Chapter 29 Fenrik #2
The doors remained stubbornly wide open. If a building could look smug, the doorframe did.
“It wants you to see it,” Lysa said, tugging my hand. “It’s proud.”
We continued to the small study. I reached for the matches on the mantle, intending to chase away the cliffside chill, but before my fingers even grazed the box, the logs in the grate roared to life. A crackling fire erupted, throwing light across the plush rug.
I withdrew my hand. “I see.”
“Helpful,” Lysa said, dropping into the armchair that had, I suspected, nudged itself three inches closer to the hearth.
“Meddlesome,” I said.
After a dinner where the chandelier had dimmed itself to a candlelight glow, we climbed the stairs. My intent was to retrieve a journal from my private study before retiring.
I turned left at the landing.
Clack.
The hallway door leading to the west wing, where my study lay, locked itself. I didn’t even need to try the handle; the sound was definitive.
“Alright,” I said to the wall. “I’ll fetch it in the morning.”
I turned right, thinking to check the music room. I had arranged some roses for Lysa to find on the piano. As we approached the narrow passage leading to it, a heavy tapestry ‘accidentally’ unhooked itself from one side, draping across the opening.
There was only one corridor left unobscured.
The wide, carpeted path leading straight to the master suite.
At the end of it, the double doors stood ajar, spilling amber light into the hallway.
The scent of lavender and heated stone wafted toward us.
I stopped, looking up at the vaulted ceiling where the shadows played.
The house hummed under my feet. It was effectively herding us to bed like prize cattle.
“Subtle as a brick,” I muttered affectionately.
Lysa laughed. She leaned into my side, wrapping her arm around my waist. “Well, it knows what it wants. And it suspects it knows what we want, too.”
“It is entirely too confident.” I let her steer me toward the only open door. “Remind me to criticize its brickwork tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said. “You love this place.”
“I love the people in it,” I corrected, crossing the threshold into the room the house had so perfectly prepared. “The masonry is on thin ice.”
The click of the lock sliding home was audible the moment we crossed the threshold. The house, it seemed, wasn’t taking any chances on our escape.
I braced my hands on the wood on either side of Lysa’s head, caging her. The scent of her, rain, wild herbs, and the faint, sweet smoke of her magic, filled my senses. “I have some matters to discuss before we indulge the architecture’s voyeurism.”
She reached up, her fingers toying with the top button of my shirt. “Oh? Governance again?”
“Mrs. Crane has been dropping hints heavy enough to crack the floorboards. And Briony,” I caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her ink-stained palm, “has been leaving catalogues of floral arrangements on my desk.”
“They want a party, Fenrik. They want to see the beast of Abberwyn dance with its bride.”
“People we love have been ‘asking’ for a proper ceremony,” I said. “Not that we need one legally, since our bargain was real enough. But I thought... perhaps you’d want to celebrate. To choose this in front of everyone, not just signed in a dark room.”
The playfulness vanished from her face, replaced by wonder. She understood. I wanted to erase the memory of that first contract, the desperation, the transaction, the smell of sickness and fear. I wanted a happy memory instead.
“A real wedding?” she asked.
“Yes. Let’s do it properly.” I leaned in, brushing my lips against the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“I want to stand and watch you walk toward me because you want to.
And then,“ I swiped my tongue over her pulse, feeling her shiver, “I want to carry you out and remind you exactly why you chose me.”
“You’re insatiable,” she breathed, her hands sliding into my hair, gripping tight.
“I found you,” I growled, lifting her until her legs wrapped around my waist. “I’m making sure the entire world knows I’m keeping you.”
I lowered her onto the edge of the mattress, though my hands refused to leave her waist. The moment felt fragile, suspended in the amber light the house was so helpfully providing.
I needed to do this right. I had plans. Or, rather, I had a small velvet box burning a hole in my pocket and a desperate need to rewrite history.
“Wait,” I said, stepping back slightly.
Lysa blinked, breathless and dishevelled, looking delectable.
“I have to get something.” I jammed my hand into my pocket. It was stuck. The tailored trousers, excellent for cutting a dashing figure at the Council, were proving disastrous for retrieval. I wrestled with the fabric, hopping slightly on one foot. “It is stuck. Curse the tailor.”
The floorboards vibrated impatiently. The bloody house knew what was in the pocket.
“Are you... checking a pocket watch?” Lysa asked, leaning back on her hands, amusement warring with confusion.
“No. Yes. Just …” I gave a sharp tug. The box flew out of my pocket, skidded across the rug, and vanished under the wardrobe.
Silence.
Lysa stared at the wardrobe. “Did you just throw a weapon at the furniture?”
“No,” I said, dropping to my knees. “It was... a token.” I glared at the heavy oak wardrobe. “Give it back,” I whispered to the floor.
The wardrobe groaned. Grudgingly, it tilted forward just enough to spit the velvet box back out. It slid across the floor and tapped against my knee.
“Thank you,” I muttered to the wood. I snatched up the box and rose, dusting off my knees. So much for the effortless aristocrat. I took a breath, trying to summon the gravity of the Stormgardes, and looked at Lysa.
She was watching me, eyes wide, sensing the shift in the air. The grin dropped from her face.
“Fenrik?”
I stepped between her knees. “The first time I asked you to bind yourself to me, I was dying. I gave you a contract stained with desperation.” I reached out and took her left hand. “That was for the bargain.”
I opened the small box. The silver band inside was modest. It held no diamonds, no rubies, no enchantments of protection or binding. It was hammered silver, bright and clean, etched delicately with the trailing vines of a single Moonflower.
Lysa gasped softly. She knew what the flower meant. Truth found in darkness.
“Will you marry me again, Lysa Emberlin? Not for debt, or duty, or safety. But for love? Will you take me, knowing everything I am? The beast, the madness, the terrible piano compositions?”
The house held its breath. The fire in the grate froze. Even the wind outside seemed to hush against the glass.
Lysa looked from the ring to me. Her eyes were shining, swimming with tears that caught the light like gold.
“Yes,” she whispered. I slid the ring onto her finger. It settled there as if it had grown from her skin, a band of moonlight against the flush of her hand. The ring made her thin scars look part of the flower pattern.
“Yes,” she said again, stronger now, launching herself off the bed and slamming into my chest.
As I caught her, every candle in the chandelier flared bright, the curtains swooshed shut, and from somewhere in the walls, a thrum of approval vibrated.
“I think the Manor approves,” Lysa laughed against my neck.
Two weeks later, the bell above the door of The Drifting Teapot announced our arrival with the subtlety of a cathedral gong.
I stiffened, my hand tightening instinctively on Lysa’s waist. Old habits died hard, and walking into a room full of people usually preceded an accusation of dark magic or a demand for something. But the wall of sound that hit us was a roar of delight.
Warmth, thick with the scent of bergamot, roasting coffee, and the sugary smoke of pastries, washed over us.
The shop was packed to the rafters, literally.
A dozen small book-dragons had escaped the neighbouring bookshop to perch on the high beams, their scales glittering as they chirped a synchronized, chaotic welcome.
“Easy,” Lysa murmured against my shoulder, her thumb brushing the back of my hand. “They aren’t armed. Mostly.”
“I see a lot of cake knives,” I said, scanning the perimeter.
Behind the counter, Steady, the massive copper-scaled barista dragon, reared up on his hind legs. He let out a trill that vibrated through the floorboards, a sound suspiciously like a tea kettle reaching critical mass, and puffed a smoke ring that drifted over the crowd to halo us.
Maren, Lysa’s best friend, pushed through the throng, her pink head-wrap bright against the steam rising from the cups she carried. She shoved a tray of something sparkling and purple into the hands of a bewildered Councilman violently enough to make him spill a little, then threw her arms wide.
“They survive!” Maren shouted over the din. “And look! He’s wearing colours other than ‘funeral shroud’ and ‘ominous shadow’!”
“It’s charcoal,” I said, though I found myself grinning. “It is a respectable shade of joy.”
Before I could defend my sartorial choices further, a whirlwind of emerald silk and floral perfume collided with us. Briony flung her arms around Lysa’s neck, knocking us both backward.
“You did it,” Briony sobbed into Lysa’s hair, ignoring the public spectacle. “You actually fixed the brooding lord and saved the magic and look at the ring! Oh, Lysa.“ She pulled back, gripping Lysa’s face between her hands. “I am so proud of you. I knew it. I knew the fairy tales were real.”
“The fairy tale involved a lot of damage and terrifying dragon veterinary work,” Lysa laughed, wiping her sister’s tears away. “But yes. It’s real.”
Mr. Emberlin stood behind his youngest daughter.
Gladly, the perpetual shadow of exhaustion had lifted from his eyes.
He looked at me as a man. He stepped forward and wrapped me in a crushing embrace.
I hesitated only a heartbeat before returning the grip, awkwardly patting the back of the man who had raised the woman who saved my soul.
He pulled back, keeping a hand on my shoulder, then looked past me to Lysa. His voice was thick, barely audible over the cheering crowd. “Your mother would have loved him, Lysa. She had a soft spot for the difficult cases.”
“I am standing right here, Sylvester,” I said.
“I know, son.” He patted my cheek with a familiar affection that terrified me. “That’s why it’s funny.”
“Drinks!” Maren said, thrusting mugs into our hands. The liquid inside swirled gold and silver, matching the magic that now hummed contentedly beneath my skin.
I pulled Lysa into my side, shielding her from a particularly enthusiastic toast by the town baker. She leaned back against me, solid and warm and undeniably mine.
“You realize,” I whispered into her hair as Steady launched a celebratory jet of flame at the ceiling, singing the eyebrows of a hanging fern, “that we can never leave. Maren will hold us hostage with pastries.”
Lysa looked up at me, her eyes dancing with that mischievous fire. She took a sip of her brew, leaving a foam moustache on her lip which she decidedly did not wipe away.
“We have a big, empty manor to fill, Lord Stormgarde,” she said. “I think we can handle a few hostage negotiations.”
“Good,” I kissed the foam from her lip, ignoring the wolf-whistles from the corner where Thorven and Mrs. Crane were clinking glasses. “Because I have no intention of going anywhere without you ever again.” I tightened my arm around her.