4. Plan

It could have been worse.

It might have been her father.

Or Oberon.

Coming to drop off her trunk at Athan’s doorstep and remind her she was being pruned from their family line.

She did not want to go out. Let Athan deal with it alone while she chastised herself for not dressing so she might appear presentable—prim and chaste, because they certainly had done nothing untoward.

Not that anything could be considered so when they were mates, and yet mortification spread through her all too easily, uncaring of bonds and laws and the apparent change in decorum.

But they were arguing, and that mattered to her.

So she went out, full of embarrassment and a tinge of resentment, because she was trying and this was only making it worse.

“Lucian,” she murmured, because both men were on the doorstep, Lucian’s arms crossed as he took in Athan’s appearance and found it utterly lacking.

Only for him to dare to smirk at her when he saw her in the borrowed sleep shirt.

“Well,” he said instead, abandoning the crisp tone and role as fierce protector. “This changes matters.”

Orma tugged the shirt further down her legs. “It certainly does not.”

“Really?” He stepped closer, peering at her the way only family could. A bit teasing, a bit mocking, but with just enough concern that she did not rush forward and shove at him for being wretched. “From my view, it does.”

Athan’s posture shifted as Lucian calmed. No longer defending his home and his mate. Just... waiting. To see what she would ask him to do.

To see if she would ask Lucian to take her home.

She should. After she’d dressed, of course.

“Did you tell Mama?” she asked, because that pressed at her most. She’d worry, and Orma didn’t want that. She also did not want her caught up in the fantasy that Orma was off, perfectly healed and holding off visiting because of some mated joy.

“This morning,” Lucian affirmed. “She has questions.”

Orma grimaced. “Naturally.” She swallowed, wondering if she should invite him in. It felt too presumptuous—the house wasn’t hers, and she did not know if Brum was only courteous to strangers that happened to be mates, so she dared not lead him into the kitchen to share in the meal. “Were we hard to find?”

“Not very.” Lucian flicked an errant bit of debris from the sleeve of his robe. He should be at the Hall by now. Or enjoying a morning off with Firen. Not here, looking after her again. Guilt made her shift, but both men looked at her as if it was her leg that was bothering her. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You needn’t come back until you’re ready.”

His attention on her was sure, and she knew the cost of what he was offering.

To meddle. Intervene, if that was what she wished. Which meant Athan could go to the Hall and lodge a formal complaint, and Oberon would use it to strip Lucian of his remaining privileges, still resentful of his mating to Firen.

He loved her. Would fight for her. Not just because of kin and blood, but because he liked her. Always had. Even when he was older and it was somehow beneath elders to acknowledge care for the younger.

Orma leaned against the wall, because it was possible her hip did hurt. Her knee as well. Athan moved toward her, but she shook her head, wanting to talk to Lucian on her own. “How am I supposed to be ready?” she asked. Everything had gone wrong for Lucian once Firen had come. Or... maybe it had gone right. But he still lost his father. His mother’s visits were limited.

She did not want to lose her parents. All she’d known.

She scrubbed at her face and waited for Lucian to give her what wisdom she lacked. “I don’t think you can be, Orma. They’re going to react however they please. And there might be consequences, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it.” He glanced toward Athan. “I don’t know him, though. So maybe it isn’t, and I’ll fly you home right now and we barricade the doors and let him pace around a bit while you decide what you want.”

Athan frowned, but he looked to Orma rather than argue with Lucian. “That won’t be necessary,” Athan offered, and there was pain in the bond, and only some of it was hers. “If you want to go home, you can.”

She did, and she didn’t.

While she was here, she could pretend everything would work out as best it could.

Once she went back, once they met him, once it was all real and pronouncements were made that could not be unmade...

Her arms came about her middle, and she shook lightly. Lucian reached for her, but Athan was quicker, and he retreated with no vocal objection. It was Athan’s place, so long as Orma wanted him to be there.

“I don’t know what I want,” Orma confessed, her eyes meeting Athan’s. Lucian deserved better—her thanks and her appreciation that he’d found her. That he’d weathered her parents’ initial reactions.

She might not know what was best, but she knew she could not stay in the cocoon of Athan’s home forever. She needed her things, at the very least. Needed her medicines.

And her parents deserved better than a daughter that disappeared the moment she had become brave enough to seek out her mate.

She rubbed at her nose, then her chest where the bond thrummed its own displeasure. Athan wasn’t supposed to offer any sort of separation. He was supposed to insist she remain exactly where she was. This was home now, and the rest didn’t matter.

Except that it did.

Because she was still Orma, and she still loved her parents.

“Are they very angry?” she asked Lucian, wanting to prepare herself.

“They knew he wouldn’t be what they wanted for you,” Lucian reminded her, blunt as usual. Presumptuous of him, to assume she’d have discussed that with Athan already.

Accurate, though.

“I think they came to terms with it a long time ago.” He rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a sheepish glance. “I wouldn’t expect a supper invitation for a long while. You’ll be on the outs.”

She sniffed, and Athan reached out and pulled her hand away from her chest where she’d rubbed her skin pink. “I’d be in good company, though,” she murmured, presenting a tremulous smile to her cousin.

He sniffed, looking a little too much like his father as he did it. Not that she would ever tell him—she might be many things, but she wasn’t cruel. “The best and the worst, if we put it to a family vote.”

The day was full of sunshine and warmth. It should have been a comfort, even if all she felt was dread in the pit of her stomach. She needed to be grown. To make the decisions that would dictate the rest of her life, and all she wanted to do was hide. Put it off a while longer. Make friends with the Brum and pretend that was the most important thing she would ever do.

Lucian leaned closer, which offered no privacy, given Athan’s place beside her. “Have you any clothes to wear? You didn’t rip them all to shreds, did you?”

It was the sort of teasing that would earn him a glare and a sharp word from her mother, and it made her face heat as she tried to muster even a glimmer of her mother’s outrage. “They are perfectly fine,” she stated primly. Not that it was his business. Because it wasn’t.

They could have ripped their clothes from one another in a fit of passion if they wanted to—they were mates, after all.

But she couldn’t meet his eye, and she could feel Athan looking at her, and it made her flustered all over. He’d been sweet to her. Kind. Promised her the bed was a sickbed for as long as she deemed it so.

But she wouldn’t be expected to say that, would she? That was private. Between mates.

“Good. Then I won’t offer to pick you up anything before you go home.”

He would have. Without complaint.

But better to tease her, to even anger her, than to allow her to sniffle and cry against the wall of a house that wasn’t hers, but was supposed to be.

She opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already taking a few steps back. Looking at the house. The building beside it.

How it stood separate and apart.

“You’ll keep anyone contagious away from her, yes?”

Orma paled, creeping out so she could look at the property again. Was that why it was positioned so? To keep sickness away from shared walls and possible contamination.

But... this house shared a wall. And she could not afford to contract an illness—not if she wanted to live long enough to...

Well.

To do anything at all.

Suddenly, it was not so daunting to return home. To make it an escape rather than the confrontation she’d feared moments before.

Maybe the Brum could stay here. And Athan could work here. And maybe he wouldn’t mind coming to visit her in the tower after all, after he’d washed himself.

Thoroughly.

Perhaps more than once.

Wasting sickness could kill a grown man in less than a sennight. How long would it take for her?

“I would never put Orma at such risk,” Athan promised, first to Lucian, then turning to her. He’d be able to feel her anxiety, feel the itch in her skin that told her to go home, to wash, to protect herself from threats she couldn’t see, couldn’t detect. “Next door is the infirmary. That is true. But I had not intended to offer Orma a tour unless she requested it. And only then after the cleaners had seen to it, and I was certain the worst it had seen was a birth, not the plague.”

He tried to force some levity into his tone, but his eyes were serious.

He would protect her. Always. She needed to trust him, if only in this.

She wanted to. Orma wanted this aching, panicky feeling to retreat from her limbs and heart. “Her safety is paramount,” Athan continued, reaching out and rubbing his forefinger against her wrist. Checking her pulse or offering comfort? She couldn’t be sure, and it troubled her.

“Well, good.” Lucian nodded, seemingly appeased. She wanted to be. Desperately. But it was more complication she hadn’t considered, and it bothered her deeply.

What if he took sick going about his duty? She could not nurse him. The Brum certainly couldn’t. So what then?

“Will you come to supper soon?” Lucian asked, addressing his query to Orma. “Firen is ready to burst. It was everything I could do not to have her follow me.”

Orma nodded, because she didn’t know what else to do. There were too many uncertainties, and it was possible Firen and Lucian would be the only family she had left after today.

She looked after him, and it appeared he wanted to say more. But one glance toward Athan and he shook his head. “Don’t look so dour, Orma. This might be a good thing.”

She did not bother to asking him to clarify what he meant. It wasn’t about suppers or visiting her parents.

He wanted to believe Athan would be good for her.

Orma wanted that, too.

She watched him go, feeling a catch in her throat. It wasn’t forever. Firen wasn’t the type to say no if Orma showed up even tonight, with an empty stomach and a new mate and the desire for good food and company.

But it felt different.

Like she’d been left to a new life, one that felt strange and unnatural—not at all like she’d always hoped it might. As if pieces were trying to fit together, but she was going to have to hurt in the process of sorting it all out.

Athan brushed his fingers against her upper arm. “Why do you look so sad?” he asked, his voice low. Careful. “I only started arguing when he did. Should I not have done even that? He wanted to see you, and I wasn’t certain if you would be... ready.”

He picked at the fabric of her sleeve, and she waited for the earlier mortification to return. But it didn’t. Her feelings settling into a deep sort of melancholy that usually took at least a day to pass entirely.

Athan gave a hum, and that was the only warning she received before he leaned forward and scooped her into his arms, shutting the door with his foot. Even that was not enough to set her heart racing, to distract her, and she waited for him to put her back in her chair and insist she finish her breakfast.

Like a fledgling.

But he bypassed the table, and the Brum that watched them both warily as Athan opened the back door. But he did not insist Brum go outside, and instead took her out into the morning air.

To a bench carved into the side of the house itself. To the garden that was overgrown in places.

He sat beside her, not staring at her, not chattering away, just... sitting.

And if he was waiting for her answer, it was with a calm sort of patience that did not make her feel rushed.

The creek that twined through the garden made a gentle trickling sound. Soothing. There were insects that flittered about the greenery, a larger hum coming from a box in the far corner. There was yet another building, too small to act as a home, but it must serve a purpose. Isn’t that what Mama often said? Other people lacked the funds for something just to be pretty for the sake of it. It had to function in some way to make it worth the purchase.

Which then led to commentary about how fortunate they were, and she needn’t fret, because she would be provided for the whole of her life.

Would those promises still stand?

“I do not sit out here often enough,” Athan said at last. “Mostly because then I see all the work that needs doing, and I feel guilty I am not getting to it.”

Orma shifted in her seat. She lacked the experience to know what the plants needed. So to her it was a mass of green and deep blues, so dark they were almost black. Those were beneath a large tree that sprawled heavy limbs over the back half of the garden. Athan could not have planted it. Even she knew a tree of such a size would need generations to grow to such a span. There were bright mosses across half its trunk in shocking yellows and deep reds.

Was that on purpose? Or was that one of the things he should be tending to?

“You don’t have to stay,” Orma offered. He had better things to do than wait on her. Wait for her to sort herself out and be a proper person again. “I’m sure you had responsibilities today.” She nodded toward the building beside them, the one he called the infirmary. “People that need you.”

He said nothing for a moment. Did nothing. Which was fine. Would be just as fine as when he got up and left, leaving her to watch the leaves rustle in the breeze, watch the water trip over rocks and fallen debris as it made its way to... wherever creeks ended.

“I find it curious,” Athan answered. “That you think any of that would be more important than getting to know you.”

She should find it flattering, but she could manage only a miserable look in his direction. “You had a life, Athan. Before me. With important work. And just because I decided to come...” she wanted to say spy but didn’t. “There’s not much you can do for me, truly. So I should tend to my things as best as I’m able, and you tend to yours.”

He didn’t hum. Didn’t offer any sort of agreement. Just sank back more fully, his wing brushing against her arm as he did so. It should tickle. Should make her feeling...anything at all. “Is now when you would take an elixir?”

She blinked, considering her answer.

“Are you offering one?”

He stretched his legs out, his hands twining at the fingers as they settled against his middle. “Perhaps. If I understand what they are for. If I understand your mood.”

He gave the bond a little pull, as if testing to see if her sudden malaise affected even that. She didn’t need to be tugged and prodded about. She just needed time and a long sleep and it would pass on its own.

She told him that. She wasn’t angry, wasn’t irritated that she had to do so. Orma wasn’t much of anything at all.

He tapped his pointer finger against his other hand, his mouth pulling downward slightly as he considered.

If he suggested going to the infirmary to check her over, she would leave. Or... she hoped she’d have enough gumption to actually do it. “You asked what I longed for most with my mate.” Which was not at all what she thought he might say, and it was enough for her to turn her head away from watching the creek so she might better judge his expression.

“I think I should like to show you now.”

She wasn’t prepared for that either, and she opened her mouth to give her objections. It would be something intimate, she was certain. Something that would involve touches and probably kisses, and it irritated her that he would think to frighten away her melancholy with such tricks.

The bond would make her willing enough. Which was terrifying and irksome all at once.

She wanted to remind him of his previous declarations. About sickbeds and wanting and she had not altered her opinion about her readiness in the few hours it had been since they’d last discussed it.

But he was picking her up. His eyes bright and certain of his course.

And she was limp and tired in his arms, and she really had eaten little. Nor in the days beforehand, either—too preoccupied with Lucian’s suggestion to manage sleep or food.

But there was another part that... wondered.

That stilled her tongue and let him take her where he meant to go.

To show her his true nature. To know if he was the good, kindly sort of man she thought him to be, or if his patience was as limited as she feared.

Back to his room, and there was a knot of dread in her belly.

It worsened when he set her down on the mussed bedding.

When he climbed in as well.

When he lay on his side and pulled her into him, for her curves to match his as his arm went about her middle, her body forgetting what it was to relax, to be pliant and soft when he wanted her to be.

But then his voice was at her ear. Soft and gentle. He did not delve into her clothing, had not even kissed her yet.

“I thought of this for longer than I care to admit. Just this. When we would lie together in our bed, and we could tell each other anything at all. And my mate would trust me with her worries, and I would do all I could to ease them.”

Something bent inside of her. Wobbled.

Broke.

And suddenly she was soft against him, huddling and revelling in the way his arm tightened about her. Which should have felt silly and wrong because he was near to a stranger, but the bond flared and warmed and whispered just how right it was.

How it should always have been.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t mock. Just nuzzled against the back of her neck and it had no business feeling as good as it did. “What got you so tangled up and sad?” he asked again.

And it was easier, here. Even though it was daylight outside. Even though nothing had changed, she found her tongue loosening and the malaise yielding into a deep-felt sorrow. “I have to go home,” she answered him. “And I don’t know what that means. What will come of it.”

He did not answer her right away. Not with false promises and soothing placations. But when he spoke, he kept his voice carefully measured while his thumb worked against her. Not rubbing, just... circling. Her breasts were small, and she wasn’t even certain he realised he was touching the underside of one of them.

She should say something.

Didn’t.

“We could stay here,” he reminded her. “And you can worry yourself sick over it. Or we could wash and dress and go speak with them. Make a plan for what comes next, with all the information we need to make it the best outcome possible.”

The choice was obvious, but she was a coward.

And it took far more effort than it should to answer him, voice small. “I’m frightened.”

It wasn’t who she wanted to be. Bold and fierce and ready to conquer anything. But it was who she was, and it seemed ridiculous to pretend otherwise.

“I know,” Athan soothed, holding her close, and yes, pressing a kiss to the top of her tangle of hair. “But I am not. If you can make introductions with Brum, I can face your parents.”

Which wasn’t a proper comparison at all, but she accepted it as it was meant. He appreciated her effort and was willing to make the same.

She wanted to give her complaints. All the reasons they shouldn’t and she wasn’t up to it, and he should go to work or do... something. Just leave her there.

But she wouldn’t enjoy it. The knot of anxiety would simply tighten, would leave her shaky and starved, without the ability to sleep away the worst of it.

“What do you say?” Athan urged, this time placing a kiss on her shoulder. Which really was presumptuous of him, because that was for mates and they...

They were mates.

The subtle glow of their threads was knitted so tightly together she had to squint to make out the patterns.

They were tethered. Entwined.

And maybe she needed him to be better. To feel better. The aches she felt were physical rather than emotional. He listened.

He cared.

Not as her healer, but as the mate he was.

She swallowed thickly, feeling...

She did not entirely know.

But she did not want to waste away in this bed, nice as it was to lie with him. Not with the rest hanging over her. Tugging at her. Robbing her of her the peace she should find in his arms.

“We should go,” she murmured, testing her resolve. “We should,” she repeated, buoyed a little further because it settled rightly.

Most especially when his hold tightened as he hugged her to him. “Excellent.”

And he was proud of her, which shouldn’t have mattered, which should have influenced nothing at all.

But it did.

And she smiled.

◆◆◆

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.

◆◆◆

“You don’t have the room,” Orma reminded him.

She wondered how long it might be before he remembered, because it was at least the fourth time she had said it.

Never mind his house, her trunk could only hold so many things. There were dresses and gowns and a never-ending stream of nightclothes, because for a long while that was the most she’d ever worn. Then there were the little pictures, some ornate and finely crafted, commissioned pieces her father had done for her to commemorate her name-days. Other, more personal items that her mother had asked for Lucian’s mother to paint—the two of them, with Mama’s arm about her, glued to a hard board and an elaborate metal frame surrounding it which would certainly not fit in with everything else.

“You cannot leave such a thing,” Athan insisted. He tucked it under his arm and glanced toward the window. “I’ll fly it home right now if it comes to it.”

She looked about the room at all that he wanted to take. It was important; he said. Memories.

As if they all held ones she wanted to bring with her to her new life.

But... it was possible she would want to have her portrait with her mother in her new home. So she could look at it and think fondly and perhaps fly back when she was able and share tea and talk for an afternoon.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Orma allowed, and was rewarded with Athan’s answering smile.

“None at all,” he insisted. “And stop saying my home is too small. You haven’t even seen all the rooms yet.”

She rolled her shoulder just a little. She’d seen his room, and that’s where she would be, wouldn’t it? Or perhaps it would be more appropriate for her things to be situated elsewhere.

She glanced over at the spot he’d vacated so he might begin his work.

No. Not another room.

Which meant not taking all the things, lest he be pushed out of his own bedchamber.

Gifts her father had brought her were neatly arranged on shelves. Trinkets of animals of various sizes, some whittled from woods from across the sea, others made of metal. Others were made with stones nestled into the wings of a great creature said to live on the highest mountains, and she had only to brush against it with a fingertip and it would twirl upon its stand, the light of the suns sending dancing lights about her room.

Anything for her smile, her father would say, giving her a pat before he left again.

“Your room, then. And presumably you’d like for us both to fit in it.”

Athan paused, turning to look at her. “I would,” he answered slowly, searching her eyes for... something. “Orma,” he began when it seemed he did not find what he was looking for. “I hope for it to be your home.”

Her brow furrowed. “So you’ve said.”

He shook his head, putting down the picture currently of greatest importance, and gestured about her room. “This is your parents’ home, yes?”

Orma sighed, not at all following. “Of course.” It was hers, too. Perhaps she had become a little more entrenched than most because of circumstances, but home was home.

It was... difficult to imagine that the dwelling with Athan and the Brum would someday feel as familiar as the tower she’d known for the whole of her life.

“And you have had this room in it,” Athan continued, watching her closely. “Lovely as it is.”

Orma rubbed at the bond absently. “I fail to see your point.”

Athan gave her a look of disbelief, because he apparently thought he was being perfectly clear as he led her down the path of his thinking. “All of your things do not have to be relegated to a single room. Not when there is an entire house to hold it.”

Orma blinked, the thought settling strangely.

An entire house. For her?

No, for them .

Because she would take on the role her mother held. As a healer’s mate rather than a judicator, but... still.

Her hand stilled on her chest as she considered, and Athan continued to watch her. “Does this please you?” he asked, because she’d been quiet a long while, and he was waiting for her. To react, or to say... anything at all.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she admitted. Which made her feel silly. Like it was more than obvious, and yet she could not see outside of the way she’d always lived.

What else wasn’t she considering? That he knew, and hadn’t thought to say, because she should know it already.

He took a deliberate breath and waited for her to imitate the motion. Of course he would, because he could feel the turn of her thoughts, the anxiety that spread when she wasn’t being careful and keeping it solely to herself.

Orma tamped it down, both in the bond and in her own self. She’d learn. She’d adapt. No need to fuss and worry.

Which never worked. Yet even so, she pretended she could simply will it all away.

She tucked her legs up under her, but that made the scar tissue in her knee pull awkwardly, so she had to extend it back out again. She should get up. Help.

She rubbed a little harder at the bond.

“Orma...” Athan drew out her name, adding a lilt about the middle that brought her attention back to him. “What are you fretting about?”

She stilled her hand. “What else don’t I know?” she admitted, her voice small. “There won’t be any other people to help. It’ll just be... us. And I don’t think you can appreciate just yet how little I know how to do anything.”

Athan did not wave away her concerns, but he did go back to her wardrobe and pulled out a few more garments. They were the most formal, for when the family suppers were extended to include the other most elite in their district. All frothy fabrics that concealed as much of her skin as possible. He hadn’t even found the headdresses tucked away in their cushioned boxes.

If he tried to bring those too, she really was going to have to intervene.

“Do you want to learn?” Athan asked, not looking at her. Just considering the garment in his hand and perhaps trying to decide on its purpose. “Try new things? Or would you prefer to not?”

There was a flare of irritation that he did not deserve but came anyway. “It was hardly my choice,” Orma reminded him, and she did her best to keep the tinge of bitterness out of her tone.

Athan glanced at her, but only briefly. “Granted,” he allowed. “But you have one now. And of course there would be limitations, and I’ll understand those better when we go through your records, but that isn’t my question.”

He went back to the wardrobe and set the garment back, and she released a relieved breath. He picked up another. She’d outgrown it a long while back, but it had been a particularly wonderful name-day. The bond had been quiet—she hadn’t known why, but it hadn’t mattered. They all went out to the courtyard and at all her favourite meals, and she could even play with her siblings. Chase, mostly. Flitting about the trees in full bloom, her wings working far better than the leg still covered in bandages.

A glorious day.

So when Mama had brought the helpers to remove all the clothes she couldn’t wear any longer, she’d timidly asked to keep that one. Just for a little while.

Mama had given her a long look before she tucked it back. “Not for wearing,” she reminded her, which was fine. She didn’t need to. She just wanted to look and remember.

“I’d like that one, please,” Orma urged, knowing he had more to say and she would pay attention, truly. But the antsy feeling was back as he held it, and she readied herself for him to question her.

But he didn’t. Just tucked it with a little more care into her trunk.

“If we find there are tasks you can do, will you want to learn to do them?” Athan asked, this time allowing his glance to linger a little longer on her. “Or should I try to work out engaging helpers as I do for the infirmary?”

It wasn’t a threat. His posture was unassuming as he delved back into her wardrobe, and yet she still felt the little pinpricks of unease. There was a right answer, surely. She should be bold like Firen. Tackle any new tasks with enthusiasm and rigour.

But was she allowed to admit she had no great affinity for kitchen duties? And the thought of wringing out laundry exhausted her?

Her hands curled about her skirts, and she tried not to become defensive. It was a necessary question, and he deserved an answer. “Can I have an example?”

He pulled out her thickest cloak and eyed it speculatively. She would not need it for at least a season, and even then she tended not to venture out when the weather was coldest. “All right,” Athan mused, his eyes crinkling about the edges as he considered. “A birthing mother is having complications and I cannot leave.” There it was. He was going to ask her to learn healing with him, and she was going to have to refuse.

Adamantly.

She braced herself, but did not interrupt, because that would be rude.

“Midday will have passed and while I had intended to be back so I could ensure you have food to eat, but I cannot get to you. Not without risking mother and baby. Will you be able to fend for yourself, or should I engage a minder to check in with you?”

She hated this. It was one thing when she was the invalid in her parents’ home. It was quite another when her mate had to ask if she needed a keeper to come and save her from starving herself because she did not know how to cook. Or if she could even navigate his home on her worst days.

Athan looked at her, his expression gentle. “There is no wrong answer,” he promised her. “I just need you taken care of, either by you, me, or someone else, when I cannot be there.”

“Can,” she started, her throat tightening so much she had to pause and swallow before she could continue. “Can I wait to answer you until...” she hated the very thought of it so much it took a very great effort to even acknowledge it would happen. “I think I’d like you to see some of the notes first,” she finished, breathless and miserable. “I don’t want you to think I’m being lazy or I’m not interested in getting better.” She scrubbed at her face and then settled for rubbing two fingers against the bond in her chest. “I just...”

She hadn’t heard him move, but suddenly he was there beside the bed. Beside her. Taking her hand and squeezing it lightly. Breathing deeply. Waiting for her to follow. It should be annoying. Should feel intrusive and perhaps even a little controlling.

Why then did her muscles ease? Did her breaths come without the aching difficulty? And while her worries did not settle completely, they grew quieter. More manageable.

He didn’t resent her. Yet. And she’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.

“I will take care of you,” Athan promised. No, it was deeper than that. Stronger. A vow. Solemn and sincere. “I will not punish you for hurting.”

Her lip wobbled despite her best efforts to remain calm.

“Would you mind if I went to talk to your father about the bed? Can you trust me not to conspire without you?”

No.

His hand came to curl about her cheek, his thumb smoothing against overheated skin.

“Yes.”

Which meant a smile was her reward, and her stomach tightened and for one tremulous moment, she thought he was going to lean down and kiss her before he left.

But he didn’t, and maybe she liked when he was a wretch and took a little more than was proper without asking.

She refused to consider what that said about her. Only let herself feel a moment’s disappointment before she shoved it back.

She would not nap while he was gone. Would not weep, either. She’d get up and finish the rest of the wardrobe, most especially removing the thick cloak from the top of the trunk because she really did not need it yet.

Her siblings all had rooms still situated with old things from when they lived here. They’d grown sparse over time, as little things were collected or purged, depending on their need.

She could have that, too. A place to come back to. Just in case. Did that count as another mark against her? Another reason she was a poor, unfaithful sort of mate.

Or maybe it meant she had trouble letting go. Of moving on.

And maybe that was all right.

She pulled a pillow into her side and tucked it tight. She’d get up in a minute. Only needed to regroup. To remember. To feel the bits of sorrow and excitement in equal measure, swirling about her head and heart until she was nearly dizzy with it.

But she could smile, which was new. Because she might have to sacrifice those wretched suppers with family that shared blood but not love. But she would have her parents. Would have her mate.

Even if he did come with the Brum.

Who she had decided to like. Because anything else would mean a begrudging sort of acceptance, and that was one area she could try to control.

And if she fell asleep before she’d done anything at all...

Maybe that was all right, too.

◆◆◆

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.