Chapter 2
Gavrel
The ceiling of the blue guest bedroom looked the same at three in the morning as it had at midnight. Same at one. Same at two.
I told myself I was tired from my long flight. The time difference between France and the East Coast. My body was still running on European hours while the manor slept around me.
Except my body wasn’t confused about time zones. My skin felt too tight, humming with a restless thrum I couldn't shake no matter how I tried to settle.
I shifted position, tucking my wings tighter against my back. The mattress was comfortable. The room was quiet. Everything about the space Feydin had prepared for me was perfect.
So why couldn’t I stop listening for sounds from down the hall?
A toilet flushed. Water ran through old pipes. Small footsteps crossed a wooden floor. Corey, probably. Then heavier ones, slower. Sammy’s voice, too muffled to make out words, but the tone came through. Patient. Warm.
I pressed my palms against my eyes.
Think about something else.
The estate management. The trees Feydin mentioned I could use for carving. Calling my gallery contact in Paris about the pieces still in storage.
Instead, I thought about Sammy’s laugh yesterday. How it had sounded when Corey showed her the “treasure” he’d found, a piece of rose quartz from the garden path. The way her whole face had transformed, her walls dropping for a moment before she caught herself.
I wanted to know what it would take to make those walls stay down.
Stop it.
This was ridiculous. I’d known her for barely a day. She was Feydin and Dazy’s employee. Part of his new life here in America, the life he’d built when we weren’t speaking. I was just trying to understand it. To understand him better.
That was all this was.
Restless, I sat up. My tail twitched across the sheets.
More footsteps. A door closing. The old manor settling around me with creaks and whispers.
I needed to do something. Work with my hands. Create something, fix something, or solve some problem that had clear edges and definable solutions.
Not lie here wondering what Sammy’s morning routine looked like. Whether she was a coffee-first or shower-first person. If she was one of those mothers who woke before dawn to have quiet time, or if Corey dragged her from sleep with his energy.
If she slept in pajamas or nothing at all.
Enough.
I threw back the covers and dressed. If I couldn’t sleep, I could at least make myself useful. Maybe explore the shed out back. Review the wood Feydin said was stored under the overhand. Start planning projects.
The manor was silent as I made my way downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky third step Feydin had warned me about. Dawn was still an hour away, the windows showing only darkness and my reflection of gray skin, dark hair standing in directions that would’ve horrified me in the past.
To think I’d scoffed at him “hibernating” here. I’d called this place a crumbling ruin when it was anything but. I felt ashamed that I’d let this come between us.
Instead, this place had brought my brother back into my life.
I was halfway to the kitchen, thinking vaguely about coffee, when I heard it.
Small feet padding down the hallway. A child’s humming, off-key.
I found Corey in the kitchen, standing on a step stool in front of the refrigerator, head tilted as he studied its contents.
“Bonjour,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He turned, his face lighting up. “You’re awake. Mom said gargoyles sleep a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Sometimes for years.”
“Only when we have no reason to wake.” I cleared my throat. “I mean I was tired from traveling. The time difference.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Mom gets like that when we drive really far. She says her brain gets tired.”
“Something like that.” I moved closer, noting his bare feet and dinosaur pajamas. “You’re up early.”
“I wake up early every day. Mom says I’m better than an alarm clock.” He peered into the fridge again. “I was going to make breakfast, but we don’t have pancake mix. And I’m not allowed to use the stove without a grown-up anyway.”
“I could make breakfast. If you’d like.”
His eyes went wide. “Really? Can you cook? Do gargoyles eat regular food or do you eat, like, rocks?” He gasped. “Wait, is that rude? Mom says I shouldn’t ask people about their dietary restrictions, but you’re made of stone sometimes so maybe—”
“Regular food,” I said, biting back a smile. “And yes, I can cook. My maman insisted both her sons learn.”
“What’s a maman?”
“Maman means mother, in French.”
“Oh. That’s sick.”
I frowned at the term.
He climbed down from the step stool. “I never met my dad, so I don’t know if he could cook. Mom’s really good at it though. She’s a chef. Well, she’s the boss of the café here, but before that, she was a chef at a restaurant in our old town.”
He said it so matter-of-factly. Never met my dad. Like it was a simple piece of information, not a wound.
I turned to the refrigerator to give myself something to do with my hands. “What does your mother usually make for breakfast?”
“Eggs and toast mostly. Sometimes we get cereal if there’s a sale. Oh, and on Saturdays she makes French toast. Is that from France? Is that why it’s called that?”
“I’m not sure.” I scanned the contents of the fridge. Eggs, yes. Butter. Some cheese. Vegetables that could work. “But I think we can do better than cereal today.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I pulled out what I needed, my mind already working through possibilities. An omelet. Not elaborate, but well-made. Perhaps with herbs from the garden I’d seen yesterday, if I could identify which were culinary versus ornamental.
Corey hopped onto one of the kitchen stools, watching with fascination as I gathered ingredients. His chatter filled the space, a constant stream of observations, questions, and random facts delivered with equal importance.
“Mom says we’re really lucky to live here.
The manor is way nicer than our apartment.
And I get my own room. I had to share with Mom before.
Not share share, but like, the apartment only had one bedroom, so I had the bedroom and she slept on the couch, but she said she didn’t mind because the couch was actually pretty comfortable and—Oh, do you need a pan?
The big one is in that cupboard. Mom organized everything after we got here. ”
I found the pan. Heated it. Started dicing vegetables while Corey narrated his entire life story.
“And Dorvak gives me cookies sometimes, but Mom says I have to ask first and not just take them even if he offers because that’s good manners.
Do you know Dorvak? He’s an orc. He makes really good bread.
Mom uses his bread for sandwiches and stuff.
She’s really excited about her new job. I can tell because she hums more when she’s excited.
She hasn’t been humming a lot lately but yesterday she hummed a little when she was cleaning, so I think that means she’s happy we’re here and—”
“She hums?” I cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking fast.
“Uh-huh. Old songs. Like from when she was little, I think. She says her foster mom used to play them.” He swung his legs against the stool. “That’s the mom who raised her. Her real parents died when she was little like me. In a car crash.”
My hands stilled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. She doesn’t remember them much. But she says that’s why family is super important. The family you choose, not the one you’re born with.” He tilted his head. “Is Feydin your chosen family or your born family?”
“Born. He’s my brother.”
“But you chose to be friends again after you fought, right? Dazy explained that part. So that’s kind of both.” Corey nodded, satisfied with his logic. “I think that’s the best kind.”
Warmth spread through my chest. “I think you might be right.”
I returned to cooking, but Corey’s words kept circling in my mind. Family you choose. Sammy had built a whole philosophy around it and taught it to her son. She’d created a life where the two of them were a team.
Except they weren’t complete. I could hear the gaps in Corey’s stories. The things he didn’t quite say.
“She works really hard,” he said, watching me fold the omelet.
“Like, really hard. At our old place, she’d come home super late and her feet would hurt.
She’d try to hide it, but I could tell. She’d make me dinner first. She always makes sure I eat good food, not just nuggets and stuff.
And then she’d eat whatever was left standing up at the counter because she was too tired to sit.
But she always asked about my day. Every single night, even when she was so tired her eyes were doing the blinky thing. ”
The blinky thing. I could picture it perfectly, though I’d known Sammy less than twenty-four hours.
“Does she still work very late?” I kept my voice casual, arranging the omelet on a plate.
“Not here. She likes it better at the botanical gardens. She told me so.” He leaned forward, chin in his hands.
“She smiles more. Well, she smiled yesterday. She’s been really stressed about money stuff and making sure I’m okay and if this job is going to work out because the last time we moved for a job it didn’t work out, and we had to move again and—” He stopped.
“I’m not supposed to tell people that part. Mom says our business is our business.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I found plates and serving utensils. “For what it’s worth, I think this job will work out. If Dazy hired your mother, I’m certain it was for good reason.”
“Because Mom’s the best cook ever. She can make anything taste good. Even vegetables. She made me like brussels sprouts. Brussels sprouts.” He said it like she’d performed a miracle. Which, perhaps, she had.
I plated the omelet and made two more, added toast, and poured juice I found in the fridge. Corey kept talking, and I kept asking questions, telling myself I was being polite. Making conversation with a child who clearly needed the attention.