Chapter 11
They ate a light supper. None of them wished to go through the Rite of First Taste or the Rite of First Union logy from full bellies. Casting the occasional nervous glance at Zul, Ursula drank an extra glass of wine, thinking she’d need to be very relaxed to accommodate him.
They retreated to the central bedchamber in what Ursula thought of as the marital suite.
From this central chamber with its enormous bed radiated an equally spacious bathing room and four more suites, one en suite bedchamber for each of them.
After completing the Right of First Union which would finish the process of joining their souls, Zul would move from his guest quarters to occupy the space formerly occupied by Crow.
She wondered if the castrati had cleaned it and cleared it of Crow’s presence and felt guilty for not ensuring that task was already taken care of.
The chamber is prepared, Gil murmured reassurance in her mind as they walked toward the master suite. Young Crow had been dismissed to Suvesh’s care in the nursery.
Ursula’s heart clenched. It had been years since Crow’s death, yet she still missed him terribly. A piece of her soul had died with him.
Zul will fill your heart and complete your soul, Gil promised. He reached out to stroke her hair.
Zul saw the comforting gesture and paused. The others stopped, too. Zul dared touch her shoulder with his fingertip, careful not to snag the fabric of her dress on his claw, and asked, “Are you reluctant?”
Perhaps it was the wine, but Ursula found her tongue loosen. She took a deep breath and said, “I do not fear you will harm me, Zul. But I miss Crow and do not wish to forget him. You cannot replace him.”
Zul did not visibly flinch, but she felt the twinge of pain through their mental connection. “I know I cannot replace him.”
After a pause, he turned away.
Appalled that she’d hurt him, Ursula reached out and touched his arm. He went still.
“I’m sorry, Zul. I mean no disrespect. It’s just that… that… he…”
“You loved him and you do not love me,” he stated plainly. He swallowed his disappointment. “We need not complete the ritual tonight.”
“Ursula, you did not love us when we first claimed you,” Bran reminded her, his reproof gentle. “Yet you did come to love us, did you not?”
She hung her head. “Yes.”
“Then give Zul the chance to earn your love as we earned yours,” he said, lifting her chin with his fingertip. “I have seen into his soul and he already bears you great affection.”
“You will find him most devoted,” Gil added.
Zul growled. “Stop. Cease attempting to persuade her to do what she is not ready to accept. If Ursula is ever ready to accept me as her Bridge, then I will be most honored. But I will not stand for coercion. I do not want a mate who does not want me.”
Ursula winced. Waves of raw pain radiated through the bond. Her throat raw with unshed tears, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Breaking beneath the weight of Zul’s pain and Bran and Gil’s disappointment, she fled.
“Aren’t you going to go after her?” Zul rasped as she disappeared around a corner.
“No, I think you should,” Bran said. Gil nodded in agreement.
“She does not want me.”
Gil sighed. “She does want you, but she feels conflicted.”
“She feels as though she betrays Crow and possibly us by accepting you as the Third in our triad,” Bran explained.
“After you’ve known her for a good while, you’ll realize that our mate is complicated. She is not as naturally submissive as an Ilmadrin female. She will need some time to consider this, but not so much time that she will convince herself accepting a new Bridge is betrayal.”
“I do not wish to cause her distress.”
“Your care for her speaks to your favor,” Bran assured him. He patted Zul’s shoulder. “Go to her. She’s most likely retreated to the courtyard or to her studio.”
“She won’t harm you,” Gil said, eyes gleaming with encouragement.
Zul would have objected. Ursula’s reluctance to accept him as her Bridge made him feel as though she’d ripped out both his hearts with her dainty hands.
Shoulders tense, he headed down the corridor and followed her scent to her studio, a room he had never entered because it was her space, private to her and solely for her use. It was a place he did not feel welcome.
He heard a slam when he entered the studio, easing the door open and sidling through.
His horn nearly knocked the door when he turned his head to confront the violent noise only to see her peel the glob of pale pink clay off a flat stone surface, smash it between her hands, and throw it against the stone again.
He waited a long moment, watching her as she slammed the clay against the countertop while tears trickled down her cheeks.
Zul knew nothing of pottery, but he thought she had abused the clay enough. Approaching her on silent feet, he settled his hand over both of hers. “Surely, you have punished it enough?”
She raised eyes shimmering with tears to meet his gaze.
Her shoulders shook and she bowed over the countertop with a harsh sob.
Zul lifted her hands from the clay and turned her toward him.
Feeling both daring and awkward, he drew her against him and wrapped his arms around her as he had seen her do with her son.
Ursula yielded to his control, accepted his comfort, and wept.
Sniffling, she finally said, “I’m sorry, Zul. I’m so sorry.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, again as he’d witnessed her do with Crow and as Gil and Bran often did to her.
Through their bond, he felt the honesty of her words and the candid insight of Bran and Gil’s words.
Their little hybrid mate was indeed a complicated being.
Unaccustomed to gentleness, Zul felt forgiveness swell within him.
He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he knew it was necessary.
“We do not have to complete the ritual now,” he assured her. “I will wait until you are ready; and” —he swallowed a lump of painful disappointment— “if you are never ready, then I will respect that.”
Ursula’s sobs resumed.
“I will not harm you,” he whispered, each word feeling like broken glass inside his throat.
His thoughts raced, conjuring and rejecting various options to persuade her to complete the ritual of her own free will.
That was the sticking point: he wanted her to freely choose him without guilt, without regret, without sorrow.
He knew he would neither force her nor manipulate her compliance.
While any of the Triad could, they wouldn’t. Not this time.
As she quieted, the sobs dwindling into watery sniffles, Zul looked around the studio.
He saw shelves stocked with hefty blocks of pink clay, the finest Uribern had to offer.
He saw jars of pigments waiting to be mixed into glazes.
A potter’s wheel was placed beneath a window which would capture the morning sunlight.
Another wheel, the purpose of which he was not sure, stood nearby.
Three more tables, one with what he guessed was a press, were placed around the room.
Each had a cabinet he was sure was stocked with the implements necessary to achieve various decorative effects.
He noted the four fat-bellied kilns near which were more shelves bearing various vessels and figurines, some drying and others awaiting their turn to be fired in the kiln.
In the center of the room was an island with a large sink.
Everything was tidy. The castrati maintained a high standard of cleanliness within the Fangrys household.
Feeling the need to make a connection with her that did not involve sinking his cock into her body and enhancing her feelings of betrayal, Zul hit upon an idea. “Will you show me? Teach me?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, pulling a handkerchief from an unseen pocket in her dress. Particularly after Crow’s birth, she’d adopted the habit of always carrying a handkerchief. They came in handy. Ursula blew her nose, feeling further embarrassed by the loud noise.
Zul gestured. “Show me what you do.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Do you truly want to know, or are you just trying to be nice?”
“I want to know. This is important to you; therefore, it must also be important to me.”
Eyes watering again, she blinked away the tears and nodded.
“All right.” She turned away from him to face the countertop and picked up the lump of clay.
“This is the Urib equivalent of porcelain clay on Earth. It’s the finest clay and a bit tricky to work with.
It has a smooth, fine texture and is known for its translucence after being fired. ”
She took his hand and set the lump into his palm. His fingers automatically closed around the moist, cool, malleable substance.
“Work it in your hands a bit and learn its feel.”
Ursula gestured toward the shelves behind them as he worked the lump of clay.
“There are blocks of stoneware clay over there, too. Stoneware clay works well for mugs, pitchers, and plates for everyday use. Porcelain clay works best for fine ceramics and delicate work. Most of the wares in my shop are made with stoneware clay.”
“Why were you throwing it on the countertop?” Zul asked. He squeezed the lump of clay in his hand, folded it over, and squeezed it again.
“Do you know how magnetism works?” she asked. “Like how the ions in iron need to all be aligned in the same direction for the magnet to work?”
He nodded.
“Clay is like that. Slamming the clay aligns the particles, so they run in the same direction. It makes the clay stronger and more stable and easier to work with.”
Zul began to suspect that pottery was a good bit more complicated than he anticipated. Just like her.
“We’ll start with slab pottery first, a tall vase,” she said and walked to the table with the press on it.
Turning a wheel, she adjusted the space between the smooth steel roller and the flat surface of the table beneath it.
“The goal here is to flatten and stretch the clay into a uniform shape and thickness.”
With her direction, he patted the lump into a more or less oblong shape and fed it through the press.
She handed the somewhat flattened piece to him and adjusted the roller.
He fed the clay through again. After several runs through the press, the clay had flattened to the desired thinness and its surface was smooth and unbroken.
“Would you like to emboss the surface?” she asked.
He blinked. She opened a drawer and pulled out a length of heavy lace, a silicone sheet with a pattern stamped on it, and other items, including a rolling pin.
“Pick a pattern or two that appeal to you.”
He touched a fingertip to the lace and to a length of chain with interesting links.
“Place the lace on the clay.”
He did so and she adjusted it.
“What do you intend for the chain?”
“A border?”
She gave him a quick smile and laid the chain above one edge of the lace. “The patterns look nice together.”
Her praise warmed his heart, but not as much as the way she’d begun to relax in his presence. He felt pride in having found an effective way to connect with her and set her mind at ease.
She led him through the process of pressing the patterns into the sheet of clay, just hard enough to emboss the surface.
Unfortunately, he had to repeat the entire process of preparing the clay four times before he managed the lightness and delicacy of touch needed.
She showed him how to cut the clay into a clean strip and wrap it around a form to create an evenly proportioned cylinder.
She taught him how to score the clay and paint on a light wash of slurry to meld the edges and secure a watertight seal.
She showed him how to cut the base and gently marry it to the cylinder.
When they finished that night, a new vase had been placed on the shelf to dry beneath a clear dome which would prevent the clay from drying too quickly and, thus, cracking.
“The clay should be dry in a couple of days,” she said as they washed their hands and tools.
She draped the wet lace and the chain over a rod to dry.
The scoring tool and small paintbrush were thoroughly rinsed and set in a jar to dry.
She wiped down the countertop and table, anywhere and anything the clay had touched, to ensure its cleanliness when it would be used next.
“Then we’ll pick out glazes. I’ll show you how to mix them. ”
“Thank you,” Zul said.
She blinked at the simple gratitude in his voice. “You’re welcome. I… I enjoyed it. I enjoyed teaching you.”
At that moment, Zul realized that neither Bran nor Gil had given her the opportunity to teach them. They instructed her; she was always the student and never the master. Softly, he took her hand and said, “It was my pleasure to learn.”
“Doesn’t Urib culture forbid males from doing… er… creative things?”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile. “Not forbid. Discourage, perhaps. Warriors are bred to fight, and we excel at it.” He gestured toward the shelves. “But it’s nice to know that fighting is not all we’re good for.”
She favored him with a melancholy smile and took her hand in his. Giving it a light squeeze, she thanked him then walked away.
He did not ask her what she thanked him for. He knew.