where I am safe. With parents that would do anything within their power to help our bond. Help us. And maybe...” her throat burned. Her heart raced within her chest, and the bond heaved and tugged because... because she was leaving. And it knew.

Knew more that he would let her.

That he would not choose her.

“Maybe someday you’ll come to appreciate just how good we could have it.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss upon his cheek, and she couldn’t breathe, but that was all right. She’d be flying soon. With all the freedom she missed. And all the pain that seemed to be her new companion.

“You know where to find me,” Firen murmured, and she stood. An awkward thing to attempt when he was crouched so close, but she managed it.

She’d fetch her trunk. It was not so large or so heavy she could not take it home with her again.

She couldn’t look at him. Not when it would only lead to weeping—on her part alone, she was certain. But if he would not care for her, would not protect her, she would go to those who would.

“You know where to find me,” she choked out, turning and preparing herself to fly upward. To his room. Where she would not linger. Would not spare the time to imagine the night they’d shared there. How... perfect it had been. For a little while. “When you’re ready.”

When the bond made him find her. When pain and urgency overtook everything else.

Unless he allowed his family to do that procedure on him.

To be rid of her.

The thought left her cold. Left her shaking. Made her leap upward a stunted effort that would set any fledgling to shame.

But it did not matter, anyway.

Not when he was plucking her from what little air she’d found.

When his arms clasped around her, bringing her back against his front as his lips found her ear. “How many times,” Lucian growled, low with frustration. “Must I ask you to stop trying to leave me?”