Fosterlings

Sibley woke from a doze, shocked with himself. Maybe all these peaceful days were making him lazy? He didn’t need sleep like Etienne did, but curled around the toddler, surrounded by Anjou’s soft fur and purring, he’d drifted off.

A gentle hand was making slow circles against his back, which was nice. He knew it was Anjou, and Etienne still clung to Sibley even in sleep. He pressed his nose into wispy-soft hair that smelled fancy from all the pampering the little guy had received from his new papa. Lucky boy. Good for him.

Finally, Sibley lifted his face to find Uncle Jackie’s cat quietly gazing at him.

“Bonjour.”

“Hi.” Sibley wasn’t sure if he was intruding. Argent had handed Etienne over for fostering, and maybe that meant he was in the way. “Didja want to hold him?”

“I can hold you both.”

“Not sure you should. Etienne’s the one you got from … from Mr. Mettlebright.” Sibley had a hard time thinking of Argent as dad, even if that’s what the fox had invited all of them to call him.

“What is this?” Anjou asked, gently ruffling Sibley’s hair. “Tell me what has you worried, and I will banish it.”

Sibley searched the cat’s face and wondered how someone could look so much like this place’s lord fox … but feel so different. Silver hair. Blue eyes. Pale and pretty. But where Kyrie’s dad was sharp and quick and cool, Anjou was all softness and smiles.

“I’m not yours.”

“Non? Jacques is your uncle, and Etienne is your brother. These are strong connections.”

“But … you and me. It’s not like I’ll call you p-papa or anything. That’s for Etienne.”

Anjou asked, “Would you like to? I can speak to Argent on your behalf. Such a thing … yes, I know it would please my bondmates.”

Sibley’s heart was skittering, but he had to warn this guy. So he repeated, “Not sure you should. On account of these.” He held up a hand, curling the fingers. “They’re poison. Same as Etienne’s.”

“Oui.” Anjou didn’t look nearly as worried as he should be.

“Doncha care?”

“For cats, caring happens with startling swiftness. A few hours in my arms, and I find myself unwilling to let you go to another.”

Sibley shook his head, afraid he was misunderstanding things. “You care about me?”

“Oui.” Anjou went back to rubbing slow circles on Sibley’s back. “This is not the first time I held you. Do you remember?”

“On the barge? Kinda.” With a shrug, Sibley admitted, “I had a hard time telling you and the other guy apart.”

“And I did not know then that Jacques would come to see me as his own. Or that you would honor me by wishing to become mine.” Anjou gently added, “Let me ask for you. Join our hearth, and you will have your uncle, a mother, and me. And Etienne will be surrounded and protected and loved.”

“But … I want Kyrie to be my brother.”

“He will always be your brother.”

“Well, yeah. I guess. But … but ….” Except Sibley couldn’t come up with any other protests. Because Anjou was all softness and smiles, and he made Sibley feel safe. “You feel honored?”

“Two bondmates, and now two sons? And our joy will be redoubled when Jacques delivers his child and their twin.”

“But … my claws ….” Nobody would want his claws near their precious baby.

“I shall beautify them with all my skill.” Anjou took Sibley’s hand and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “How fortunate for you that your papa knows all about sigils for sealing away that which is precious … or precarious.”

“What?” Sibley quickly checked his claws, then shook his head in confusion.

“I tamed Etienne’s while you were sleeping. Can you tell?”

Sibley carefully took one of the baby’s thin hands, which curled trustingly around his bigger fingers. He studied the neat point of each small claw, shining softly from the previous night’s manicure. And yes, there. A faint shimmer betrayed Anjou’s sigilcraft.

“You did this?”

“I did.”

“Is it safe?” asked Sibley. “He can’t hurt anyone now?”

“He can break my heart with a whimper, for his nightmares wound me. But non. So long as I refresh the wards, he cannot harm anyone with poison. It is contained—fingers and toes.”

Sibley gruffly asked, “Do mine?”

“Naturellement. I was only waiting for permission to proceed.”

It was too good to be true. Or … just good. Really, really good. Sibley’s mind was more than made when he asked, “How do I say yes?”

Anjou hummed. “I think you just did.”

“But what’s your way? How do cats say it?”

“A little at a time, so that good things last as long as possible.”

Sibley thought that sounded kind of nice, but he was mostly stumped. “How’s that work, though? Or do you mean I gotta wait for permission?”

“Non. I will see to everything,” Anjou promised. “Trust your papa, n’est pas?”

“Okay, sure. I can do that.” And because it probably counted as a little, and it might take a lot of times before he got used to it, Sibley cautiously added, “Papa …?”

Anjou began to purr.

Sibley had no idea what Etienne was chattering about, but his little brother sounded happy, so that was all right. He toted the boy to the kitchen, straight to Sonnet. She scooped up her darling boy, promising him a lovely breakfast, and Sibley held very still, half-hoping Uncle Jackie’s wolf would forget about him. Then he could slip away. But her gaze fixed on him in a way that made Sibley wonder what Anjou had done.

“Pardon me, love.” Sonnet dropped into a crouch, her skirts puffing out, her nostrils quivering as she took deep breaths. Finally, she whispered, “Sibley?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, I do think …. Yes, it must be true. Sibley, love, are you one of mine now?”

“Kinda. If that’s okay.” And because he was curious, he asked, “You can tell?”

“Anjou is quite serious when it comes to matters of the hearth, and for felines, that includes the care and protection of children. You and Etienne are sparkling with proof that Anjou is a good and wise tom.”

“Did he mark me?”

“Beautifully.” She confided, “Jacques and I have been encouraging him to be more possessive, and it’s a fine thing he’s done, claiming another son.”

“He said I should call him … papa.”

“Oh, love, I do hope you will.” Very solemnly, she asked, “Will you let me mother you?”

Sibley couldn’t remember his mother. It hadn’t taken long at the lab to figure out that she’d probably either died or disowned him. “Is that okay? I mean, aren’t you practically everyone’s mother?”

“That’s true.” Sonnet nodded absently, then leaned closer. “Isn’t that just right for us, though? You look after your brothers and sisters more than anyone. And I do my part. Then there’s Jacques, who is everyone’s favorite uncle. We’re all taking care of Stately House, but … well, Anjou is most insistent that someone should be taking care of us.”

Sibley studied his claws. With sigils, they were almost as beautiful as Kyrie’s adornments.

And Sonnet was beautiful, too, smelling like cinnamon and happiness and Jacques.

He confessed, “I wanted to belong to Uncle Jackie. He was brave and stupid and fancy and … and I knew right away that if he was my family, that’d be good.”

“It was the same for me,” Sonnet confided. “I loved him from the beginning, even though I didn’t realize how much. I think that a heart knows what it needs.”

“Yeah.” Sibley edged nearer to Sonnet. “If you wanted to mother me, I think it’d be okay. How do wolves say yes?”

“Ohhh, usually with closeness and songs and the wagging of tails.”

“I’ve got a tail,” Sibley reminded, lifting his to slip around Sonnet’s wrist.

Her lashes fluttered, and her eyes went all shiny. And then he and Etienne were squished together in a strong embrace that rumbled with wolvish approval. Sibley grinned at his little brother, whose surprise melted into a pleased giggle.

“What should I call you?” asked Sibley.

“I’m Sonnet,” she said. “It’s simplest. But if you decide to give me a different name, I’ll answer to that.”

He’d never named anyone before. Even Bother was still Bother. Deciding on a name for someone felt too important for someone like him. Maybe Uncle Jackie would have a good idea. Or … oh. He suddenly wanted very much to talk to … well, to someone like him. So he asked, “Can I tell Kyrie?”