4.2

They were sitting.

Which should have been good.

It was better than being evicted without ceremony—for the door to remain barred, opened only long enough for her trunk to be shoved onto the stoop.

Except it did not feel better.

Not when they were in the formal sitting room. Reserved for company and teas hosted by her mother, where ladies of her equal station would come and gossip and enjoy their refreshments with straight backs and impractical gowns.

Not that she’d been invited for a long while. But she remembered them.

It hurt more than it should. Being here. It was for Athan’s sake, most likely. Because the fabrics were the finest, and her parents liked everyone to see their wealth and appreciate it.

But it made her feel an outsider in her own home. Most especially when she did not know if it was her home any longer.

When they’d come to the door, Father had opened it. His face was stern as he looked over Athan. He’d spent a long while rifling through his trunk, and this time she’d been certain of the reason he’d discarded most of them. Stains abounded. Some looking more like spilled medicines, as some of her own clothing had suffered the same fate when her hand grew weak and she’d spilled an elixir all down her front.

That dress had swiftly been whisked away and dyed, the incident forgotten by any but Orma.

She’d looked at it closely for any signs of the mishap, but there were none. All fixed and mended, as Mama would say. Patting her hand. Making Orma’s insides squirm because it was just the same as when she was little, and it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Others got to be strong and capable. To not have to worry about hands or wrists giving way. Of hobbling up and down the few steps on the stoop of the house. Of having to endure parents discussing new sorts of railings to install, and if they hired one with enough talent, it needn’t look like anything but yet another ornament. No one would question it.

Athan didn’t have anyone to whisk away his clothing at the end of a long day. To dye them perfectly so no one would see the fine dots about the wrist, the slash of colour across the forearm.

He should have a waxed overcoat if healing was so messy.

The bond nudged at her.

He had her.

She glanced at him, seated with a table between them, a fine set of dishes heavily laden with her favourite morsels from the kitchen. That meant something, surely? Except her parents rarely were the ones to set the menus—they had people to do that. Ones that would hear Orma’s name and send the ones she liked best, more habit than kindness.

Mama kept smoothing her hands down her perfectly situated skirt. Then she would glance toward her father. Who would look back at her, and purse his lips, and the silence would stretch on.

Orma kept looking at Athan, and he had the audacity to appear wholly unbothered by it all. He had a slight smile at his lips, and he was sipping from the delicate cup Mama had gestured toward—ever the consummate hostess.

Orma thought it was awful. She thought she might burst at the seams, all nervous energy and a crippling fatigue that threatened for dominance.

“So...” Mama began, the first to break the silence. Orma wasn’t surprised—she could handle tension about as well as Orma could. “How are you feeling, dearest?”

Father gave her a sharp look, as if they had already agreed not to ask, but Mama ignored him.

Orma’s hand itched to come to her chest and rub, but she settled for stroking her wrist where the threads curled. “Fine,” Orma murmured. Sat up a little straighter. “Or... better. I’m not really sure yet.”

There. A bit of hope for her mother.

Who took it and processed it, and beamed at her daughter and assumed that meant all would be well after all.

“Well,” she fussed, her hand smoothing down her skirt that had not in fact managed to wrinkle in the half-minute since she’d done it last. “Well. That’s wonderful.”

She seemed to soften all over, which always happened when her smile reached her eyes. Father would declare there was nothing as beautiful as his mate when she was happy, and she would hum and sidle close, and whisper in his ear while their children were left to wrinkle noses and threaten to flee the room.

There were no quiet huddles today. They sat in chairs that were meant for beauty rather than comfort, a table separating them with their own refreshments. A mirror of Athan and Orma’s postures, a glimpse into what they might be in the future.

Except their clothing did not complement one another. Orma in her black garb—a straight, split skirt covering her trim leggings. Athan had settled on a pale blue tunic, and if there was a spot on the sleeve, it was covered enough by the only embroidery he seemed to possess. She had not asked him where he’d come by it, only nodded in approval when he held it out for her inspection.

Which felt... odd, at first. Intimate. Because he’d obviously been dressing himself for an entire lifetime without her help, yet suddenly he wanted it.

Wanted to know she’d find it suitable.

Find him suitable.

It was obvious her mother wanted to ask more—likely if Orma’s visions had passed now that she’d been properly mated, but she cast Athan an anxious look and kept quiet. Did they think she’d kept it from him? Saved it for a season or two so he’d be more used to her before she blurted out her... eccentricities?

The silence stretched out until Orma could take it no longer. She rubbed at her chest because she couldn’t help it as she looked at her father. “What happens now?” she asked, her voice tight. Her fear was likely flowing freely through the bond because Athan shifted, turning toward her ever so slightly.

If they were in his kitchen, he’d be touching her by now. Holding her. But he kept still and tried to focus on comforting her through the bond alone. She felt it—little feeble pulls as he sorted through what was hers and what was his, how to tug and how to push and it was all terribly distracting and not the soothing presence he was hoping for.

Her father took a placid sip from his cup. “In what way do you mean?”

She hated this part. Where was calm and purposefully ignorant, which led her insides to squirm about before she rambled with every one of her doubts and worries.

It made it easier to go to her mother. Who would then take it to her father, and they would fight about it for a few days if the subjection was contentious, then the bond would overtake the rest of it and they’d come to some sort of understanding.

While Orma had to wait and fret in the meantime.

She tried not to give him a sardonic look, but by the thinning of his lips, she knew she was hardly successful. “I should have told you first,” she admitted, because it would have been the gracious thing to do. “I don’t know how much Lucian told you, but... I hadn’t planned to actually...”

Mama cut in, her hand reaching across to rest briefly on her mate’s arm. “He explained, dearest. We are not angry with you.”

Orma’s lip wobbled. “I don’t want to lose you,” she got out.

Her father sighed and made a great show of putting his cup down on the table. “Orma,” he began, and he was going to remind her about tears being a private matter, and she had responsibilities as a member of a great house to keep herself under control when in public.

But Athan wasn’t public, was he? Or was he going to tell her she wasn’t a part of that great house any longer, so she could do as she pleased but to keep her dramatics to herself?

She wiped at her eyes and took in a shaky breath. “Your mother and I had this discussion quite a while ago. After certain... events.”

A lump settled in her throat.

“Given your unique circumstances, it is impossible to hold you to the same standard as your brothers.” That should be a comfort, but it wasn’t. Not when he was looking at her that way. Not a disappointment, but something to be coddled. Incapable of meeting their expectations, so they’d ceased to hold them. “I will not deny there will be some family functions you will probably not attend, but those have hardly been your favourite in any case.”

He walked over to her and cupped her chin, bringing her face up so she might look at him. “You are welcome here, Orma. This was not your fault.”

She waited for the relief to come, but there were too many hurts rattling about in her chest to feel anything else.

Athan stood, and they both glanced his way. “I would like a private word,” Athan urged. “With you. Regarding my mate’s care.”

Orma’s stomach tightened and her father’s hand fell away as both men regarded each other.

Orma shifted, feeling dismissed and anxious rather than soothed. “Athan,” she began, and he glanced down at her, his eyes soft.

“For just a moment,” he promised, which wasn’t the point. Her care was going to be her own. And there were things she wasn’t ready for him to know about her. Her father was traditional—he would have no patience for privacy or secrecy between mates. He’d go over all of it in minute detail because Athan was a healer, after all, and surely he would oversee the next portion of her treatment.

Wasn’t that fortuitous? Just what she needed.

Her heart was fluttering and her hands trembled, and her mother was brushing past both men so she could fuss over Orma. “You two have a talk, and we’ll get Orma calmed down. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

There was her smile again, offered to Athan as if Orma could be managed with just the right touch. Her feelings suppressed and her symptoms tucked away so he would not have to see them.

She could let it happen. Let Athan and her father go off to talk about her. Let Mama do what she’d always done—likely coax her upstairs to rest for a while until she felt better.

It was what she knew. What a part of her craved even now. To let everyone else take care of things so she would not have to trouble herself.

But it suddenly felt intolerable.

She gave the bond a yank, because it was hers, and she’d lived with it for far, far longer than Athan.

He gave her a sharp look—not one of anger, but of surprise.

Stay.

It wasn’t a command, but it was not gentle, either.

If he went, if he let her father fill his head with all the sordid bits of her history, she couldn’t bear it. Those were her scars and her stories, and she was certain her father had countless notes and papers he could share of all that was done to her.

That would be easier, wouldn’t it?

Let him read it for himself, with all the meaningless words the healers were always using to describe her innermost parts.

“You’re right,” Athan agreed without the argument she’d half-expected. “That was wrong of me.” He turned back to her father. “If there are any records of her care, I would appreciate being allowed to look over them with Orma. I’m sure she could help me make sense of them more than anyone.”

Her parents shared a look. No, she really couldn’t. Not in those first...

She swallowed.

Shoved it all back.

“I wish to ensure she continues to receive the very best care.” The bond gave a twinge. A lurch. He wasn’t being truthful, but his smile was pleasant, as was his tone.

He found fault with her care? Or with her parents for procuring the healers that inflicted it?

Her father had the good grace not to argue with her mate. “The notes are... extensive. The healers wanted to publish it to the medical library for review, but I’m sure you can agree that would have invaded Orma’s privacy far too much. We agreed it could only be added to the archives upon her death.”

He gave his daughter a pointed look. “Which will not be for a very great while.”

Orma managed the dim smile expected of her. “Of course.”

It was a strange sort of party that headed toward the library. No one objected when she followed behind, and her mother after her because she did not care to be left alone.

There was an entire shelf dedicated to Orma—and the bookcases themselves were longer than her wingspan, so that was rather a lot. It was not under any sort of lock. There was no reason she could not have gone through it all at any time, except that she would have rather read any tome in that library than look at a single page of it.

And Athan’s compromise was they look through it together.

“As you can see, they were meticulous in their note keeping.” Her father said it with pride. Proof of the great care they had taken with her. “You might prefer to take it in batches. Or you are welcome to keep them here and peruse at your leisure.”

Athan walked the length of the shelf. The bond was a strange tangle of emotions. There was curiosity, but also...

He was disturbed.

Deeply so.

“I should like to take a few home with me, if it is indeed all right with you.”

Her father nodded, looking over the books and sheaths himself. “Would you care for her earliest treatments? Or her current regiment?”

Orma hated this. Always had, which was why Mama usually took her from the room so she would not have to be subjected to the feeling of being talked over. Like she wasn’t a person, just a problem to be sorted.

“Both,” Athan affirmed. “Context and most relevance seems beneficial.”

His eyes moved to hers.

He felt it. Her unhappiness. And he was sorry, but this was necessary.

She’d heard it all before, although now it was coming from inside of her, whispering and promising. Irksome, to be sure.

Mama must have seen it in her expression because she put an arm about her. “I’ve been packing up your things.” She said it with a forced lightness to her tone—as if it was an event she’d been looking forward to for a long while. But she paused. Frowned a little. “That is... we assumed you would go with him.”

Her parents shared a look, and she could well imagine the conversation that went along with it. They couldn’t possibly have him. Allowing the occasional visit was one thing. But offering him a place in the tower—most especially when it would be passed to her elder brother...

It would only delay their eviction.

There were other properties. Smaller offerings on the outskirts of the district. Undesirable, by their standards, but surely an upgrade to the hovel they imagined Athan lived in.

Where they were packing for her to go without having seen it.

She took a breath. They hadn’t cast her out. That was worth something.

“He has a home,” Orma assured her. “And an infirmary. To tend his patients so they needn’t come too close when they are ill.” She did not mention it was situated just beside. That she was worried terribly about shared walls and being unfit to care for Athan if he took sick.

“That sounds perfectly situated,” Mama insisted, squeezing her tightly for just a moment. Orma had wanted that, hadn’t she? Comfort and familiarity?

Why then did it now feel disingenuous?

“I should like to see your room,” Athan cut in. “If that is permissible.” He said it with that smile of his, and it seemed Mama was not immune to his charms because she grew flustered for just a moment before stammering out her assent.

“Of course. Orma, if you’re not up to packing, I can have someone come to help or...”

“That will not be necessary,” Athan added. “But thank you for the offer.”

He went to Orma and took her hand, waiting for her to lead the way. It was not far. The library was on the fourth storey of the tower itself—up on level from the sitting room.

He did not pick her up, but kept hold of her hand as she descended to the ground floor.

“Making your escape?” Athan asked, giving her hand a little squeeze.

“No,” Orma murmured, more sullen than she’d hoped it to come out. “You wanted to see my room.”

She’d had a different one, once. Up higher, with views of the ocean where she’d sit and pretend she was one of the flutter-flies she’d see in the garden. Wild and free as she’d go from one flower to the next, then up to the tallest trees to make nests for the winter months.

Then they’d come out all at once when the winters were over. They’d dance and flutter in the sea spray before charging into the coast in search of spring flowers to begin all over again.

Perhaps he wouldn’t know it was strange that her room was on the lower level. Perhaps he wouldn’t realise its significance. That it meant they’d accepted there would be days when her wings couldn’t support her to go up where she belonged.

But there was an ache he must have felt as she trudged toward her room. It wasn’t difficult to find—that was rather the point, after all. Servants had to bring meals. Healers had to do their checks.

She wondered how he saw it. It was a room, but it was also her sanctuary. Or had been, when no one else was in it. Those times felt like an invasion and it set her skin to prickling whenever she would hear the latch move.

It was one of the larger rooms—although she could not recall what it had been before. She just remembered Mama bringing her once it had been redecorated, showing her the plush chair where Mama would sit with her. The pretty bedspread that had been brought new, and didn’t she like the flowers embroidered along the hems? All soft colours. Nothing dark. No black or grey. Those were too sombre, and Orma needed only the prettiest colours to get better.

She’d been drugged at the time, her mind very far away from rooms or flowers or what colours brought healing and which ones didn’t. She just knew what it felt to be lowered into a bed. For her mother’s hand to smooth against her brow before she kissed it. To like it far better than the cellar room with the...

She curled into herself.

Wouldn’t think about it.

Couldn’t think about it.

Athan stepped across the threshold, and she waited for her insides to squirm at the intrusion.

Had he felt the same nerves the night before? When he was offering her his bed and his shirt, without adequate time to prepare for her?

She sat down on the bed and had to fight back the urge to curl up in it. It really was wonderful. Soft. Supportive.

Was it terrible if her best friend was a bed?

Probably worse than if the Brum was Athan’s.

The wooden frame surrounding it had pretty pictures painted on the shutters. She could not see them at night, of course, when the moon was low, and the lamps dimmed, but they were her companions during the day. One panel was dedicated to the seaside. Others the forest. Always mates, usually either at work, or the one she liked best, seated beneath a large tree as they dined on foods that suspiciously looked like Orma’s favourites.

She’d crept into Mama’s letter box one day when she was feeling well enough and added her own ornamentations.

The threads that connected them. The swirls of colours and braided cords.

Far better that way. Realistic.

Mama had brought the healers to look at them after, which led to hushed tones and a trip down to the cellar.

She would have taken it back, if she could, but she couldn’t. So they stayed, and she wouldn’t think about what had come after.

“Is this room to your liking?” Athan asked, trying to take all of it in. He did not need such a bed frame, because the room was small and would hold in the heat perfectly well without it. There were tapestries covering the walls—curving seamlessly into each of the seasons as they followed the line of the tower itself. The window was open, likely by her mother’s doing. Items were strewn about, pretty trinkets and clothing alike, all awaiting to be tucked in a trunk that had always been ceremonial. No one expected her to use it. Not when she’d so adamantly refused she’d go to her mate, even when she’d come of age and their attitudes abruptly shifted on the subject.

She leaned back against the pillows, and something in her relaxed. “I suppose so.” Much of it had been decorated for her, but she wouldn’t say she disliked any of it.

His attention caught on the bed panels, and he smoothed his fingers over her additions. Faded now with time and improper materials, but still visible.

She folded her hands and let him continue his perusal. Her hip stopped aching, which was not unusual when she took weight off it. “My room looks nothing like this.” He wasn’t frowning, but there was a hint of something that suggested he was sorry for it.

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed.

He turned his head. She shouldn’t be lying down, should she? It was rude. She was meant to be packing. But it was nice not to hurt, and she’d linger a little longer if he didn’t mind.

Or was she not meant to agree with him?

She shifted a little, feeling awkward. Or perhaps that was him? He moved to another part of the room, inspecting the tapestries. The view from her window. It wasn’t much—just the courtyard, where the trees had grown in front and made it a difficult arrangement to leave through it. But she could. Had.

“I want you to be comfortable in my home,” Athan said at last. “I do not know that I can offer you all of this, but...” he turned. Looked at her directly. “I am not so poor I cannot furnish our home to your liking. Make it feel more like ours instead of just mine.”

It was a sweet worry for him to have, and Orma smiled at him softly. “Mama is the decorator,” Orma explained. “I might appreciate her efforts, but that does not mean it matters most to me.” She patted the bed beside her. “This does.”

He eyed her dubiously. It was not necessarily large enough for two, but she knew from experience that Mama fit well enough beside her. When she’d been smaller and her mother’s comfort was... necessary.

Now it was visits and tea and tales of neighbouring towers and the people that lived in between.

Athan didn’t argue with her. Came beside and... took his boots off first.

Which made her feel sheepish and wretched that she hadn’t thought of it first. Should she do it now? She’d hardly been anywhere.

She plucked at the laces all the same, and tried not to flush all over when he settled in beside her. Not under the bedclothes—that would be far too indecent. But he shifted and sorted out his wings, and then he sighed as he felt the mattress embrace him.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

He hummed. “This, I grant you, is very nice.”

Which meant there were other parts that weren’t, but she dared not trespass into that sort of talk until they were away again. Back in a room that was sparsely furnished, but still managed to feel welcoming.

Or maybe it was the man that had done that.

She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, and for a moment she thought he’d actually fallen asleep. She reached out with her pointer finger and poked him in the arm, and his eyes flew open. “I was appreciating,” he protested, rubbing at his arm as if she’d actually damaged him.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked, thinking again of all his checks.

“Enough,” he groused, but it hardly stuck because there was a smile at the edges of his mouth. “I was preoccupied,” he allowed when she gave him a pointed look. “With a worthwhile endeavour.”

“To keep me breathing.” As if he had control over such matters. “I’m not sick,” she reminded him.

He reached for her hand and took it in his. Didn’t bring it to his mouth to kiss it. Just... held it. While they laid in her girlhood bed and she waited for it to feel wrong.

But it didn’t.

“You aren’t?” Athan asked, a hint of teasing in his voice. “What are you, then?”

Which wasn’t fair, because she was hardly going to give him a list of her troubles. So she sighed, and nestled into the familiar pillows behind her head, the way her wings met a mattress perfectly indented for their comfort. “I’m tired,” she decided, because that was easiest. And most true.

“Then you shall rest. While I get to flit through all your things and make all sorts of assumptions about what is important and what isn’t.” His thumb had no business skimming across her hand like that, nor for it to send tiny pulses of sensations as he blindly followed a thread he could not see.

But she could.

Could see it swell and glimmer at his attentions. Could feel the answering pull of a cord much stronger than a single thread.

She swallowed.

Did not pull away, although she was tempted.

It frightened her how easily he could stir such feelings. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

“I must admit,” Athan continued, before she’d quite made up her mind what she would allow. “For all I’d pictured, cuddling with my mate in her parents’ home had not entered the realm of possibilities.”

She stiffened—or might have, except that she really was tired, and it was as if the strain of too many happenings in far too short a time was catching up to her. “This isn’t cuddling,” she protested.

“It isn’t?” His thumb had the audacity to brush down her wrist, where her pulse fluttered beneath his attention and the thread curled. “What would you call it?”

Orma fought down the urge to rub at the bond in her chest. “Well, what we did in your bed was cuddling,” she supposed. If one had to qualify such a thing. “This is just... being on the same bed. At the same time.”

Athan hummed, and there were distinct notes of humour and disagreement all at once. “So my arm must be around you,” he clarified. “For it to count.”

Orma shifted, just a little. She didn’t know why he was pressing the matter, and it made her eyes narrow.

“I only ask, because I’m certain you would be quite uncomfortable if your mother entered, and we were cuddling. But since we are simply on the bed at the same time, it should be fine.”

Her eyes flew to the door, certain she would find her mother there, either flustered at what she saw, or fluttering and smiling because she was so determined all would be well now.

But she wasn’t.

Just the solid door stained in the same dark fashion as the rest of them—the only part that had withstood her mother’s declaration of healing colours.

Orma allowed her elbow to poke at his side just a little, and he made far too great a show of reacting to it. “If I asked your parents to let us take your bed, would they allow it?”

Orma stared up at the ceiling. Moonstones hung on strands of twine, dull and quiet with the suns out. “So sure, are you? That I will come back with you?”

Her heart beat a little faster when he brought her hand to his lips. When she felt the gentlest brush against her knuckles—whisper soft and not nearly enough.

If he mentioned the records her father was sending off with him, she was going to lurch out of the bed.

If he reminded her of duty and obligation, she was going to poke him with her elbow again.

He increased the pressure just a bit, allowing her to tuck it away as a proper kiss. Not to her hair, but to her skin. The very first.

Not that she was going to treasure it, or anything. He hadn’t asked, which was rather wretched of him.

But why did she hope he would do it again?

“Live with me, Orma,” Athan murmured, his voice soft and his eyes sincere. “Share my home. Be my mate in all the ways you are able.” A lump settled in her throat, and she certainly was not about to cry. Because that was foolish, and he was being sweet, and one did not have to weep for little kindnesses. “And maybe you will even consider sharing this marvellous bed if I can convince your parents to part with it.”

She wished he could see how the bond shimmered about them. The way it pulsed and glowed when he was gentle and she was receptive.

It was a beautiful distraction during entreaties he should not have to give. There should be negotiations. Offers of other dwellings that came from her lines while they bickered about her work and his. About children and timings and all the other normal conversations a newly mated pair ought to have.

Except he’d built his life. He trained and studied and made it full and lovely because she’d hidden herself away.

And there it was. The little tendrils of despair that trickled through her heart and made the tears fall. “You deserve so much better than me,” she managed to get out before she curled inward. Which wasn’t the tight ball she was used to, but instead made it so her head was on his chest and his arm came about her, and she wasn’t thinking about hands and kisses and skin against skin, just the way it felt to be held so tightly when she was sad.

His fingers delved into her hair, stroking lightly and pulling free the little tangles that appeared during their flight here. “Not true,” Athan promised. “We might not know how just yet, but we’re perfect for one another. We just have to be patient while we work out the reasons why.”

She snorted, shaking her head and allowing her body to relax into him. He nuzzled against the top of her head and the bond warmed her all over. “Is that all the answer I’m to expect?” Athan asked, and she supposed she could not use the bond to do all the work for her.

“No,” she murmured, plucking at a loose thread on his tunic. It should be snipped, but she hadn’t the will to search out a sharp blade to trim it off. “I mean...” because she’d waited too long, and he thought that was what she meant to say, and she shook her head, battling with too many feelings at once. “I want to try. I just... you’re going to be disappointed in me. Down the line. When I can’t be all you’d hoped for.” She sniffed and buried her face against his chest. It was all right to talk about those things, wasn’t it? For fears to be voiced rather than carried. “Then I’ll need to come home and maybe some of my things should be here.”

Her voice was small, and she waited for the irritation. The heavy sigh and for him to finally grow impatient with her. “Or,” Athan said instead. “You’ll be wrong. And I will love you, even the bits that are frightened and anxious. And you’ll wonder why you were so afraid of me. Of us.”

She hiccupped just a little and she might have been crying in earnest, and he tucked her in closer and kissed the top of her head because he seemed to like to do that when she was close. “Does this count as cuddling now?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

“I suppose it does,” she choked out, because grousing was better than crying.

Again.

Athan hummed, and held her close, and it was all right because he agreed her bed was best.

◆◆◆