Chapter 11 #2
“Sit down.” He crossed to the table and found a perch, taking food for himself from the trays the keepers had left. “You’re my mate. You’re permitted to eat at my table.”
She sat warily and tore a piece of bread from her loaf, chewing it with the same polite delicacy he remembered from their wedding feast. The lamplight caught the shadows under her eyes and the slight new curve of her breasts and belly beneath her dress.
They’d changed since he last looked at her for any length of time.
They ate in silence. It wasn’t comfortable between them, but it wasn’t hostile, either.
They did not yet have anything to say to one another.
Why did she speak easily to Roul and not to him?
Surely, they had more in common. He went to roost with his head still throbbing, frustrated that he had not drawn her out more.
The following evening, he came up to eat again, this time early enough that his parents hadn’t retired, much to Cléa’s delight.
Hannalinde woke in time to share the end of the meal with them, attending the table wrapped in a shawl, her pale hair loose and tangled from sleep.
His presence even earned him a smile, so he came home again the next night, and the next, until it became a habit to dine and roost in his own eyrie rather than in his office.
Every night, after his Nadir duties were complete, he hauled himself up the seven flights, ate a family meal with his parents and his mate, then roosted in the main chamber on the wide ledge built into the wall where he spent his days in stone.
He could roost in his chamber for more privacy or out on the balcony for a view of Solvantis, but he preferred the roost in the main chamber.
It was positioned with a clear line of sight to both the door and the balcony, as well as the entrances to the nesting chambers.
A guardian’s instinct, perhaps, to keep an eye on his mate.
When she left her door open, he could even watch her in her nesting chamber.
And watch her, he did. Avidly. Unable to close his eyes or turn his head, he saw her every move through the daylight hours.
The long, conscious paralysis was easier to bear when there was something worth seeing, and Hannalinde puttering around the eyrie in her bare feet with her hair undone was, he discovered, worth the seven ladders twice a night.
He was pleased to learn many things about her that he doubted anyone else knew.
For example, she hummed, often and at length.
She tucked her hair behind her ears when she embroidered, so that the long, silver-blonde hairs did not get trapped by her minuscule stitches.
For all she’d warned about her inability to love the hatchling, she often held her belly as she walked, speaking to it tenderly.
She spoke to her flowers, too, when she watered them, telling them how lovely and strong they were.
No wonder they grew at such an alarming rate, with that kind of encouragement. Anyone would.
He was less pleased to learn other things.
For example, that despite her excellent household management, the keepers would often “forget” her requests for meals, so she did not eat enough during the day.
That, he corrected immediately, with a scathing report to the Head Keeper.
He was pleased to note that the next day, a tray was delivered at midday without her having to ask.
That night when the day-dust fell away, he rose from his perch, rolling the stiffness from his neck and flexing his ragged wings. He joined Hanna at the table, where she was setting out a meal, the last of her day and the first of his.
“Good evening,” she said, filling his cup with hot tea.
He took it gratefully. “Thank you, wife.”
She filled two more cups for his parents, who were making their way out of their nesting chamber, and then one for herself. He loaded her plate with bread and meat and then did the same for his mother and father, before serving himself.
“How are you feeling?” Cléa prodded as they all perched to eat.
“Quite well. The keepers have been very attentive today.” Her gaze flicked to Rikard, and they shared a brief smile. So she suspected his intervention.
“As they will be every day from now on if they wish to work in this city,” he muttered darkly.
Cléa sniffed disapprovingly. “Don’t be so churlish with the human help. It does not become your office.”
“He only wants me to be well,” Hanna soothed.
“Sickly human wife,” a moth snickered as it careened above the table. Roul reached out and plucked it from the air, popping it into his mouth and crunching it up with apparent great enjoyment.
Rikard made a face, and his father laughed uproariously at his expression. “Don’t think yourself above it, fledgling. They are tasty once you get past the wings.”
Hanna covered her mouth, and at first Rikard thought she was feeling ill at the sight, but then her giggle erupted behind her hand.
“Shall I catch one for you, my girl?” Roul boomed.
“No, thank you.” Hanna waved him off, still giggling.
But Roul could not be deterred. “A nice fat one? How about that green one by the window? Or the stupid brown one stuck in the lamp? Rikard may not be able to stomach it, but I’ll capture any moth you’d like. Only point it out, and it’s yours.”
Rikard pretended annoyance. “I’ll find her a dozen if she wants one. Catch moths for your own mate, Father.” He stood, swiping for the lantern, as if to catch the fat, fluttering moth there. It squeaked in alarm.
Hanna’s cheeks were pink from laughing. “Really, I don’t want one.”
Cléa shook her head, chuckling indulgently at her mate and son’s antics. “Don’t let them tease you so.”
Hanna met his eyes again, sharing his amusement. The distance between them was exactly the width of the table. Not so far.