1. Offer

Many orbital cycles later...

Orma was situated in the courtyard. Not theirs—that one had lost much of its appeal long before. When children were replaced with tight-faced servants. When the suns began to glare too sharply against the stone. When twinkling threads lost some of their lustre.

It wasn’t their fault. The threads, that was.

It was hers.

She’d grown despondent.

Or perhaps it was beyond that, now.

Something a little too near to despair.

She had a book, but it had been plucked from the library with little care, and the title held no appeal for her. Botany, she suspected. A flower and its stem had been pressed into the cover, dry and brittle with age. Its impression, however, remained intact, the veins and patterns pressed into the vellum with precision so its imprint would last far longer than any flower possibly could.

This courtyard was heavily shaded, the trees old and left much to their own devices. It did not seem to matter as much as the manicured shrubberies that grew in precise lines at home. These were allowed to grow freely, their branches tangling in ways that the book would likely object to, detailing the importance of proper maintenance so the weight of the tree could be kept carefully in balance.

That was a profession, wasn’t it? She thought she’d seen such workers flittering about the city’s trees as they pruned and topped with practised eyes.

She had no skill. Not one she might boast about or claim as a profession. She could read. Could sew with moderate success. But she had no eye for the design itself, no instinct for how a fabric might drape into something so useful as a dress. Napkins, she could do. When fabric was square and the hems were mostly even, and her only decision lie in which of the few flowers she could embroider would decorate the corners.

She plucked through the pages of the book once more. An idle distraction. She’d hoped for company, but the door was locked and the rooms were dark, and while it was rude to linger—she knew those lessons well—she did not wish to return home.

Not yet.

A flutter, the burst of unnatural wind as wings pushed downward in a descent, and she glanced upward.

“You look disappointed.”

Lucian. Not his mate, as she privately had hoped, but she supposed he would do well enough. He’d gentled since Firen had come to him. His face had softened from the harsh lines he’d worn with such distinction.

He was happy.

“It is not my fault that I favour your mate.”

He hummed, coming and settling beside her on the bench. “You hold a grudge against any of our blood, admit it.”

She rolled her shoulders, her wings settling neatly into place. Not that they’d been missed—she knew how one of their line should sit. How she should behave, whether in the walls of her ancestral home or out of it. “Maybe.”

She didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. Everything was such a tangle of hurts and love that she wasn’t certain what was reasonable to feel any longer.

She was withering. That’s what Mama called it. Like one of those mates that wasted away after the death of a spouse, unable to cope with the absence.

It wasn’t needed any longer. Couldn’t she see that? If she would simply approach him, simply be done with it, perhaps she would grow stronger.

“You look awful,” Lucian observed, and she barely suppressed a roll of her eyes. Her fingers tapped instead at her book, which he took in much the way he would have when they were children, simply for the fun of stealing from her.

“Have your interests turned to poisons?”

She blinked. Frowned. “Perhaps.”

His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her with far more intensity than was comfortable. “Orma,” he warned.

She fluttered her feathers again and did not meet his eye. “Lucian,” she repeated, with as much mockery as she was able. “I took it without thinking. Company, in case your mate was unavailable.”

It should have appeased him, but the sound he made was one utterly lacking in conviction. “For one of our fathers, perhaps? Or are you finally going to do me in?” It was a jest, but only just. They’d shared that sort of macabre humour when they were younger, but they’d set it aside when it felt too near to the truth. “Or one of your wretched healers?”

He nudged her with his shoulder, and she jostled more than was reasonable, his hand coming out to steady her immediately.

“I’m fine,” she responded crisply, because he was about to fuss, and she couldn’t abide that. She knew how slight she’d grown. Knew how shadowed her eyes were. Knew that her bones felt near to breaking, brittle and hollow. Like a single gust would be enough to sweep her away forever, and she’d lack the strength in her wings to take her back where she belonged.

“Liar,” Lucian countered, handing back her book.

Her younger self would have bristled. Would have found a good many other names to fling back at him in turn. But she could only muster a sigh. “You’re intruding on my bench.”

“Yours, is it? Have you taken up residence? Begun work at the Hall?”

She crinkled her nose, because he was being rather cruel, even if his tone was light as he did it. He knew she hadn’t. Had done nothing at all.

“You could, you know. You’re clever.” His voice grew soft, and that was somehow worse. A little too near to pity.

She did not tell him that her wits had little to do with it. That there were days her body was so sore and uncooperative she could barely steal from her bed.

That there was a reason her visits were sparse and often short.

“I think there is quite enough of our family at the Hall,” she offered instead. “You seem to being doing well there.”

He settled his weight braced on one hand against the bench, trying to appear at ease when the effect was but. “I suppose,” he agreed, his attention shifting away from her and back toward the house.

His house.

Because he belonged there and she did not.

Family, he’d reminded her. Which meant her welcome was obvious.

Family, she’d reminded him. Which meant it was not.

He’d smiled, and understood in ways that his mate was only beginning to, and she’d squeezed his arm and thanked him quietly before returning to her true home.

To her room.

With its low lamps and muted colours.

Nothing too stimulating. Too harsh when her eyes were burdened by the strain.

“Where is Firen?” she asked, because it was clear his attention had shifted in want of her.

“Market,” he answered with a shift of his eyes. As if he could picture her there, and...

Longed to go to her.

But he didn’t. He’d checked here first, just in case she’d come home early. And found Orma instead.

Sat with her.

When all he wanted to do was go.

She made to stand, but her head grew muzzy and she couldn’t quite manage it. She would. In a moment. She’d go. Perhaps not fly—she’d learned that lesson the hard way.

But she could walk, and she would. It was not that far.

“You should go,” Orma insisted. “Keep her company. You’re intruding on my solitude.”

He blinked once, slowly. Then turned his head and looked at her fully. “If you’d wanted that, you’d be back at home.” He ducked his head to keep her eye. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She wouldn’t lie to him, not when he was more than capable of catching her little deceits. “I’d not keep you,” she said instead.

“You could come,” he offered. “You are not lacking in funds.”

“No,” she agreed. “And I thank you for the offer, but I must decline.”

It hurt to do it. Because she wished she might go. But the very prospect was enough to overwhelm her. So many people, so many threads, tangling and coiling and some bursting out in search of their mates, and only some settling where they belonged...

She did it. On occasions. When a mood came upon her, when she longed to taste it. She’d sneak away, dressed in what finery she could muster without help to don it.

She’d attend a fete. Would watch the colours and revel in the sensations of it. The rightness. The smiles and the dances and the wisps of new love that she swore she could feel for herself.

It would leave her feeling dreamy and hopeful. Would lighten her steps and give strength to her wings and then she’d...

She plucked at the pages of her book, frowning softly.

“Orma,” Lucian repeated. So she mimicked his name in much the same tone, a warning and a question all at once. She was rewarded with his scowl, and that was all right, because it was better than his pity. “I’m allowed to worry about you.”

“If you must,” Orma sighed, stretching out her legs and allowing her skirts to part and her sandaled feet to whisper against the flowers that pushed valiantly through the cobbles.

Weeds, her mother would say, a crinkle to her nose as if they were troublemakers rather than survivors.

“I’m also allowed to encourage you to do what you must,” Lucian continued, his expression far more severe. “Do not be like me. Do not try to please them forever. It won’t work. It isn’t working.”

She blinked at him, processing. “Is that you what you think I am doing?”

He leaned in closer, an intimidation trick he’d picked up from his father, although he’d be horrified to learn of it. “Of any of us, you can find him. Today, if you were brave enough for it. Put an end to all this. Save yourself.” What had begun as a command ended with something far more akin to a plea.

Strange, coming from him.

Enough to gentle her tongue. To cause her to reach out and touch his arm and give him a pat.

Placation, that was all. But one kindly meant.

She could and she couldn’t.

She could allow the threads to unfurl. Could let them guide her, lead her, full of intention and the bravery he claimed she might need.

She could set out with such hopes, only to find that her legs gave way at only half the distance. Heart open and bond throbbing in her chest, desperation flowing freely through her veins as she realised she would not make it. Couldn’t make it.

That the call for her mate would go unanswered, because he could not feel it. Wouldn’t feel it.

Not until she gave him his portion.

Until this tangle in her chest was shared.

Until the burden of it was not hers alone.

Lucian would help. If she asked it of him, he’d pluck her up even now and fly wherever she told him to go. And there she would appear, weak and wretched. Her mouth tasted of ash even to imagine it.

“Would you let Firen help?” Lucian asked, seeing enough in her expression to know she would not relent so easily. “If you don’t trust me to do it?”

She swallowed thickly. She had no desire to hurt him, even if she had no particular wish to confide her most intimate thoughts, either. He was family, one of the best of them, and she loved him dearly. But they were rarely in one another’s confidence. “It is not a matter of trust, I promise you. I know you would help me in any way you could.”

His mouth formed a tight line. “But you will not allow me to help.”

She tried to soften her eyes, to smile at him. To make him feel better, since she could not hope the same for herself. “If I was going to ask someone, it would be you.” It was as much as she could offer, and although his mouth twisted, his eyes softened, and she hoped they would part with no cross feelings between them. “You should go. I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

Lucian shook his head with a sigh. “If I unlocked the door, would you stay until we came back? Have supper with us?”

The thought was an appealing one. It would give her time to rest before she was back in company. To make sure there would be more to her than weak smiles and wistful looks as she took in two of her favourite people.

She opened her mouth, full of thanks and placations, but he shook his head. “Thought not.”

She swallowed, his rightful assumption at her refusal stinging more than was reasonable. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, knuckles tight around her book. “I...”

He stood. Placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “I don’t need you to be sorry,” Lucian soothed. “I need you to be happy. And you are determined not to let me.”

A lump settled in her throat, and if her eyes stung, it was simply the breeze drying them. “It’s not like that,” she protested.

He stood back, his left brow quirking upward in disbelief. “It isn’t?”

She refused to sit and let him loom over her—there were times to be small and to be badgered at, and it was not here and it was not with Lucian.

So she got to her feet, and stood her ground, and made sure she held his gaze as she chided him. “No, it isn’t.” Her voice did not waver and her hands did not shake, although perhaps that was simply because of her hold on the book. “There have been many who have insisted I find him. Ones that frighten me a great deal more than you do. And if I can hold them off, I can surely keep you from him as well.”

She hadn’t meant for her voice to tighten, for her temper to flare. She wasn’t sure she had any of it left in her, as her bouts of childhood indignation had long ago been tamped out.

Lucian appeared slightly taken aback by her outburst, and he said nothing for a moment.

Until her mortification spread through her, the words harsh and without merit.

Not true. Not exactly.

But he hadn’t earned them.

He simply was the one she would be safe enough to speak them to.

Tears welled, and she shook her head, fully prepared to scuttle back to her tower and cover herself with blankets and self-recrimination alike.

But his hands settled on her shoulders before she had managed even a full step away from him. “It is different,” Lucian argued, voice thick but sincere. “Because you could not trust their motivations. What they might have done if they found him unsuitable. ” Her breath caught, the mere idea of it enough to make her shrink inside. “He could be limbless. He could have some sort of mutation that turned his skin purple. I do not care, so long as he was kind to you. That you cared for him and I might see you smile.”

She did not deserve his consideration, but she could not help crying.

Could not help how she allowed herself to sink against him as he held her, the silly book still trapped between them. “Have you sought him out?” he asked gently. “Is that the trouble? You know they would not approve?” He laid his hand on the back of her head, and she thought Firen had taught him a great deal how to comfort a woman through her upset. In childhood, he’d been stiff and offered nothing but the occasional pat if she was particularly distraught.

She didn’t think she could explain to him. Not fully. Not when those fears ran so deeply. She felt like she would flay herself open in this very courtyard, bleeding and broke and unable to pull herself together again.

“It was worth it, you know. I would not trade Firen for anything. Not even for my father’s approval.”

Orma sniffed once and nodded, pulling back from him. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I know that.”

Lucian’s hand went through his hair, tugging lightly. It made him look like his boyhood self again—all frustration and hard angles and knobby elbows. Perhaps not that part, because his robes covered much, and he wore a dignified set of sleeves to cover the rest.

There was much more he wanted to say, but he didn’t.

More ways he wanted to press at her. Reassure her.

She cut in before he could make up his mind to do so. She couldn’t bear it, not even from him. “Let it be,” Orma pleaded, patting his arm and taking a few steps back so he could see her intention to leave. “Please.”

He grumbled something too low for her to hear. “For now,” he allowed, and although she was certain he did not mean it as a threat, it still felt like one. “For the moment,” he amended, although there was a teasing lilt to his voice that brought a smile, no matter how small, to her lips.

“Is that master of yours teaching you to be relentless? I am not sure that was a quality you needed perfected.”

“Firen,” Lucian admitted. “Turns out I like to get what I want. And that was her.”

She swallowed, strangely touched by his candour. His affection for her was more than apparent, but they were careful of her. Their touches did not linger, their glances were short and polite.

She did not doubt it was much different when they were alone.

“I am glad for you,” she assured him. “But it is different for me.”

Orma did not want an argument, only for him to understand. Which he couldn’t, not with how little she was willing to give to him.

“If you say so,” he countered with a glance that suggested she was abominably foolish, but she quieted anything further.

Thanked him instead.

Because he was sweet when he did not have to be. Lingered on her behalf when there was somewhere much more appealing.

Someone more appealing.

“Another time,” she amended, for she did like the idea of time spent with the both of them.

Liked it better if she did not feel such an intruder on their private happiness.

She’d almost made it. Almost put enough distance between them so she could retreat in peace and without further discord.

But of course Lucian had to be so frustratingly himself.

Evidently, his time with Firen had not taught him when to retreat. When it was better to let an argument lie.

When he did not need to have the final word, despite the pride he would most assuredly claim he did not possess.

“What is the worst that might happen?” he asked, his voice raised enough to cover the distance between them.

She flinched, her eyes darting around in case any had intruded upon them enough to hear.

But there were none.

It was a quiet day. The warmth would set families toward the water, to fly and dive and make use of the beaches for picnics and other frivolities.

The fear came first.

The anger came after.

Hotter and brighter, her teeth setting, her grip tightening as she turned back to face him. He suddenly felt very much her enemy rather than the friend who had comforted her only a moment before. “You dare to ask me that?”

He did not seem troubled by her anger. Dared to appear at ease as he sank his shoulder against the tree, allowing it to support him rather than stand properly on his own two feet.

He really was insufferable.

But he was kin, so what did she expect?

“I dare,” Lucian affirmed. “Because it is a poison eating away your insides, and you will not let it out.”

She took a step forward with no great thought of doing so. She was not one for violent outbursts—she retreated. Stewed. Until the hurt was covered over by something near a callous and it did not bother her unless it was poked at.

“Always so confident,” she bit out. “That everything shall work out in your favour.” It wasn’t like her. None of this was. But she couldn’t bear to hold that wretched book any longer, and she found herself tossing it away from her with something far too near to disgust. Not a toss. A throw. Which was a horrid thing, because it was part of a collection, and it had done no wrong, and yet still it was a victim of her ire. Lucian watched it go, brows raised as if he had never expected such a thing from her. She could not blame him—she hardly recognised herself.

“The last time I followed,” she continued, and there were no tears this time. Only a flare of energy that set her threads to shimmering, and she could not even enjoy it. They would dim soon enough, and with them, what remained of her strength for the day. “It led to the most horrible pain I could possibly imagine. And everyone is so certain. Now that I am older, it will be different. Everything will settle into place and I will be well again.”

She wished she had her book back. Wished she could chuck it at him instead. “No one knows that. I certainly don’t, and I can see them.” Her hand turned to a fist, and she pushed it against her chest. “I am afraid.” It was more of an admission than she had meant to give, but she had intended none of this, had she? “No, I am terrified. And yet I have to also endure everyone’s pressure to simply get on with things.”

“Orma,” Lucian reached for her, and she shook her head firmly. She would not accept his comfort, not now. “That is...” He paused, allowed his hand to drop and at least he was not standing so casually against the tree any longer. “I did not intend it as pressure.”

She sniffed, although there were no tears to hold back. “Intended or not, I feel it.”

He frowned. “Then for that, I am very sorry.” She had expected him to argue for longer, so his quick acquiescence briefly stunted her tongue. “Can I suggest a compromise?”

It was not a nod she gave—more of the barest dip of her chin that might be taken for agreement. She hadn’t meant to be beastly to him. Or to the book even now he was stooping to retrieve. Wiped it off with his sleeve, but did not offer it back to her. Probably for the best, lest she use it as a weapon against him.

Her insides cringed just to think of what she’d done. What she’d said.

She’d meant it, but that made it worse. She could not claim a momentary lapse, full of apologies because it was all temper and nothing of truth.

“What if,” Lucian mused, thumbing through the book, presumably in search of damage. She might not forgive herself if there was any. “We find him. Just the two of us. I can order you a cart if you cannot fly the whole way.” She looked down at the ground, horrified he might realise that would be part of the trouble. Had she truly grown so sickly?

A foolish question. She need only a glance at the looking glass to know she had.

“We judge his character from afar. And if we find him lacking, we leave again. And I douse you in so many tonics, you won’t have any hope of feeling anything at all—pain or otherwise.”

Orma swallowed. Hope flickered. Small, yet terrible.

“What if we are in disagreement?” she asked quietly. “Would you call out to him? Secure his attention and believe your judgement superior to mine?” Because if he knew, if he saw, it would be over. There would be no returning home, no nursing her wounds privately any longer. He’d be there, insistent and worried, as he peeled back the layers of her hurts and made her relive them all over again.

She hated the prospect of it.

Wanted to give a firm refusal and be done with it.

Then why wasn’t she?

Why did she stand, worrying at her skirts and imagining this ridiculous plan and all the ways it might go wrong?

Might go right.

She rubbed at her eyes, feeling the beginnings or a wretched headache settling behind them. “Why are you doing this to me?”

She did not know if her query was to her cousin or to the Maker, but she supposed it did not really matter.

She heard Lucian’s measured steps forward, waiting for her to retreat. To fling something at him, whether in word or other projectiles she potentially hid upon her person, but she let him come. “The only one that will approach your mate is you,” Lucian swore. “He will not hear a word from me. If you say we go, we will do so. With as little fuss as possible.” His hand came to her shoulder, and he squeezed it just the once. “And I press and I argue because I care for you. Is that such a surprise?”

Her hands fell away, and she forced herself to look at him. To the crease between his brow that showed just how worried he was. For her.

All the anger left her in a single rush.

It left her light-headed and unstable, and he put his arm about her and kept her upright, and she felt all the usual frustration that she was weak and feeble and so needy.

“Come on,” Lucian urged. “Let’s get you home. You can think about it, all right? I won’t even mention it again. Not until you do.”

She was grateful he did not ask if she was all right. Did not ask what was wrong. She had no more answers than anyone else. Even the healers and their streams of texts and rote answers had quieted long before.

She was an anomaly. Something to be studied and poked at. More specimen than person.

“You going to carry me?” she asked, hoping it sounded like the tease she intended. Feared it came out sounding childish and tired.

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned down, peering at her closely. “You so bad off that you’d let me?”

She snorted softly and shoved at him, because the moment had passed. She did not trust herself to fly, but she would allow him to walk with her. Perhaps even nearer than was usual in case she needed to grab hold of his arm along the way. “No,” she answered crisply.

Orma reached out a hand for her book, but he shook his head slowly. “You might throw it at me again,” he explained, tucking it beneath his arm before he grabbed hold of her hand and placed it at the crook of his elbow.

“I did not!” she insisted, because it was true and she wouldn’t have him thinking otherwise. No matter how she wished she’d kept it long enough, she might have. “Take it back.” She tugged at his arm as they started moving. “I’ll not have you telling tales to Firen about me.”

He made a great show of furrowing his brow and shaking his head. “I think she’d wish to know. Let her have a few words with you when next you meet.” He smirked at her, and had to stifle the urge to shove at him again. If her wing spread slightly and caught at his hair, that wasn’t her fault, really. He was the one that positioned them so close to one another for the walk home. “For supper,” he continued. “Because you said you’d come. Soon.”

She had not said soon. And she hadn’t considered it a promise, either. More peace offering than genuine commitment, but he was determined to hold her to it.

“Are you threatening me with your mate?”

He hummed. “Maybe. She grew up with brothers. She can be fierce when she wants to be.”

His expression turned to one of great pride. No, more than that. He admired her. Loved her.

Orma swallowed as she saw the tendrils about him flare and glow. Would Firen feel the bond warm even with the distance between them? Would she know he was thinking of her?

Her throat tightened.

She thought of the boy often.

Well. The man he must have become.

Even when she shouldn’t. When it made the tangle hurt even more. When it made it all so bad that she had to take one of the many draughts afterward—still, she thought of him.

Dreamed of him.

She wanted it. Craved it so deeply, it was an entirely different sort of ache.

She was a coward.

Selfish, too.

Deciding something on her own that affected someone else so fundamentally.

“Can you...” she began, swallowing thickly. “I know you aren’t supposed to ask this. But can you... maybe... not tell her what I said? About... being afraid?”

“Orma,” Lucian murmured, his voice lowering as they passed a few people along the way. “You needn’t worry about that. You can share with her what you will, and when you choose to do it.”

Her relief was profound.

Her home loomed. A prison and a shelter all at once.

“Thank you,” she answered, pulling her hand away from his arm. “I can go the rest of the way. Unless you’re eager to see my mother.” His expression was answer enough, and she laughed lightly to herself. “I’m sorry for shouting at you,” she added, because it would plague her later if she did not say it now.

It was Lucian’s turn to chuckle. “That was hardly shouting,” Lucian soothed. “I am not certain you know how to raise your voice.”

Embarrassment flickered all the same. “It felt like it,” she insisted. “I was very cross with you.”

He hummed.

Handed her back the book so she might return it to the rest of its set. “Off you go,” he urged. “Think about my offer.”

Her throat hurt.

Everything hurt, actually.

“I will.”

And she meant it.

Even if she’d need quite a few tonics afterward, she would think about it all.