SIX
The day before Winsol began, Daemon walked into a
sitting room in the family wing of the Hall and stopped
abruptly.
“Mother Night,” he
said. “Where did you find such a magnificent—and perfect—evergreen
tree?”
Jaenelle grinned at
him. “It did turn out well, didn’t it?”
It dazzled his eyes
and tugged at his heart. Little balls of color shone among the
branches, which looked like they had been given a light dusting of
gold on the tips of the evergreen needles. Crystal icicles hung
from the branches. And the smell . . .
Daemon frowned and
walked toward the tree, baffled. The evergreen scent should be
filling the room.
He touched a branch.
His fingers went right through it.
“If it fooled you, it
will fool anyone,” Jaenelle said.
“It’s an illusion?”
He tried to touch another branch, unwilling to
believe.
“Yes. I made it.
Marian and I decided to limit the number of trees that the family
would cut down for Winsol.”
Lucivar and I didn’t get a say in
this?
He caught the tip of
his tongue between his teeth. He hadn’t participated in a typical
Winsol celebration here at the Hall, so maybe he wasn’t supposed to
make many—or any—decisions.
“We took a couple of
trees whose elimination would benefit the surrounding trees,”
Jaenelle said. “We’ll use the branches to create wreaths or other
decorations. That will add the scent to the room.” She edged toward
the door, then stopped as if listening to something beyond the
room. “Oh, good. Marian is here.”
Which meant Lucivar
was also here. *Prick?* he called on a psychic spear
thread.
*Let me stash the
little beast and I’ll meet you,* Lucivar replied.
“All right,” Daemon
said to Jaenelle. “Since Marian is here, I’ll—”
“Stay here,” Jaenelle
said, heading for the door. “I need to pee, and someone needs to
guard the gifts until they’re all properly shielded.”
Daemon looked at the
gifts stacked around the tree. “Huh?”
“I’ll be back in a
few minutes. Don’t leave the room.When I get back, Marian and I
will sort the gifts and put on the appropriate
shields.”
“What are you
figuring is going to happen to them?”
She just looked at
him.
“Fine,” he said,
trying not to grumble. “I’ll guard the gifts.”
She was almost out
the door when she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder.
“Papa arrived a little while ago, but I haven’t seen him
yet.”
Then she was gone,
and he felt as if he’d been shuffled to a back room and given a
senseless task just to keep him out of the way. Hell’s fire, his
father and brother were in the Hall. He should be spending time
with them instead of guarding boxes. Or he should be in his study,
working. He still had some work to do. Not much, but some. And even
if he didn’t have work and just stretched out on the couch and read
a book, he wouldn’t feel like a stray puppy that someone had
forgotten. Not if he was in his study.
A quick knock on the
door. Before he could say anything, a maid and two footmen entered
the room, their arms full of boxes.
“Excuse us, Prince,”
the maid said. “We were told to bring these gifts
here.”
Daemon smiled at them
and stepped aside.
“Are you going home
for Winsol?” he asked.
“We’re drawing lots
tonight to see who’s working which days,” the younger footman
said.
They stacked the
packages in front of the tree. Moments after they walked out the
door, Lucivar walked in.
“Hiding already?”
Lucivar asked. “Winsol hasn’t officially started.”
“I’m guarding the
gifts,” Daemon replied.
“From what? You
didn’t put any food under there, did you? You never put food gifts
under the tree. I did that one year, and the younger kindred found
the boxes of fudge and the boxes of rawhide strips. What a
mess.”
“If there’s food
under the tree, I didn’t put it there.”
“Good. There’s
something I want to show you. I had it made for Daemonar
and—”
A quick knock on the
door, and another maid entered the room.
“I was told to put
these packages under the tree,” she said.
“They’re going to be
in and out of here for the rest of the day,” Lucivar muttered as
soon as the maid left. “Let’s find another room. We need a couple
of minutes in private.”
“I’m supposed to
guard the gifts,” Daemon said.
“Tch. The little beast is in the playroom,
enthralled by jingling puppies, so the room will be fine. We won’t
go far. Besides, he doesn’t know which room has the
presents.”
Since Daemon thought
guarding the gifts was a pointless exercise anyway, it didn’t take
much persuasion. He and Lucivar hurried along the corridor, sneaked
around the corner, and slipped into another sitting
room.
“Do we ever use this
room?” Daemon asked, looking around.
“Male sanctuary,”
Lucivar replied. “Used to use it when the coven lived here most of
the time. Gave the boyos breathing room to talk among themselves
while still being close by if they were needed.” He waved a hand,
dismissing further interest in the room. “Look at this.” He called
in a rectangular wood-and-glass box.
Daemon obediently
leaned over to look into the box.
“It’s a
bug-in-a-box,” Lucivar said, grinning.
From one end of the
box, a little black beetle emerged. As it made its way to the other
end, it grew and grew and grew until . . .
Pop!
There were sounds.
Daemon wasn’t sure a beetle actually made sounds that were a cross
between insect noise and cranky grumbling, but it added to the
appeal. Or the disgust. He had a strong suspicion the emotion of
the person viewing this little toy would depend on whether that
person had a penis or breasts.
“You have that box
shielded, don’t you?” he asked.
Lucivar made a huffy
sound of disbelief. “I’ve got it triple shielded. There is no way
Daemonar is getting that bug out of the box.”
“If he does . . .”
Daemon looked at his brother.
Lucivar sighed. “The
only question will be whether Marian tries to kill me before she
divorces me or after.”
“As long as you know
the risks.” He grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Daemonar will love
it.”
“Yeah, he
will.”
Picturing Daemonar’s
face when the boy opened that gift reminded him of where he was
supposed to be. “I’d better get back to guarding the
gifts.”
Lucivar vanished the
box. “I’ll go with you. If I look like I’ve got something to do,
maybe I won’t get cornered into doing something.”
They hurried back to
the other room, opened the door—and froze just inside the
doorway.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be
merciful.
“He wasn’t anywhere
near this room when we left,” Lucivar said. “I swear by all I hold
dear, he wasn’t anywhere near this room.”
Well, the little
beast was in the middle of it now, sitting on the floor surrounded
by various-sized boxes and drifts of torn wrapping
paper.
“Papa!” Daemonar
cried. “Unka Daemon! Lizzen!”
Bang bang bang. The sound of box on
floor.
And the sound of
something delicate—and no doubt expensive—breaking inside the
box.
Daemon felt his face
muscles shift into a tight smile—or maybe it was a grimace. Must
have been the appropriate response, because Daemonar grinned at him
and went back to banging the box on the floor.
“Whatever is inside
is already broken,” Lucivar said. “No point taking it away from him
now. He’ll just grab for something else.”
“We’ll have to figure
out who brought it and get it replaced.” Sweet
Darkness, please don’t let it be something that was commissioned
and was one of a kind.
Lucivar stared at the
boy and the mess, looking more and more baffled. “Marian wants
another one of those.”
“Another one of
what?”
Lucivar lifted his
chin. “Those.”
Daemon looked at the
little winged boy who was the reason Jaenelle was going to rip him
into chunks and feed him to somebody, then back at his brother.
“Why?”
Lucivar sighed. “I
don’t know.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “But I’m pretty sure it’s
your fault.”
He completely lost
the ability to speak. He just stood there with his mouth hanging
open, staring at Lucivar.
Lucivar nodded.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s your fault.”
“Bt. Dt. Zt.” The
sputtering sounds fired up his shocked brain. “Since I am
not the one sleeping with your wife, it
is not my fault.”
Lucivar was looking
grimly pleased. “Yeah, it is. Marian’s been mentioning lately how
much I value having a brother the same age.”
Daemon usually valued
having a brother too, but that was beside the point.
“You can’t do this,”
Daemon said.
“It’s not that hard,”
Lucivar replied. “Just don’t drink the contraceptive brew during a
woman’s fertile time, and it isn’t hard at all.” His voice changed
when he added, “Besides, it might not be another little beast. It
could be a cuddly little witchling. A miniature of her
mother.”
There was a dopey
look on Lucivar’s face.
“Ah, no,” Daemon
groaned. “No, no, no. You’re being seduced by the possibility of a
daughter.”
“Maybe.”
“Then let me remind
you that our father had four children, and all of them had cocks.”
Five, actually, if they counted the boy who had been murdered
shortly after birth.
Lucivar slanted a
look at him. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t count on getting a
cuddly little witch?”
“I’m saying the odds
aren’t in your favor, so before you pour your contraceptive brew
down the sink, consider what it will be like having two of
those in the house.”
Lucivar winced and
muttered, “One of them would probably end up living with you half
the time.”
It was a distinct
possibility—and it was exactly what he was afraid of. Not that he
didn’t love Daemonar. He did. But most days he loved him much
better knowing he could send the boy home.
Suddenly, Lucivar
tensed. “How long are you supposed to guard this
room?”
Daemon felt all the
blood drain out of his head. “Mother Night. Jaenelle is going to be
back any minute now.”
They sprang forward
at the same moment Daemonar gave the box one last bang on the floor before throwing it and reaching
for another.
“You get the boy away
from here, and I’ll do what I can to clear up—or hide—this mess,”
Daemon said.
Lucivar grabbed
Daemonar and swung him around as they twirled toward the door,
distracting the boy from the fact he was being taken away from the
presents.
Once brother and boy
were safely out of the way, Daemon dropped to his knees and began
gathering up boxes and wrappings.
He could vanish
everything and sort it out later—if he could figure out an excuse
Jaenelle would accept for why the packages had
disappeared.
Of course, these
boxes had arrived after she’d left the room, so maybe she didn’t
know about them. That would be good. That would be wonderful. That
would—
The door opened—and
he froze. When there was no outraged shriek, he dared a look over
his shoulder.
Saetan stood in the
doorway, clearly amused. The bastard.
Daemon said, “If you
love me at all, don’t ask how this happened. Just help me fix
it.”
Saetan walked toward
Daemon, the door closing silently behind him. “I know how it
happened. As a reward, and to give you a break from the festive
chaos going on in the rest of the Hall, your wife asked you to
guard the gifts. And you, not having brains enough to get
comfortable with a brandy and a book, decided guarding the gifts
was foolish. So you left ‘for just a few minutes,’ and when you
returned, you learned how much of a mess can be made in a short
amount of time.”
Daemon closed his
eyes and hunched his shoulders. Right now he would gladly give up
the privileges of being an adult if he could shove the
responsibilities of being an adult under the sofa—along with all
the torn wrapping paper.
“How did you know?”
Daemon asked.
“I used to have one,”
Saetan replied.
Puzzled, he looked up
at his father. “One what?”
“Small Eyrien boy. I
learned this lesson the hard way, and now, my darling, so have
you.”
“You could have
warned me.”
“You wouldn’t have
believed me.”
So what? You still could have warned
me.
Since that wouldn’t
get him any help, he swallowed the comment and tried to look
woeful. It wasn’t hard to do. “Help?”
Using Craft, Saetan
moved a straight-backed chair from one side of the room, placed it
close to Daemon, and sat down. “I’ll show you a trick. As long as
you don’t use it too often, you can get away with it. Especially
during this season, when males are forgiven their foibles.
Mostly.”
“The first problem is
figuring out who these gifts were intended for,” Daemon
said.
“That part is easy. I
brought these, so I know which box belongs to which
person.”
“Bt. Dt. Zt.” On the
second try, he formed actual words. “You brought these? Then why in
the name of Hell didn’t you put shields
around them?”
A raised eyebrow was
his only answer—and an unspoken reminder that Saetan could leave
the room without incurring a woman’s wrath.
Sufficiently
chastised, Daemon muttered, “Sorry.”
Figuring it was best
to confess the worst, he nudged the box Daemonar had pounded on the
floor—and winced at the merry tinkle of broken glass.
No response. Just the
feel of his father’s formidable presence.
“Lesson one,” Saetan
said, sounding too damned amused. “If you shield all the gifts, you
also need to shield and Craft-lock the room sufficiently to keep
small boys out. Otherwise, that boy will transform from a happy,
excited child into a cranky, frustrated child. And trust me, a
frustrated Eyrien boy during Winsol is twice as bad as what you’re
imagining right now—especially when his little brain is dazzled by
boxes and shiny ribbons.”
“Then Lucivar and I
can just . . .” What? Put Ebon-gray and Black shields and locks
around the room? That would keep Daemonar out, but it would also
keep everyone else out of the room—including wives who wouldn’t
appreciate being locked out.
“All right,” Daemon
said, trying not to sigh. “Guard the room when it’s my turn. Don’t
shield all the gifts.” He nudged the
broken gift. “If you tell me where you got this, I’ll get it
replaced in time.” I hope.
“That? You can
dispose of it. It’s just a box of chipped teacups and broken
figurines. Helene and Mrs. Beale keep a box of that stuff for just
this kind of present.”
A red haze appeared
in front of Daemon’s eyes. “What kind of present?”
“The kind that
rattles enough to sound interesting. Especially once things inside
the box start breaking.”
“You did this
deliberately?”
“Yes.”
He was trying very
hard to remember why he had looked forward to Winsol this year—and
why he’d been happy to see his father a few minutes
ago.
“Lesson two,” Saetan
said. “Fragile or delicate gifts go in the back where they’re less
likely to be noticed by inquisitive children. Even so, they are
shielded individually and then are grouped together before a shield
‘netting’ is put over all of them, and that netting is then
connected to the floor with Craft. However, there should be one
breakable, disposable gift positioned in the front of the tree to
catch a boy’s eye. That way, you have a chance of stopping him
while he’s distracted by the fake present, and you’re not trying to
explain the loss of an expensive gift.”
Daemon looked at the
mounds of gifts. All this work to keep out one boy? What would happen if . . .
“Marian wants another
baby,” he said.
A stiff moment of
silence. Then Saetan said, “In that case, my darling, you’d better
learn some of these spells and work on them until you can pull them
together in a heartbeat.”
Or they could just
all celebrate Winsol at the eyrie, and then it would be Lucivar’s
responsibility to guard the gifts.
He considered the
probability of getting out of guard duty no matter where the family
gathered for Winsol—and sighed.
“Lesson three.”
Saetan called in a small hourglass, turned it over, and set it on
air. “Stay focused on the task. When I saw Lucivar racing away with
Daemonar, I asked Jaenelle and Marian to have a leisurely cup of
coffee before returning to this room.”
“Aren’t they going to
suspect there’s a problem and that you were stalling them until
it’s fixed?” Daemon asked.
“Of course they know
there’s a problem. But this request is as time-honored as
Protocol—and as strictly observed. All things considered, since
those two do understand the males
involved, I estimate you have ten minutes left to put everything
back the way it was.”
Maybe he could tie a
ribbon around his neck and curl up with the other fragile, delicate
gifts.
“Gather up the pieces
of wrapping paper that have the ribbons and name cards,” Saetan
said.
He crawled around
until he was fairly sure he’d gotten them all. Then he picked up
the first box.
“That one is yours,”
Saetan said.
“Mine?”
Warm pleasure flowed
through him. A present. From his father.
As he started to coax
the top part of the box off, Saetan reached over and clamped one
hand on the box, holding it shut. When Saetan released the box . .
.
Daemon wiggled the
lid, then looked up in disbelief. “You locked the box. You
Craft-locked my present.”
“On Winsol, when the
gifts are being opened, this is your present,” Saetan said. “Until
then, it’s still my box. And it stays locked.”
Fine. Ha! Saetan wore
the Black. So did he. He wasn’t going to let . . .
There was some Red
power twisted into the Black, changing a simple lock into a
deviously elegant puzzle that would have to be untangled in order
to open the box.
“You locked my
present,” Daemon said, feeling sulky. “I’m an adult, and you locked
my present.”
“You’re a son who was
about to open a present before it was time to open the present,”
Saetan replied mildly. Then he looked pointedly at the hourglass.
“Do you really want to argue about this right now?”
He had to think about
that for a minute.
“Find the name tag,”
Saetan said, taking the box from him.
After handing that
over too, he sat back on his heels.
Saetan set the piece
of wrapping paper on the box and smoothed out the wrinkles. “You
and Lucivar should be the ones handing out the gifts. Each person
won’t notice one gift wrapped like this, but anyone handling
several . . .”
As he watched, the
wrapping paper grew out of the scrap and formed around the
box.
“It’s best to work
out your own illusion spell for this,” Saetan said. “That way,
you’ll be able to do it quickly, since it usually needs to be done quickly.”
The illusion spell
was good. If he hadn’t seen the paper forming around the box, he
doubted he would have noticed the difference in texture. He wasn’t
sure how someone “unwrapped” an illusion, but he’d find out on the
day.
All the wrappings had
been restored, he’d gathered up the rest of the scraps of paper and
vanished the disposable gift, and he still had a few grains of sand
left in the hourglass when he stood up and brushed himself
off.
Saetan vanished the
hourglass and returned the chair to its usual spot in the
room.
They were both
standing there, guarding the mound of perfectly wrapped presents,
when Marian and Jaenelle walked into the room.
Jaenelle studied the
two of them. Marian walked over to the tree, pursed her lips, then
reached between two gifts and picked something up.
“The Prince and I
have something to discuss, so we’ll leave you Ladies to finish
sorting out the gifts,” Saetan said.
*We have something to
discuss?* Daemon asked on a spear thread.
*Yes, we
do.*
Judging by Saetan’s
tone, he wasn’t expecting a pleasant discussion, but anything was
better than staying in that room.
He reached the door
when Marian said, “Daemon?”
Saetan left the room.
Having no other safe choice, Daemon turned and waited for the
Eyrien hearth witch.
There was something
purely female about her expression as she walked up to him, adding
to the impression that she was laughing at him.
He broke out in a
cold sweat.
“You missed a piece,”
she whispered as she held up a scrap of wrapping
paper.
He took the paper,
vanished it—and fled.
Catching up with
Saetan, the two men retreated to the study, where Lucivar met
them.
“I promised Kaelas
and Jaal I’d get them a steer for Winsol dinner if they don’t let
Daemonar out of the room where I stashed him,” Lucivar
said.
“You promised them
the equivalent amount of meat or a live animal?” Saetan
asked.
“Apparently it
doesn’t taste as good if it’s already cut up,” Lucivar muttered.
“Or maybe it wasn’t as much fun to eat. They were a little vague
about that.”
“I see.” Saetan
delicately cleared his throat. “So you will get them to promise
that they won’t eat their dinner within
sight of the dining room windows, won’t you?”
Lucivar’s mouth
opened and closed, but no sounds came out.
“Mother Night,”
Daemon said. If people lost their appetites because a
six-hundred-pound tiger and an eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat
were gorging on a fresh kill, Mrs. Beale would . . .
He wasn’t going to
consider what Mrs. Beale would do to him and Lucivar.
“I’m almost sorry I’m
going to miss this,” Saetan said with a smile.
“Almost.”
In a heartbeat,
Lucivar went from stumbling man to warrior. He shifted—one easy
side step that effectively blocked any escape through the
door.
Daemon moved in the
other direction, drawing the eye, keeping the prey focused on what
was in front of him instead of the danger behind him.
He and Lucivar had
played out this game dozens of times. Hundreds of times. Once they
had their prey caught between them . . . Concentrate on one of
them, and the other one would be the attacker.
Saetan watched him.
Being an intelligent man, he would know exactly what his sons were
doing—and what role remained in their little three-person
drama.
“I won’t be joining
you for Winsol,” Saetan said quietly. “I stopped by today to drop
off the gifts—and to tell you I’ll be staying at the
Keep.”
“No,” Lucivar
said.
“I don’t want to
discuss this,” Saetan said, still watching Daemon. “I don’t want to
argue about this. I’m asking you to accept this.”
“Why?” Daemon asked
softly.
“I love you both. I
do. But this . . . frenzy . . . is for young men.”
“Well, Hell’s fire,”
Lucivar growled. “We’re not going to drag you to parties and things
you don’t want to attend.” He looked at Daemon.
“Right?”
“It’s not just that,”
Saetan said. Then he raked one hand through his hair and sighed. “I
did this. For decades, for centuries, I did this. The large
parties. The social functions that I attended because it was
expected of me as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Houseguests and
noise. You both have those responsibilities now, and that’s as it
should be. But this year, I want peace during the longest night of
the year. I want to walk in solitude through one of the gardens at
the Keep. I want this. And I think I’ve earned this.”
Before Lucivar could
snarl about it, Daemon said on a spear thread, *Don’t argue about
it. Let it go.*
A slashing look was
Lucivar’s only answer.
“That’s really what
you want?” Daemon asked Saetan.
“It really is.”
Saetan’s smile held a hint of sorrow—not for the decision, but for
the argument he anticipated was still to come. “I don’t expect you
to understand, but I’m asking you—both of you—to accept. As a gift
to me.”
Daemon waited a beat,
as if he were discussing it privately with Lucivar. Then he said,
“All right. We’ll accept your decision—as our gift.”
“Thank you.” Saetan
turned and raised an eyebrow at Lucivar, who reluctantly stepped
aside.
The moment the study
door closed behind their father, Lucivar turned on Daemon. “Are we
really letting him do this? We’re going to let our father be alone
for Winsol?”
“Yes, we are,” Daemon
replied, moving closer. “He’s feeling his age, Prick. Andulvar,
Mephis, and Prothvar are gone. Being here without them is hard. You
know that was a large part of his decision to retire to the
Keep.”
“They were gone last
year too,” Lucivar argued.
“He was taking care
of us last year. Me more than you. Jaenelle was so fragile, and I .
. .”Wasn’t sure she would survive the winter. Wasn’t sure he would
want to survive if she didn’t.
“I know.” Lucivar
drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I don’t like it. He
shouldn’t be alone on Winsol. None of them should, when it comes
down to it. Geoffrey, Draca. Even Lorn. They shouldn’t be alone.
Not for this celebration.”
“They won’t
be.”
Lucivar frowned. “But
you gave him your word.”
Daemon nodded. “He
asked for a solitary Winsol, and we’ll give him that. Or something
close to it. But we’ll find a way to give him family too. All of
them.”
“When you figure out
how to do that, you’ve got me for whatever you need.”
He smiled. “I love
you, Prick.”
That lazy, arrogant
smile. “Will you still say that if I decide to pour the
contraceptive brew down the sink?”
“Yes. But not as
often.”
Daemon eyed the plate
of fudge that had ended up between Marian and Jaenelle and decided
trying to take a piece wasn’t worth losing a hand. So he chose
grapes and cheese to go with his after-dinner coffee.
It had been a fairly
quiet dinner since Daemonar had fallen asleep halfway through the
meal. Now that he wasn’t moving, he looked sweet and cuddly. At
some point during the day, he had acquired a string of bells that
he was wearing around his neck as his “Jewel.”
Daemon smiled at the
sleeping boy. Daemonar had been delighted with the jingling sound.
He and Lucivar had been even more delighted when they realized how
easy it was to locate the little beast. Neither man had much hope
of convincing Marian to make the bells a permanent accessory for
the boy, but they were sure going to try to talk her into
it.
“So,” Jaenelle said
as she selected a piece of fudge. “I think we’re ready for
Winsol.”
“I think we are,”
Marian agreed.
“And I think the two
of you are handling the High Lord’s decision very well,” Daemon
said, raising his coffee cup in a salute.
“Decision?” Jaenelle
asked. “Oh! That reminds me. Papa did say there was something the
two of you needed to talk to us about.”
Daemon felt the meal
he’d just eaten solidify into solid rock and sink his stomach to
the floor.
*He didn’t,* Lucivar
said on a spear thread.
*Oh, I think he did,*
Daemon replied. He looked at Jaenelle and Marian—and wondered if he
could run fast enough to get out of the room before one or both
exploded. “He didn’t say anything to either of you?” “About what?”
Jaenelle asked.
“About not joining us
for Winsol?”
Their answer was a
thunderous silence.
Wearing nothing but a
long winter robe, Daemon slipped into the bedroom and joined
Jaenelle, who was standing at the glass door that overlooked her
private courtyard. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her back
against him to keep her warm and rubbed his cheek against her short
golden hair.
“Are you upset about
Father’s decision?” he asked.
“A little,” she
replied. “But not surprised once I had time to think about
it.”
Something more. He
could see it in her face, reflected in the glass.
“Before I reached the
age of majority, there were parties,” Jaenelle said. “Lots of them.
The coven was still living here most of the time. The boyos too.
Saetan attended an exhausting number of formal celebrations as the
Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and stood as my escort for almost as many
others. Then the coven and the boyos would go home to celebrate
Winsol with their families.
“A dazzling whirl of
people for six days. But on the eve of Winsol, just before
midnight, Saetan would bring two cups of blooded rum to my sitting
room. A toast to the living myth. I always found it embarrassing,
being toasted like that. And then we would dance. A court dance.
Very formal. Very traditional. A pattern that was only performed
during this time of year.
“The next evening,
the longest night of the year, was for family. No visitors. No
outsiders. Just Mephis, Prothvar, Uncle Andulvar, Papa, and me. A
simple dinner. Afterward, we would open the gifts from each
other.”
“I don’t remember you
and the High Lord having a private celebration,” he
said.
“We didn’t these past
two years. He stepped aside. For you.”
“I see,” Daemon said
quietly. And he did. The Steward yielding to the Consort. The
father yielding to the lover. The fact that he was the lover must
have weighed heavily in Saetan’s decision.
He looked at their
reflection in the glass. It was like watching Jaenelle delicately
unwrap layers of her heart.
“What else?” he
asked.
“Those years were a
dazzle of people during Winsol,” she said. “A kaleidoscope of
colors and faces. Even more so after I became the Queen of Ebon
Askavi and had my own list of social events to attend as part of my
duties as Queen. But the moment I remember clearly, the moment that
stands out from each of those years, is that dance with
Saetan.”
“I’m sorry,
sweetheart. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell
me.”
He saw her lips press
together in a tight line, could feel her breath shudder in and out.
He held her and waited, watching their reflection.
“One day I’m going to
wake up and realize I’ve gotten old.” She lifted her left hand.
“You knew when you gave me this ring what the difference in our
races would mean.”
“Some people spend a
few years together and then part for one reason or another. Others
have a few decades. And other people have a lifetime. I know what
the difference in our races means, Lady. I’ll take every day that
you’re willing to give me.”
She nodded. “That’s
the point. You have social duties. We
have social duties. But I don’t want these days to be a blur of
events and faces. I want memories, Daemon. Of you. Of us. I want
those clear moments that the heart holds on to. With
you.”
“And with
him.”
“Yes. With him too.
You waited seventeen hundred years for the Queen you wanted to
serve. Saetan waited fifty thousand.”
“A few days out of
this celebration for just the two of us? That’s really what you
want?”
“Yes, that’s really
what I want.”
Something inside him
relaxed. He kissed her temple. “Then that’s what we’ll do. And we
can start with this.” He called in a rectangular box and held it
out.
Jaenelle shook her
head and turned as she took a step away from him. “We open the
gifts on Winsol.”
Daemon smiled a very
special smile—and watched her blush in response to it. “You need to
open this one now so you can plan ahead for when you’ll use
it.”
She hesitated, then
took the box and opened it.
Watching her, he
swallowed the urge to laugh and wondered how long she would stare
at that little bit of nothing.
Finally she lifted
the triangle of richly embroidered gold fabric out of the box.
“What . . . ?”
“The ribbons circle
your hips,” he said helpfully.
“Oh.” She vanished
the box and held the triangle in position. “Oh.”
Seeing that bit of
nothing in place, even held over a bulky winter robe, was enough to
make his blood simmer.
“I thought we could
have a private dinner sometime during Winsol,” Daemon said. “You
could wear that under the dress you had made for our dance in the
spooky house. Nothing but that.”
Even the thought of
seeing her in that wisp of a dress made his cock hard.
Blushing and still
looking baffled, she said, “This is my present?”
He wrapped his arms
around her and pulled her close, leaving her in no doubt about the
kind of memories he wanted to make tonight.
“No, lover,” he
purred. “This is my
present.”