Page 50 of Fate

And the cheese. But she would not tell him that.

???

They did not eat in the kitchen.

It should not have seemed strange to be led into a chamber whose solitary purpose was seating a great many people while they dined. There was a long table, a great hearth, the fire stoked high and almost overly warm in the mild spring evening.

There was a grand fixture of candles overtop the table rather than a few lamps settled down its middle. Which was needed, she supposed, since the interior of the table was full near to bursting with platters of food.

She did not ask if his mother had fixed such a feast herself. That would be ordinary, and this family did not believe in such things.

Did not believe in mating outside their circles either, she thought bitterly to herself, but knew better than to voice it to the man beside her.

His mother approached them first, pressing her cheek against his briefly before moving to Firen. “You look lovely, dear.” Then she did the same to Firen—not a kiss, but motherly in a cool sort of way.

“Thank you,” Firen answered, smiling. Wanting to swish the fabric so it might be admired for the finery it was, but restrained herself.

Ellena patted her arm briefly before drifting off toward the other guests. Lucian had spoken of each branch of his family. The brothers of his father, their mates and children.

Dead, most of them.

Which had stirred Firen to offer some sort of comfort, even for people she had never met, but Lucian shook his head and rolled his shoulders. “It will be to our benefit. He cannot afford to disown too many of us, not when there are few left to carry on his house.”

The whole prospect still baffled Firen, when it seemed of such little importance to her. The tower was grand and old, and she did not doubt that the work Lucian and his father performed was of great importance to the governance of the city.

But it was still simply a tower. Made of stone and hard labour. And they were still only people inside, same as any other.

And yet her stomach fluttered strangely as Lucian guided her toward the others, in a way that was new and unfamiliar. And decidedly unpleasant.

His mother’s sister. Nearly identical, save for her darker hair and wings. Then there was the quiet man slightly behind her, with a long, severe face, and he kept his hand on his mate’s shoulder in a way that appeared imposing rather than affectionate.

Their children. Two males, both of which took very much after their father, who felt comfortable eyeing her up and down in a way that felt disrespectful. She could only imagine how she might have felt if she was wearing the dress with the high slit and the low neck.

Then...

A daughter. Seated already, although she was tucked behind her parents, so Firen had not noticed her at first.

A familiar face, in a sea of unfriendliness.

Not that she gave any recognition as she turned her attention to Firen. She did not rise, just as she had not at the fete. But she nodded her head and watched as Firen’s eyes brightened, and she cast a worried look toward her mother.

Orma, wasn’t it?

She had to stifle the impulse to go to her immediately. To take her hand and thank her and accuse her all at once for advice that Firen was grateful for and resentful of in equal measure from moment to moment.

That Orma should not have been at thecommonfete was a thought that settled slowly.

And Firen could cause trouble if she revealed it.

Then there were more eyes on her, as conversations were abandoned in order to stare instead at the newcomer. A few from Oberon’s side—all with their pale hair and dark wings. Their children utterly lacking in warmth as they regarded her. Some were mated, others were not.

There were no fledglings present, and she wondered if that meant they had not been blessed in such a way yet, or if they simply were not permitted to attend. She would have liked the distraction, the bonds that came from watching a tiny person flutter about in unabashed excitement. She could not imagine a child looking at her the way the rest of them were.

“A pleasure,” she declared, placing a hand on her chest and bowing her head. It wasn’t, but she could pretend that it was. And Lucian had not yet chosen to speak, and while he had—gently—suggested that she allow him to direct most of the conversation, he had not forbidden her from what niceties proper manners afforded.

They looked.

Some scowled. Evidently a trait common to this family.

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