Chapter Fifty-Eight
CHAPTER
Nesta had stood here once before. A year before, actually.
A different house, in a different part of this city, but she had stood outside while the others celebrated the Winter Solstice within, and felt like a ghost looking in through a window.
Ice crusted the Sidra behind the house, the lawn sloping down to it winter white. But evergreen garlands and wreaths decorated the river house—the epitome of merry warmth.
“Stop scowling,” Cassian said. “It’s a party, not a funeral.”
She glared, but he opened the front door to a riot of music and laughter.
She hadn’t slept with him after the ball, or since. He’d looked inclined when they’d returned to the House of Wind, but she’d simply said she was tired and had gone to her own room.
Because as soon as that music had faded and the dance had stopped, she’d realized how stupidly she’d been smiling at him, how low those walls in her mind had dropped.
Eris had danced with her twice more after Azriel, and he’d had such intent in his eyes she knew she’d woven her spell around him well.
He’d bid for her, she’d learned with no small amount of smugness.
Nesta left it to Rhysand and Feyre to decide how to wield that offer.
Instead, she’d focused on training. Gave herself over to it. The sessions had been halted through the holiday, but she’d gone up to the ring the next morning to practice anyway, punching the wood beam vigorously to work out her roaring thoughts.
Now, she followed Cassian into the river house, where he immediately aimed for the family room, shucking off his snow-crusted cloak and dropping it onto a bench in the grand foyer on the way.
Nesta frowned at the dripping snow on the brocaded material and picked it up, eager for anything to do with herself to avoid going into that room.
She unfastened her own cloak, scanning the hall for a coat closet or rack, and found the former tucked under the stair archway.
She hung both garments there, and heaved a long breath as she shut the door.
“You came,” Elain said behind her, and Nesta started, not having heard her sister approach.
She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends.
Gone was the ill-suited black dress from the ball, replaced by a gown of amethyst velvet, her hair half-up and curling down to her waist. She glowed with good health. Except …
Her brown eyes were wary. Usually, that look was reserved for Lucien. The male was definitely in the family room, since Nesta knew Feyre and Rhys had invited him, but for that look to be directed at her …
They hadn’t spoken of their argument in the few minutes they’d had together before the ball’s procession, and then she’d avoided Elain entirely until the event was over. She didn’t know what she’d say. How to make it right.
Nesta cleared her throat. “Cassian said it might be … good if I came.”
Elain’s eyes flickered. “Did Feyre pay you, like last year?”
“No.” Shame washed through her.
Elain sighed, glancing over Nesta’s shoulder to the open doorway across the entry. The party within, only for their small inner circle. “Please don’t upset Feyre. It’s her birthday, first of all. And in her state—”
“Oh, fuck you,” Nesta snapped, and then choked.
Elain blinked. Nesta blinked back, horror lurching through her.
And then Elain burst out laughing.
Howling, half-sobbing laughs that sent her bending over at the waist, gasping for breath. Nesta just stared, torn between questions and wanting to throw herself into the icy Sidra. “I— I’m so sorry—”
Elain held up a hand, wiping her eyes with the other. “You’ve never said such a thing to me!” She laughed again. “I think that’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
Nesta shook her head slowly, not understanding. Elain just linked her arm through Nesta’s and led her toward the family room, where Azriel stood in the doorway, monitoring them. As if he’d heard Elain’s sharp laugh and wondered what had caused it.
“I was just checking on dessert,” Elain explained as they approached the doorway and Azriel.
Nesta met the shadowsinger’s stare and he gave her a nod.
Then his gaze shifted to Elain, and though it was utterly neutral, something charged went through it.
Between them. Elain’s breath caught slightly, and she gave him a shallow nod of greeting before brushing past, leading Nesta into the room.
Mor lounged on a green velvet couch before the fireplace; Amren sat in Varian’s lap on the matching couch opposite her, Feyre beside them, a hand on her belly.
Rhys sprawled in an armchair, and Cassian occupied a second armchair with Lucien leaning against it, arguing with them about something that seemed related to a sporting event.
Nesta had tried to convince Emerie and Gwyn to join her, but both had refused.
Emerie had said she was obligated to visit her horrible family, and Gwyn merely said she wasn’t ready to leave the library to go farther than the training ring.
So here Nesta was, alone with the same group she’d dealt with last year.
When they’d watched her sit sullen as a child in the back of the town house living room, then storm out.
Feyre smiled at her, glowing with health and life. But Nesta’s gaze snagged on Amren.
The female did not so much as look her way.
Varian did, and he threw her a wary glance that said enough: No, Amren wouldn’t speak to her.
Her chest tightened. But Cassian beckoned her over. He rose from his seat, offering it to her, even though there were a dozen more in the room. “Sit,” he said. “Do you want some peppermint tea?”
She knew they all watched her, hated that they did, and understood why, too. But she nodded at Cassian and sat, saying to Feyre, “Happy birthday.”
Feyre smiled again. “Thank you.”
And that was that. Nesta ignored the collective sense of relief that filled the room and pivoted, finding herself peering up at Lucien, who greeted her with a wary dip of his chin.
Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get.
Azriel remained in the doorway. “How’s the Spring Court?
” Nesta asked. The fire crackled merrily to her right, and she let the sound ripple through and past her.
Acknowledged the crack and what it did to her, and released it.
Even as she concentrated on the male she’d addressed.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “How you’d expect.”
Tension rippled through the room, confirmation that Tamlin had heard the news of Feyre’s pregnancy. From Lucien’s grim face, she knew he hadn’t reacted well. Nesta said, “And Jurian and Vassa?”
“At each other’s throats, as they like to be,” he said, a tad sharply. She wondered what that was about—and for the life of her couldn’t read it. Lucien asked, sipping his tea, “How’s the training?”
She gave him a smile—a true one. “Good. We’re learning how to disembowel a male.”
Lucien choked on his drink, nearly spewing it onto her head. Cassian appeared, a cup of tea steaming in his hands, and passed it to her before he declared proudly to Lucien, “As you’d expect, Nes excels at it.”
Mor lifted her glass in a mockery of a toast. “My favorite part of training.”
Nesta frowned. “We haven’t cut the ribbon yet, though.”
Mor’s brows bunched. “So you really are learning Valkyrie techniques.”
Nesta nodded. They’d been so busy during their dancing lessons that the details of training hadn’t come up.
Mor grinned. “You mind if I start joining you once this business with Vallahan is over? I never got to train with the Valkyries before the first War, and after it, they were all gone.”
“I think the priestesses would like to see you,” Nesta said, and glanced to Cassian to make sure he didn’t mind. He waved a hand.
Mor’s grin turned fiendish. “Good. I also want to make sure Cassian actually wears his present to practice.”
“Gods spare me,” Cassian groaned, and Nesta’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t bought them anything—hadn’t bought him anything. She’d said as much before he’d flown her down here, and he hadn’t cared, but … she cared.
She cradled her tea, and the conversation wended around her. But she managed to tuck that dread away, at least for now. Managed to participate.
Azriel lingered near the door, quiet enough that when Feyre and Mor began talking about some of her paintings, Nesta went over to him.
“Why don’t you sit?” She leaned against the doorway beside the shadowsinger.
“My shadows don’t like the flames so much.” A pretty lie. She’d seen Azriel before the fire plenty. But she looked at who sat close to it and knew the answer.
“Why did you come if it torments you so much?”
“Because Rhys wants me here. It’d hurt him if I didn’t come.”
“Well, I think holidays are stupid.”
“I don’t.”
She arched a brow. He explained, “They pull people together. And bring them joy. They are a time to pause and reflect and gather, and those are never bad things.” Shadows darkened his eyes, full of enough pain that she couldn’t stop herself from touching his shoulder.
Letting him see that she understood why he stood in the doorway, why he wouldn’t go near the fire.
His secret to tell, never hers.
Azriel’s face remained neutral.
So Nesta gave him a small nod and walked back into the fray, taking a seat on the rolled arm of the nearest couch.
An hour passed before Mor began grousing about opening presents. Rhys snapped his fingers and a heap of them appeared.
Cassian braced himself for whatever awful gift Mor had gotten him—and glanced to Nesta. He’d kept her present in his pocket, saving it to give to her in private later. He’d done the same last year, and the damn thing had ended up at the bottom of the Sidra. Probably swept out to sea.