THIRTY-SIX
The dining room of the cottage has been transformed.
Bishop’s only stipulation about my family dinner was hosting it here. Apparently, he doesn’t trust Broderic.
But from the moment Laurel swept through the door, her arm hooked through Broderic’s like a leash, it’s been a stream of orders.
Linens draped dutifully over the long table—pale gold with embroidered hydras at every corner.
Because Stars forbid a Velesont sit down to a meal without reminding everyone whose niece she is.
The candlesticks have been polished. The goblets shined.
Every task carried out by Laurel’s small army of attendants.
It’s not a dinner. It’s an occupation.
Bishop hasn’t said anything, but his gaze keeps sweeping the room—counting exits, marking the staff, lingering a fraction too long on the guard stationed by the front door. The same one from yesterday, broad-shouldered and perpetually silent, in his Velesont uniform.
Laurel laces her fingers through Broderic’s as she pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. “I brought the crystal from my home in Isoldoro,” she says brightly, as if I might be impressed. “This seemed like the perfect occasion to use it.”
“Why?” I ask. One of the innumerable staff pours water into one of several glasses in front of me. How many beverages does a single meal require?
“We’re family.” Her smile is so sweet it turns my stomach. “Broderic and I have hardly seen you. And now that you’re a patron—”
“I’m not a patron.”
“Of course you are. That summons from the queen came to our house.” She glances at Broderic for support, but he’s staring at the tablecloth like he can read his own future in the embroidery—and he doesn’t like what he sees.
Andry saves us, careening into the room with his wooden sword from the yard where he’s been badgering conscripts since they arrived. “I learned how to slice,” he announces proudly, showing off his new move, eyes pinned on Bishop for approval. The sword comes dangerously close to a decanter of wine.
“Andry, mind the linen,” Laurel cries out.
He freezes like he’s been smacked. Isidore pats the chair beside hers. Andry sits, and she smooths his hair with the kind of careful expression that tells me she’s done this a lot in recent weeks.
Despite the ceremony of it all, there’s no food on the table yet. The others drink their wine, clutching the crystal goblets like anchors, but I can’t bring myself to even try it with my stomach churning.
The food, when it finally comes, is beautiful and tastes like nothing. I push it around my plate.
“Do you like the lamb?” Laurel asks, looking pointedly at my untouched meal.
A serving of guilt is the last thing I need after today, so I force myself to take a bite and nod.
She beams. “My uncle’s cook makes it for the equinox.”
Of course. “You’ll have to give me the recipe. I’ll make it in Vennaro.”
“I’ll send it to your cook.” She laughs. I’m pretty sure at the idea of me cooking. But the laugh is so pretty that I’d bet she’s practiced it.
“We should toast,” Laurel suggests, nodding to her footman.
He hurries to refill goblets, then fills Andry’s small glass as well. Andry, who has never been allowed wine in his life, takes it with both hands and an expression of such grave responsibility I almost smile.
Things must be very different among Velesonts. But Broderic doesn’t say anything. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s a little bit scared of his fiancée.
I know I am. No one pays this much attention to a family dinner without having a few screws loose.
“To your sister,” Laurel says, raising her own glass. “The new patron of”—she falters on the name but recovers—“of an ancient line.”
A muscle twitches in Broderic’s jaw, and he doesn’t lift his own cup.
“We’re celebrating,” she reminds him in that sugary tone.
Broderic does as he’s told. So do Isidore and Andry. Is every night like this?
I bring my own glass up, but I can’t force it past my lips. I’m already counting the minutes until this is over. Bishop doesn’t raise his glass either.
Across from me, Andry takes an eager gulp. His mouth puckers, face screwing into an expression of absolute horror.
“Disgusting,” he announces. Isidore shushes him.
“Laurel, you need sauce,” Broderic says, passing it to her before she can reprimand our little brother.
She giggles like he’s given her a compliment instead of passing a condiment. “You are so thoughtful.” Her hand lingers over his a second too long, something possessive in her touch as if she expects competition to break out over him any moment.
“I want sauce.” Andry throws his body halfway across the table, knocking my glass of wine over in the process. Crimson seeps across the pressed tablecloth.
A strangled gasp that’s almost animalistic escapes Laurel. I’ve never heard a person make that sound before.
“Andry,” she snaps.
“It was an accident, darling,” Broderic says quickly.
Laurel pauses, her face resetting into a smooth, pleasant expression that’s more disturbing than the gasp. “Of course it was an accident. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She lays a hand on Andry’s shoulder, and he flinches.
But her smile hardens as she launches up to dab the linen like it’s a precious family heirloom. “Although, where I come from, children learn manners. Or they eat in the kitchen.”
“We’ve been eating in the kitchen most of our lives, even Broderic,” Isidore says, slicing into her meat with unnecessary force.
“Well.” Laurel hesitates, glancing at Bishop and me like she’s suddenly remembering our presence. She clears her throat, extending her long neck, and simply looks past my sister as she says, “That will change now.”
I can see why Isidore wants to escape.
Nothing about this feels … normal. The tablecloth, the formal dinner, the rules.
I wait for Broderic to say something, but he doesn’t.
I can’t help myself. “Tables must be very quiet where you come from.”
Her gaze lands on mine, and her eyes narrow to daggers. “They are.” She shifts her focus to Bishop. “I’m sure it’s the same in Vennaro. The discipline, I mean.”
Bishop tears a roll in half without looking at her. “My brother and I once set a tablecloth on fire during a dinner party.” He shrugs. “So, I try not to judge.”
Andry beams from across the table. “I like him.”
Laurel turns the daggers on my younger brother, her fingers clenching her precious tablecloth. But Broderic clears his throat, and she settles into her seat.
I lean to their end of the table, as if getting closer might help me understand what in seven hells is going on with them. It’s not love, certainly, but I can’t tell which of them has the hook in the other.
Bishop’s hand settles on my thigh, calming me, as if he senses that I might say something I’ll really regret.
I frown, sighing a bit under my breath. I lift my water goblet to my lips.
But then his hand slips higher, shifting between my thighs, bunching the fabric of my skirt there so his hand can move even higher. Can distract me.
And I breathe in water instead of air. I splutter, eyes widening as I try to cough it from my lungs.
Every eye at the table, except his, swivels to me. Bishop removes his hand, biting back a smirk.
At least we’re all distracted from the damn tablecloth now.
“I’m really fine,” I say, setting my cup down with shaking fingers. “Just distracted.”
“Yes,” Broderic says evenly. “That’s obvious.”
But Isidore smothers a smile with her hand.
“What are you so happy about?” Broderic asks, catching her, and an argument quickly ensues.
Some things don’t change.
“You need more wine,” Laurel calls over the argument, motioning for the footman to bring me another goblet.
I murmur a thanks as he pours it, but I can’t bring myself to drink any more than I can force myself to eat. My stomach has moved from clenched to actively hostile.
“So,” Broderic says, setting down his fork. “Patron.”
Oh, good. Just the change of subject I’ve been hoping for.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Laurel smiles, wheels turning in her eyes. Married to one patron. Sister-in-law to another.
But Broderic shakes his head. “Arden is an Icaros by birth. The Kindling was bad enough.”
“Didn’t the queen say not to question the Stars?” Void knows that I have, but he can’t seem to let this go.
He finally looks at me. “I think the queen made a mistake. I think …”
The table falls silent as though we all know what he was about to say next.
His words land in the tender ache beneath my ribs. I think the queen made a mistake. I’ve been swallowing back that exact sentiment since I received that summons. I haven’t been able to say it out loud, even to Bishop.
My brother saying it is different.
Hearing it from him feels like a slap.
“I’m sorry I came home.” Clearly, he doesn’t want me here.
Broderic’s laugh is hollow. “But you aren’t sorry that you left.”
“Stop,” Isidore whispers. “Both of you. Please.”
Andry stares at his plate like he can make himself invisible. I hate that. I hate that we’re doing this in front of him. I hate that we’re doing it at all.
“I need some air,” I say, getting up from the table.
Bishop stands, but Laurel rises faster.
“I’ll go with her,” she says, touching Broderic’s shoulder like she’s warning him not to interfere. “I’ve been hoping to have a moment with my future sister.”
Bishop doesn’t sit back down.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, because his face looks like he’s calculating his next move. I can practically hear the math. “Your people are everywhere.”
And I might as well get this over with. I wouldn’t put it past Laurel to show up in Vennaro with her entire entourage for tea if I don’t.
“Stefan will come with us,” Laurel adds reassuringly. “We won’t go past the gate.”
“Very well.” His voice is even, but his gaze is hard as he looks at me. “Take your sword.”
Laurel opens her mouth as though she might argue, but she hesitates and says, “We’ll be back for dessert.”
Wonderful. Another course to suffer through. I can’t wait to see what drama is served next.
I push past Laurel and make for the door. I’d thought it bad manners to wear a weapon at the table, so my baldric is in the bedroom. But I need out of this house now. I grab one of Bishop’s many others and strap it around my waist.
I’m not sure Bishop really thought through arming me in her presence.
The spring air nips our cheeks as we step outside, but it’s pleasant enough that the yard between the cottage and the barracks is packed with troops.
The lamps are lit, and smoke drifts from a firepit.
There are more than a few groups playing Liar’s Hand.
Others stroll the perimeter of the gate.
It’s as if everyone is celebrating the equinox and the blessed arrival of a new season.
“I can barely hear myself think out here.” Laurel rolls her eyes. She loops her arm through mine as though we’ve been friends for years and digs her fingers into my skin like she does my brother. “It’s quieter back there.”
She glances to where the yard continues in the direction of the Cinderwald.
I hesitate.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I haven’t seen the oscen all day. Maybe it’s already begun its flight back to Vennaro. I can’t count on it keeping me from becoming a wolf’s supper.
“Stefan is with us.” She giggles like caution is a ludicrous concept. “And you have a sword. You can protect me.”
Maybe I’ll let a wolf eat her instead. Though chances seem slim with Stefan four paces behind us.
“I know about Miranda,” she says as we stroll. “I know that’s why you don’t like me.”
I stop myself from telling her that’s only one reason. “Broderic made his choice. I respect that.”
Not that he’ll ever grant me the same consideration.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect from Damalis.” Her head tips back to look at the night sky. “The stars are brighter here than in Isoldoro. It’s … peaceful.”
From the way the word sticks as she says it, I’m not sure she sees it as a good thing.
“Not used to it yet?”
She shakes her head. “Someday.”
We walk until the lantern light from the yard is a glow in the distance and the sounds of revelry fade.
“That’s better,” Laurel says, letting go of my arm.
I rub the spot where her fingers clutched me. “You wanted to talk. About what?”
“I wanted to tell you that I’m glad.”
“Glad?”
“That the queen has recognized you as patron, assuming that letter was any indication. It’s wonderful news.” She turns to face me, and the practiced charm slips. It’s not gone entirely. More like paint beginning to flake after too much wear. “Broderic doesn’t see the bigger picture. He never does.”
“And what is the bigger picture?”
“War is coming.” She says it the way most people announce it’s going to rain. “The Stars marked you, Arden. They wouldn’t have without reason.”
I take a half step back without meaning to. “You think I am the harbinger.”
She smiles. “I’m counting on it. My uncle is, too.”
“Why?” The question barely leaves my mouth before Stefan’s arm hooks across my chest, pinning my elbows against my ribs. Another hand clamps over my mouth.
I bite it.
Stefan grunts but doesn’t let go.
“Don’t scream,” Laurel says. “It’s worse for your family if you scream.”
And then Stefan drags me into the Cinderwald.