4.4

She hadn’t slept long. Just enough to get the muzzy, overly-emotional bits settled down. She stretched and didn’t allow herself to worry about crumpled skirts or rumpled hair. Mama had stopped chiding her for such things a long time ago, assuming she kept to the house.

Which Orma wouldn’t.

Because she’d be going back with Athan.

Mama had discretely removed all the timepieces from Orma’s room when she’d found her tucked away in her bed watching the dials move and change. There were the smaller ones for the hour. The larger to show the changing seasons.

To which a much younger Orma had calmly explained she was waiting for her time to be over, and Mama had hugged her close and told her to never talk that way again, and then she never found another one again.

She could wait for Athan to come back. To admit he’d trespassed into topics better left unspoken, the temptation too great when her father would have few qualms about sharing any of it at all.

She could even find them, interrupt and express her disappointments while her father placated, and Athan apologised.

Or...

She could pack. Appreciate the time she’d been given to retreat to her little bathing room and pack those for herself. The medicines Athan would not approve of without knowing their contents. The lotions to keep her skin from looking as if she suffered from the wasting sickness. Salves to smooth into her hair so it appeared kempt and cared for rather than the neglected mess it became when her mother did not threaten her with combs and hours of intensive ministrations.

She wouldn’t have that soon.

She did not want Athan as her caregiver—to exchange one set for another. Didn’t want him hiring a servant just for her keeping because she was frail and her moods tended toward the morose.

Orma pushed those thoughts away. She wouldn’t pretend all would be better once she was situated in Athan’s home. She was still the same person. With the same troubles. But maybe... maybe Athan was right. Maybe there were things she could learn to do for herself. On days she was well enough to do them.

Mama found her before she’d finished, but she was pleased she was working rather than still napping. She greeted her with a smile, and Mama took to her usual chair as she assessed Orma’s progress by glancing in the wardrobe. “Coming along nicely,” she complimented. Was it merely a trick of the light, or did Orma see a glimmer of tears in her eyes? She wiped at them quickly enough, shaking her head. “I’m so happy for you, dearest. He seems like a good man.”

No talk of bloodlines now. Of old histories.

Orma should be grateful.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, running her finger along the frame of their portrait together.

“I know,” her mother soothed. “You are not alone in that, I think. Many new mates are nervous of one another at the start. Maybe we don’t mention that enough.”

She gestured for Orma to come closer by holding out her hand. “Do you have questions for me?” she asked, her voice a little lower than it had been. “I’ve been going over in my mind all the things I’ve said to you, and all that I haven’t, but I’m afraid they’ve blended in with your sister and I can’t recall what more you need to know.”

Orma flushed all over. “Things will be different for you,” Mama reminded her. As if Orma needed it. “I...” she paused, her voice straining. “I wish so much that things had been different for you. And for what it is worth, I am sorry.”

Orma squeezed her hand. “I know you are.”

Mama nodded. “Well. At least he’ll be more understanding than most. And if he’s not, we can get an appointment for some new nightclothes. Distract him.”

“Mama,” Orma complained, tugging at her hand because her mother suddenly would not release her grip. “I don’t...” she huffed out a breath and glanced down at herself. She knew to what her mother referred, and she was self-conscious enough without her mother adding to it. “I have too many worries as it is. I can’t handle any more.”

“Certainly,” her mother agreed, nodding her head and tugging Orma to lean down so she might hug her. “I only meant that I will help in any way I can. And if he’s awful...”

Orma shook her head. “He isn’t.”

And the bond pulsed, because it was in perfect agreement.

“Of course he isn’t.” Mama gave a little cough and allowed Orma to stand fully. “Just... remember we are here. On days when your uncle isn’t.”

Her tone suggested it was a jest, but her eyes were more serious than they should have been.

Lucian’s father. Who didn’t like that his mate’s sister’s husband had a taller tower, was a judicator rather than a lawmancer.

Didn’t like that there was a defective in the family, tainting the bloodlines.

“You’ll have to put some sort of sign on the door,” Orma countered. “So I know when not to come home.”

Mama reached up and smoothed her hair. “Don’t be churlish. It doesn’t suit you.”

Orma rather thought it did, but she didn’t argue.

Instead, she let her mother help her with the last of her things. Allowed her to make promises about family suppers that would certainly include her siblings and their mates and children.

Never mind that her siblings had lost interest in her when she wasn’t getting better. When they had lives to lead and had little time to waste sitting with her.

She loved them, and she was certain they loved her in a family devotion sort of way, but they were not close. Not like when they were small.

But she let her mother prattle on. Even let her grow misty eyed as she hugged her, and said again the tower was going to be too empty and it really was cruel of her to have started all this so abruptly.

“Yes, Mama,” she’d agreed to all of it, knowing full well most of it would not come to pass.

Or maybe it would. She needed to stop thinking she knew everything, stop assuming the worst of the people she loved.

A cart took them home.

Correction—two carts. After burly men had intruded on her bedchamber and stood about and eyed her frame and the doorway with dubious expressions. She couldn’t recall how it had come in. Perhaps it had even been built in place. But after some hammering and only a few curses, it was out and in the cart.

She’d only meant the mattress itself, but Athan evidently preferred the bed in its entirety.

Then there was the cart with fine cushions to take them home again. Her father’s doing, she was certain. Unnecessary, although her hip had started hurting again as she took the trips between her wardrobe and the bathing room to ensure she had all she wanted.

The trunk was settled behind the bed, and Athan was seated beside her. These carts weren’t for their kind. They were for the merchants that settled here, wealthy and disinclined to traverse the steeper parts of the city. They’d no wings to help them, and she could well commiserate with how tiring it could be with only legs to rely upon.

Athan reached for her hand and took it, squeezing lightly. “How do you think it went?”

Orma sighed and picked at her skirt. “Better than I feared.” Nothing in her tone suggested that was true, but she wanted it to be. “Any conspiracies to confess?” She tried to keep her voice light, but she wasn’t as successful as she’d hoped.

“Yes,” Athan answered with far more ease than if he’d actually betrayed her. “Suggestions from a father to his daughter’s new mate about how to keep her happy.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, which she only allowed because the cart had a covering to keep it private. It certainly wasn’t because her heart leapt when he did it. Wasn’t because the bond pulsed and warmed in the most pleasant way she could imagine. “But if you want those particulars, I’m afraid you’d have to be sworn into our conclave of men devoted to your care.”

His lips turned downward for just a moment before he smoothed it away again.

She could pretend she hadn’t seen. Could accept his teases and not press for anything more.

But then it wouldn’t be real, would it? If he had worries of his own. She needed to help carry his if she wanted him to engage with hers.

It was easy to nudge him with her elbow. To give him a pointed look when he quirked a brow, as if everything was fine. “What were you thinking, just then?”

He shifted ever so slightly. And it was away rather than toward her, and that was telling enough. “You can tell me,” she reminded him. “If I’m supposed to share everything with you, then it should go both ways.”

Athan gave her a look in return. “It is not a matter of supposed to. Just that you can.”

Orma refused to prickle. “All right,” she amended. “You can, too.”

His lips quirked upward, which was a marked improvement, but he looked at their conjoined hands rather than at her. “I am concerned,” he began at last. “I wish to think well of your parents. To understand their decisions for your care. At this moment, however, I do wonder if it will affect my opinion of them.”

If she would not prickle, she would not bristle, either. “They did the best they could,” she insisted. “If... if some of the healers went too far, they were dismissed.” Which had happened. On numerous occasions.

Which Athan would see when he looked at her records spread out before him like a tome of hurts upon his mate, and he’d think her defective and her parents cruel when neither was true, was it?

She wanted her hand back. Wanted not to have asked.

She took a breath instead and fought for calm. “We needn’t look at them,” she declared. “We could even burn them, then no one would have to see the wretched things again.”

His hold on her hand grew soft, even as his thumb moved gently over her knuckles. He should kiss them again. That was better than this knot in her chest that felt a great deal like yet another scar. “No,” he soothed. “We won’t do that. They are important, even if I dislike their contents. I shall just have to read them as a professional rather than as your mate. Otherwise...” he shook his head.

A lump settled in her throat. “Don’t do that,” she urged. “Or... I don’t know. Just... I see your point about the elixirs. I’d rather they come from you. Keeps things simple, yes? And you need to know what’s in them.” She felt a shiver, and it wasn’t cold but it was from a strain, and he abandoned her hand so he could put his arm about her shoulders instead.

Better. Far better.

“I don’t know if I want to read them,” she admitted. “I haven’t. Before. No one offered. Pointless, after all, since I was there.” She sighed and tucked herself more closely into his side. “But I was drugged through most of it, so how did they think I’d understand what they were doing and why?”

Athan ran his fingers through her hair, over and over. Until some of the tension left her throat and shoulders. Until she could take a full breath and be certain she was not on the cusp of tears after all. “They should have explained,” Athan murmured. “Every bit. You should not have been left confused and hurting.” His hold on her tightened. “I should have been with you. I know their concerns,” he interrupted before she could remind him of the reasons he had not been summoned. “But of one thing, I am certain. It would have been better if we faced it together. If you had known you were not alone.”

She hadn’t been. Mama was always there afterward. Servants to change bandaging and apply salves and smooth healing ointments into abraded skin. She wanted to say all that, so he’d stop thinking she’d been locked away and forgotten, but it all got stuck in her throat. “They didn’t know,” she said instead, because that was the truth of it.

She had. In a way. When she’d struggled and pleaded, even as they carried her off. Soothed her with potions and elixirs while she cried.

When all she wanted was him.

He turned his head, eyeing her carefully. “Did they ever ask you?”

Her brow furrowed, and she tried not to grow uncomfortable beneath his stare. “Ask me what?”

He took a breath and made a very great effort to keep his expression as calm as his tone. “What you needed.”

He expected her to remember that? Feelings were stronger than their words. How a touch felt, sometimes welcome and desperately craved, other times were like a different sort of pain. Wrong. Not the one the bond wanted, the bond needed...

The answer came then. Right and real and truthful, even if she could sift through all her memories to be sure of it.

“No,” she answered him, the bond full of pain that was part hers, partly his. “No, they didn’t.”

He didn’t hum. Said nothing at all.

Just pulled her a little closer and kissed the top of her head and let her feel the little tendrils of... something.

Not bitterness. Couldn’t be that. Because no one was at fault for any of it.

But... it was something.

And it felt better when she curled into his side and listened to his steady breaths.

“I will,” Athan promised her. “I’m sorry they didn’t, but that won’t be us.”

And that felt best of all.

◆◆◆

Orma had to retreat to the kitchen.

The Brum was in his garden, unconcerned now that it was the appropriate time for him to be there according to his whims. Perhaps she should have been out with him, but she could not bear to watch any longer.

Her trunk had been simple enough. Strong arms and even stronger wings had it up into the bedchamber with no fuss at all.

The bed was entirely a different matter, with more parts needing to be deconstructed and set back together again.

Then the old bed was moved to another room—because Athan was correct, and there were others.

Empty rooms.

She’d caught only a glimpse before her withdrawal, but she’d seen it clear enough. No furniture, only a few crates on either side of the window. The shutters were closed, and the room was dreary with nothing to soften the wooden walls.

There was not time for questions, not when there were men waiting about to finish their work and be off to their next job.

Athan was helping. Or... trying to help. He was involved, at least, and his advice was met with grunts and a few nods, so perhaps it might be considered assistance?

All she knew was that she didn’t like to see her bed in pieces. Didn’t like to see the decorative panels arranged out of order.

Not only that.

Exposed.

Like little bits of her were out on a cart for any to see that might walk by.

Better she be in the kitchen. Staring at the stove and wondering how one worked such a thing, and if she could manage a pot of tea before Athan was finished with his helping.

Not that they needed more. Or that it would be done properly, most especially compared to what her mother could provide.

But she didn’t make it either, did she? She had only to have one of the servants fetch anything she liked, and it would appear with no bother at all.

She could sit down. Just wait for it all to be over with and ask Athan to make her something. But that felt... wrong.

She huffed. Hovered a hand over one of the burners and waited to feel the heat. There was some, and she dipped a little lower. She wasn’t so foolish that she should risk burning herself, but filling a kettle was simple enough. Or would have been. Except that she pulled on the lid and it refused to budge, which meant she had to squint and wonder and poke at it until she realised there was a small lever and a hinge.

The tap she mastered with no fuss.

Then there was the pot. Washed and dried from earlier, so that was no trouble. Didn’t even have to poke about the cupboards like she did for the tea leaves themselves.

Rows of small canisters made up the first shelf, neatly labelled. Or she thought they were until she actually tried to read any of them. The text was so small she had to hold them up to the light, and most were an assortment of herbs. Or... maybe they weren’t? She resorted to opening a few and bringing them to her nose to sniff until one smelled like it belonged in a teapot.

One smelled particularly appealing. Sweet without being cloying. Rich and welcoming.

She thought vaguely about stimulants and... had he said anything else? It did not smell like what he’d brewed that morning, but it intrigued her enough to be worth risking.

Athan would likely be horrified, but she wanted him to see her effort. She nibbled at her lip, wondering if she ought to spoon the leaves into the pot or just shimmy them inside.

Which felt reasonable. Until a great many fell on the counter instead, so she had to manoeuvre them back into the jar while darting her attention to the door and hoping the thud she heard upstairs did not mean they’d finished just yet.

She stared at the kettle, hovering her hands around it. It was... warm. But it needed to be more than that, yes? How did one heat a stove? Was it like a hearth? Only with pipes and burners and a door. That had a latch. And a handle. For opening?

She frowned, tugging at it with little intention behind it. If it opened, she would peer inside and see how it functioned. If it didn’t, she’d leave it alone. Let the water warm as slowly as it pleased, so she might still claim that she tried.

But she could admit her curiosity, so she pulled a little harder, the whole things opening with a creak of a hinge in need of oiling, a far greater warmth emitting from its opening.

She frowned at the contents. Were those the remnants of logs turned to ash or... coals? They glowed with friendly embers. She should add to it. Most certainly if they were going to have a hot supper. Not that she knew what sorts of meals Athan preferred, and perhaps he liked smaller fares. Dried fish and thinly sliced vegetables with bread rather than hash. Or even those little pastries that Orma liked so well, even if they showered her dress with crumbs no matter how daintily she bit them.

She was hungry; she realised with a belated sort of awareness. Her nibbles back at home seemed a long time ago, and she frowned down at her stomach, patting it reprovingly. “I’m not sure what you think I can do about it,” she murmured to herself. “I can’t even get the tea going properly.” She frowned down at the kettle, willing it to heat. Then gave up and poked through the cupboards. There were more jars, some large enough to require scoops attached to the sides, but they revealed only various powders. Which might be food, if one knew what to do with them, but she certainly didn’t.

If home held any books on cookery, they were kept to the kitchens. Where she had not been... well, perhaps she’d not been forbidden, but her mother had gently reminded all her children on more than one occasion they were underfoot when they trespassed, and then later her attention had lingered a little too long on Orma because she took longer to get out of the way than the others.

Unkind, Mama said. To keep the servants from their tasks when they were just trying to complete them in a timely manner so they could return to their own homes.

Another cupboard revealed baskets of... vegetables, she decided. They looked different. Not cooked and covered in rich sauces when she was in the dining room, nor cooked down into thin broth when she was poorly. Were they meant to look shrivelled like that? Or perhaps he’d forgotten about them and they should join a refuse pile.

She picked one up gingerly, trying to decide if it was still edible and what she might do with it. Heat it in some way. That seemed to be the primary form of cooking. Seasoning was another, but that would mean risking all those fine powders and wondering which might be medicines and which were meant for flavouring meals.

“Those are very hard on the teeth unless cooked,” Athan commented from the doorway.

Orma glanced at them, frustrated she had not been more successful in her aims. “I gathered that,” she answered primly. “I simply hadn’t decided on my method.”

He hummed, fully aware she had no skills to call upon, but he walked toward her and plucked the shrivelled root from her hand and placed it back with the others. “This cupboard might be more to your liking.”

Yet more jars, these without labels, but he pulled down a few and showed her the contents. Dried fruits, nutmeats, something that smelled like a salted cheese, rendered until it was crisp. “My peckish cupboard,” Athan explained. “Or when I’m too tired to think of anything more substantial.”

He let her make her selections before going to inspect the stove. He did not tease her about the lack of heat, only opened the door and took a scoop of something from a bucket she’d overlooked. Not logs, then. He shut it quickly enough, and she could swear the kettle bubbled the moment he did so.

She did her best not to narrow her eyes at the entire venture and huff. She’d no one to blame but herself. Or... no, that wasn’t quite true, was it? It was simply the way of things. And they’d thought she’d be mated to one from their circles, so it would never have been necessary to learn the functions of a stove and what fuelled it and how to organise a kitchen.

Athan leaned over to smell the contents of the pot, and she waited to hear she’d used something for soap-making rather than consumption. But he smiled in approval. “One of my favourites,” he assured her, and something in her relaxed.

He was... pleased.

At her effort, even if not the results. She was trying, and it had not gone unnoticed.

“Is my bed still standing?” she asked, feeling a little flustered at the feelings that flowed so freely through the bond. “Or will it feed our hearth this winter?”

There was a tiny bell that sounded as the steam in the kettle touched it and Athan poured into the waiting pot. “As if I would allow such a thing. A garden ornament, at the very least. Brum could use it for shade in the summers.”

Orma liked that idea even less, but she did not say so.

Didn’t need to, not when Athan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She did not know what compelled him, didn’t know they had reached a place of such easy and presumptuous affection, but when he lingered, she did not pull away from him.

She could have. Just a step backward. A reminder of who and what she was and that he should not raise his expectations too high.

And yet...

She swallowed thickly.

“Your bed is safe and sound and waiting for you,” Athan assured her, and he was the one to pull back first. Which felt like an accomplishment on her part. It was submission for the sake of it. It was... challenging herself. To see what she liked. What she didn’t. To savour the bond and the sensation of lips against skin and decide it was rather pleasant.

Might have been more so if it ended with his arms about her, but she could ponder that more tonight. Tucked away in the bed made especially for her.

“Yours wasn’t bad,” she added—then felt guilty she had not made it clear earlier.

He chuckled softly as he brought two mugs down from their hooks. “Yours is better,” he conceded. “Besides, now you can evict me when you feel like it.”

She could, couldn’t she? It should have been a comfort to her. A needed reminder she was not trapped, that they could sort out their arrangements however suited them best. But she... liked him next to her. She tested the thought slowly, poking at it and turning it about, and decided it settled rightly.

She liked it.

Liked him beside her while she slept. She didn’t know yet what it was to have him there when she woke. To look over and see his eyes flutter open. To see him smile and stretch and greet her.

But she might. Or... would. Eventually. If she could wake early enough to appreciate it.

“Would you like to go see?” Athan asked, taking in her pensive expression and trying to decide its source.

She blinked, coming back to herself. To him. “No. I think... I think I’d like to be peckish out in the garden for a while. Maybe sit on the bench together?”

The day was growing late, and the warmth of the day was easing. The hot tea would be welcome, and his company more so, and she could test her resolve to make friends with the Brum.

“Lovely,” Athan agreed, and from the way he glanced at her and smiled, she wondered if he was referring to her idea or to her.

Which was absurd because she’d taken very little care with her appearance and she hadn’t tidied her hair after returning home and...

He made up a tray and opened the back door and waited for her to go through first. “Coming?”

And he had no business looking as handsome as he did. Not when she certainly wasn’t lovely and yet...

She swallowed thickly.

And if she brushed his arm as she passed, and if he drew in a sharp little breath when she did so...

Maybe it was about her after all.