Child of Stately House

Argent didn’t mind being abed so long as Tsumiko nestled with him, but as soon as she left their suite, he was done with confinement. Dressing in the first clothes that came to hand, he skulked—slowly—down the hall to his receiving room. The largeish parlor was a secure space in which he played host whenever other members of the Amaranthine Council were visiting.

Make that a formerly secure space.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured, joining Bother in Lapis’s favorite chair, the one closest to the hearth.

His new daughter wrapped shimmering coils around his middle and pressed her ear to his heart. Her addition to the family felt appropriate somehow. A child with Ephemeral heritage. Could she have found a more doting parent? Not that she was something to collect. This girl was theirs to protect and theirs to cherish. Hooking the footstool with his toe, Argent pulled it nearer and propped his feet. And promptly dozed off.

“Here, guv. Your tea.”

Argent startled and glared at Nonny, who studiously pretended nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Sonnet sent muffins. She’s in a fine mood this morning. Been baking up a storm.”

This tendency to nap was Argent’s least favorite part of healing. It made him feel doubly vulnerable. He peered around. Bother had gone, and the sun was high. He uncurled enough to accept the teacup Nonny proffered.

“Speaking of storms, Kyrie wants a word.”

Argent took a heartening swallow of hot tea before remarking, “He hardly needs an appointment.”

“That’s what I thought, but he still wanted permission. On account of his hangers-on. We’ve been subject to sudden gusts, which is bad for bookshelves. And drizzle, but that happened in the onsen, so nothing was damaged. And the kids loved it.”

Argent didn’t particularly like that an Eldermost Storm had access to the children. But he trusted Ginkgo and Kyrie to have the family’s interests at heart. So he only said, “I will endeavor not to trigger a blizzard.”

“Anan’s … different. It’ll be good to get your opinion. And Jacques’.”

“Send for him. I want him.” He grumbled, “A return to normalcy would be welcome.”

“Not sure that’s possible. Going back to normal, I mean. Too many big changes.”

“Forward, then. Toward a new normal. I have never been one to cling to the past.”

“Right. Yeah. Adjustments all around.”

Argent knew that tone, and his eyes narrowed. “Well?”

Nonny pointed at the footstool. “Okay if I sit?”

He moved his feet, and the goat-crosser settled there, close enough for confidences.

As a child, Nonny had been afraid of him. Not because of anything Argent had ever done, but because of what he was. A fox. Like many of the children who’d found shelter at Stately House, Nonny had bad memories—and bad dreams—involving vulpine tormentors.

Nonny took a shaky breath, then surprised Argent by announcing, “I love it here.”

“As do I.” Argent affected unconcern. “It is a fine thing to love one’s home.”

Nonny stared fixedly at the hands clenched in his lap. “I … aww, hell. I love it so much. You don’t even understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

“There’s so much happening. I’m not one to gossip, but I do like to keep up with what’s up, so to speak. And there’s so many changes. Big ones. But it’s not bad, it’s … I dunno. It’s like one of them bardic tales Opal swains on about. All the happenstances and coincidences are fitting together, like things are getting to the way they were always meant to be. Only how the hell could anyone have guessed? It’s one bloody miracle after another.”

Nonny’s gaze was the pleading sort, but Argent wasn’t sure what this boy—one of their original orphans—was trying to say.

“And things’ll keep changing, because that’s how it always is. And I don’t want to miss any of it.” Nonny waved a hand, and his voice took on a strained note. “The future is gonna be amazing, and I want to see it.”

Ah. This. Argent raised a hand, wanting to spare Nonny.

But the crosser had it out anyhow. “I don’t want to die, guv. Can’t you fix it so I can stay? Maybe one of them tattoos? Or y’know, something like what Akira found? I know I’m not important for the future of the world or whatever, but … let me stay? Please?”

Already pulling Nonny close, Argent grumbled, “Take a breath and give me space to answer.”

Heedless, he blathered on. “Why’m I the only one? I know it’s just shitty luck, but why me?”

Nonny had always been small for his age. He’d stopped gaining height around the same time he’d achieved Argent’s, so he was an awkward lapful. Even so, Argent made it work and brought out his full flourish. Wreathing his fosterling in silver fur, Argent quietly ordered, “Stop panicking.”

His boy bit his lip and fell silent.

For years, Nonny had claimed to be glad that he hadn’t inherited an Amaranthine’s years. Unlike the rest of Stately House’s orphans, he’d leapt through his adolescence, aging like a human. Though nobody could say for certain, it was safe to suppose this meant Nonny’s lifespan would match a human’s as well. So brief. Too short.

But up until now, Nonny had claimed that this was perfect for him. He’d wanted to grow up as fast as possible. To catch up. To close the distance between him and the one—the ones—he loved. But those big changes Nonny had mentioned included Jacques.

Chances were good that Dayith’s and Solace’s blessings had altered the man’s years. But even before this unforeseen inheritance, Argent had been searching for a way to keep Jacques. To that end, he’d already been in communication with Kikusawa Shrine in hopes of securing the two golden seeds resting in their reliquarium.

Argent said, “I had already given the matter some thought.”

“You … did?”

“I would not lie, Nonny. Not about something so important.” With a gusty sigh, he whispered, “I am trying to be wise.”

“I’m willing to be the exception. Just so you know.”

Argent was equally willing, so he lifted his face and quietly called, “Hajime?”

The soft ting of a bell. The gentle drift of red petals. “I am here.”

“Is Naoki similarly available?”

“A moment.” And in less than a minute, the tree returned. “We are here.”

“Has there been a relapse, Argent? Or … oh, my. Is something else amiss?”

Argent said, “You remember Nonny? One of my more reckless sons.”

Nonny’s face registered surprise.

Did he really not realize the place he held?

Letting his tails drop so Naoki could see that Nonny was in one piece, Argent said, “About that matter we discussed earlier. I am recommending Nonny as a candidate for pairing. Or parenthood, if he and his are so inclined.”

“What?” Nonny squeaked. “What are you on about, guv?”

Argent sternly said, “This requires the utmost secrecy.”

Nonny immediately made a handsign to swear it.

“When Dr. Naoki came to us, he carried precious cargo. A single case, filled to bursting. Dozens of tiny bottles and jars, holding the results of Kodoku’s experiments.”

“Seeds,” whispered Nonny. “You smuggled golden seeds?”

“As many as I could carry,” Naoki confirmed. “I managed Kodoku’s collection, kept records, preserved samples. They are golden seeds, but they’re experimental hybrids. I honestly have no idea if they’ll behave as golden seeds should. We had no luck simply planting them. And many were born without a twin. Variations cropped up at every turn, but I wouldn’t call them failures. For example, Kusunoki didn’t conform to what’s usual, yet he thrived.”

“I know him,” said Nonny. “He’s nice.”

“Yes.” Naoki smiled at Hajime. “A true son of trees.”

“I carried him,” the imp revealed.

“It was the only way.” Naoki gestured between himself and Nonny. “It may still be the only way. For them. But for you …? Hajime is fruiting. If you would prefer to wait for a seed you can simply plant, his will be ready long before the new grove reaches maturity.”

Nonny flung his arms around Argent and cussed him out with a vehemence that only made sense if you understood Nonny. Smiling and petting his hair, Argent mildly translated, “He wants to. Very much.”

When Sibley turned up at their door with a summons, Jacques brightened … and immediately rounded on Anjou, casting a critical eye over his attire and finding no fault. “Right, then. Shall we?”

Anjou had been quietly dreading this moment. He tried to protest. “You are the one he wants.”

“And he shall have me, but with all my assorted baggage and consequences.” And pulling Anjou’s arm through his own, Jacques murmured, “Courage, mon ami. There’s nothing to fear.”

“What if your fine lord objects to me?”

Jacques didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll rebel against him by treasuring you with unapologetic flagrance.”

A little breathlessly, Anjou asked, “You would do that?”

“I would, but there won’t be any particular need to rebel against Argent. He’ll come around once he realizes that the things you want are simple and good. Sonnet’s opinion will sway him as well.” Jacques radiated so much confidence. “Keeping your lady mistress happy will go a long way toward appeasing any ruffled sensibilities.”

“She has become my raison d”être.”

“Argent is similarly smitten with his lady, so I’m sure he’ll sympathize. Privately, of course. He doesn’t like to let on.” They reached their destination, but Jacques paused on the threshold. “Ready?”

“Non.”

Jacques simply nodded.

Anjou was startled to realize that the man was willing to wait. For him. Delighted by such consideration, he confessed, “I would do anything to stay by your side.”

“That’s the spirit.” And still he waited.

“A kiss for courage?”

Jacques lifted Anjou’s hand, kissed its back, and showed no sign of impatience.

“A bolder kiss would make me a braver companion.”

“Remind me to test the veracity of your statement later.”

Something in Jacques’ smile suggested that he wouldn’t need reminding, but Anjou liked to be asked for things, wanted to please, enjoyed imagining where bolder kisses might land. He bit his lip and tried to keep the volume of his purr to polite levels.

And still Jacques waited.

Anjou rather wanted to stay like this, so he prolonged the moment by asking, “How should I call you in front of your foxy lord?”

“I suppose it would get confusing if you were ‘my lord’-ing me whilst I’m ‘my-lord’-ing him. Are there any feline precedents for a term that applies to your bonded?”

Anjou’s breath caught. “What?”

“In theory, the male equivalent of lady mistress is lord master, but I don’t care for it. Too pompous, and it hardly fits Sonnet’s cozy ideal.”

Again, he whispered, “What?”

Jacques paused. “What?”

“Sonnet is your bonded.”

“Certainly. We’re thoroughly, enthusiastically, devotedly bonded. As are you and I. Or did you forget your part in the proceedings?”

“Consorts don’t … ah. That is … the toms at a lady mistress’s hearth cannot aspire to such ….” He trailed off, because Jacques had a pained expression.

“See here, Anjou. I’m aware that in the feline courts, toms can expect to be bartered and borrowed and bedded by various and sundry, but you’re ours.”

“Oui, I am your man.”

“Well, yes. In terms of employment.”

“And I am Sonnet’s consort.”

“Which could also be described as a job, since you’ve taken on the management of our hearth. A very traditional role, one most toms aspire to. But Anjou.” Jacques pressed a soft kiss to his parted lips. “In terms of dearness and duration, you are just as thoroughly, enthusiastically, devotedly bonded. Rather than consort, you are he-wolf and husband, n’est pas?”

Anjou hadn’t wanted to presume.

His upbringing forbade it.

But isn’t this why he’d used his wiles?

To have something denied most toms.

Without compulsion or compunction.

Without end.

“Lord, I’ll speak with Sonnet. Give us another chance to impress upon you the fervor of our attachment and the permanence of ou–”

Anjou cut him off with a finger to his lips. “Husband.”

Jacques glided into a receptive posture. “Hmm?”

“I am ready.”

With a light kiss for Anjou’s finger, Jacques whirled in order to burst through the door, moments later exclaiming, “Mon dieu! What are you wearing?”

Jacques carted off his lord and master, insisting on an immediate change of attire. Anjou was intrigued by the cavalier manner with which he treated the fox, as well as the tail-settling calm that overtook Lord Mettlebright as soon as he was in his man’s capable hands.

Here was a great and abiding trust. One Jacques clearly expected the fox to extend to him.

All at once, Argent’s gaze found Anjou’s and he drawled, “Smythe. Explain yourself.”

“Lord. Are you going to be difficult?”

“I do have a reputation to uphold. You so rarely introduce me to your bedmates.”

“Difficult it is, then.” And without any sign of perturbation, Jacques presented Anjou in the glowingest of terms, calling him a country gentleman, comparing his beauty to moonbeams, and framing his indispensability in flatteringly salacious terms.

Argent blandly asked, “Are you certain you should be taking so much exercise?”

Anjou blushed, but Jacques cheerfully said, “Dr. Naoki performed a thorough inspection, and Dr. Elara credits the uplift in my mood to all that healthful exercise.”

“And the child?” Argent pressed.

“Clinging quite tenaciously. The tendril will spiral outward for another turn or two before we can expect the pod to make its appearance.” Jacques startled Anjou by calmly adding, “He’ll be Papa, and Sonnet will be Mum.”

The fox didn’t seem at all surprised. “And you?”

“To tell the truth, I fancy daddy. Unironically, of course.”

Anjou had expected to care for Jacques’ child, looked forward to it with a gladness that was growing by the moment. But to be assigned a parental endearment …? No, it was more than that. “I’m going to be a father,” he realized aloud.

“That, too.” Jacques indicated his lord and master. “But I was thinking of something more along the lines of undersecretary. If you can be available during the hours when I need sleep, his lordship will no longer be inconvenienced.”

“You have never been a detriment, Smythe,” grumbled Argent. “Do not even imply it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

And then the fox faced Anjou with a peevish expression and his tails all askew. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I am … open to suggestion.”

Jacques stepped in with a ready answer. “Anjou is from a large rural enclave. I suggest your having me keep my focus on Council business while entrusting Anjou with more practical matters.”

“The house and grounds are Ginkgo’s area.”

“Wouldn’t he welcome assistance in one or more areas? There’s the household, the school, the enclave, and the grove. And it bears mentioning that Anjou is the Bonhomie tribute.”

Argent’s gaze returned to Anjou, and he felt he should speak for himself. “I must see to my lady mistress’s hearth, but until our baby comes …? I am available to take on any suitable occupation.”

“Anything I deem suitable?” the fox challenged.

It felt like a trap.

Jacques smoothly interjected, “Something Sonnet would approve.”

“Agreed,” Argent sighed.

Anjou appreciated the condition, which reinforced his sudden elevation. He belonged to a household, would rule over its hearth, and could expect the support—and protection—of two formidable bondmates. Thoughts wandering in the direction of all the ways he could show himself grateful, Anjou slipped into a receptive posture.

“Will you be needing a house?” asked Argent.

Jacques hummed. “Perhaps once this little one is ready to plant their seed, I’ll need a bit of something with a front step. Largely to uphold tradition. But I’m content to remain in the family quarters for now. Provided we’re welcome.”

“I have no objections.”

“And you need me.”

“I need you,” Argent acquiesced, sounding amused. “But that one is rather more needy.”

Anjou realized they were both watching him, which was pleasantly flustering.

Jacques remarked, “I have finally gotten what I deserve. Wouldn’t you say this arrangement suits a man of my inclinations.”

“Shockingly well.” Argent carefully levered himself up out of his chair, a sobering reminder that his injuries were only a day old. “Anjou, I have sorted out your first duty as my man’s man.”

“Oui? But of course! Happily.”

Again there was that hint of amusement in his gaze. “You say that now.”

Crossing to a cloth-draped table, he lifted away heavy fabric, revealing the toddler who’d been hiding beneath, a muffin clutched in each fist. Scruffing the boy, Argent tucked him into the crook of his arm. Crumbs scattered everywhere, and Jacques whispered, “Lord, there goes the silk. Why do I even bother?”

Heedless of the fresh smear of half-chewed baked goods across his shoulder, Argent said, “Anjou, meet Etienne. Mind his claws. They’re poisonous.”

Anjou swooped in, though it was hard to say if he was trying to rescue the child or the silk. “Oo la la laaa,” he crooned. “What have we here? Are you enamored of my lady mistress’s baking?”

The boy—a dragon crosser with the most atrocious haircut—perked up at the sound of his mother tongue and offered Anjou a mangled muffin.

“What a generous soul! How could I refuse?” He opened his mouth, and Etienne pushed in a morsel. Humming appreciatively, Anjou tucked the dragonling under his chin and asked, “What is my duty? His diaper? His bath? Dare I hope … his hair? All three need attention.”

Argent flicked a finger. “Etienne himself. The whole of him.”

Anjou’s gaze jumped to Jacques, who asked, “For how long?”

“However long he has need of you.”

“You’re giving us one of your sons?” Jacques asked. “To raise.”

“Etienne will be registered as a child of Stately House, and I will forever consider him a son. But yes, I wish to foster him at your hearth. If Anjou is willing, I will consider the matter settled.”

Anjou waited to see what Jacques would say.

But Jacques seemed to be awaiting his opinion.

Embracing his newfound freedom to choose for himself, Anjou nuzzled Etienne’s cheeks, purring and whispering invitations and promises in French. The little boy lapsed into trilling giggles. But after Etienne caught his breath, he spoke the name Anjou surrendered along with his heart. Papa.