Page 90 of Fate

She hated to study. Wanted a life much like her mother’s. With children and a place in the market. With people all about her that she knew and knew her in return.

She did not want to be locked away with books and men like Oberon.

Maybe that made her a coward. Made her like all the rest that chose other pursuits over the noble—and necessary—rule of law.

She’d have to be like Vandran. Trust that Lucian would look out for her. For the people like her.

Which did not seem so daunting a prospect as it once had.

???

She found him in their new bed.

She hadn’t meant to take so long. She’d merely grown distracted by deciding where to put the plates in the cupboard. Not that there were so many options, as it was of a modest size, but every time she had decided, she stood back and considered and tried again.

Maybe she’d have Mama come tomorrow. Give her opinion.

Which then led to many more considerations, like should she make something to welcome her? Or let it be simple since they were still settling in?

Da could come, but he did not know what to do with himself when he did not have some metalwork to tinker with. She was not certain she was ready for her new dining table to be covered in shavings and dust so soon.

That led to delving into her trunk for linens. Ones she’d made longer ago than she cared to admit. One corner was not sewn as well, her skill improving as she continued. She could make out which flower had been stitched first, as its petals were not nearly as symmetrical as the ones she had completed last. But she spread it out anyway, proud of her younger self, and the woman she was now, because at last she had a table to use it on, with a mate upstairs that she probably had left for longer than was reasonable.

She did not expect to see him stretched out on top of the bedclothes. On a bed he’d made himself, she thought with a guilty sort of pang. But she pushed it away as firmly as she could. He could make their bed, and she could set up their kitchen. Not everything must be done together.

“Sorry,” she murmured, taking in the state of the room. There were wardrobes. Two of them. To hang clothes rather than keep them in trunks. Which spoke of permanence. No longer at theready to be whisked away by a mate to a new home. She could unpack and...

Her eyes narrowed.

“Did you unpack my things?”

She went to her trunk and lifted the lid. Most were still in place, and when she opened the wardrobe, only her newest dress was hanging upon a peg. Just to look at it sent a knot into her stomach, her emotions so terribly conflicted about a bit of fabric. She liked the memory of the tailor well enough. Of Lucian helping her to make her selection. Of him wanting to provide her something nice—even indulgent.

But then there was the rest of it. The afterward. Of a wretched supper and horrible threats, and she wondered if she’d ever be able to purge those feelings from a dress that had done nothing wrong, had only wanted to flutter and clothe her.

“I started,” Lucian began absently from his place on the bed. “Then I couldn’t decide if you’d be cross having your things gone through.”

He turned a page of the book he’d propped on his chest. “Oh.” Cross was too strong a word. But she would have been sorry not to move her things herself. To fuss and place them just so. Full of confidence that they would not be packed away again for a long time to come. “You could have,” she assured him. “Though I probably would have changed things about a little.”

He hummed, and she went to the bed, wondering at his manner. A little too detached, a little too disinterested in her.

Had she hurt him somehow? She hadn’t meant to. Maybe it was all the talk with her parents about settling in. That shecouldtalk with her parents about it. To share their excitement, to make promises about suppers and tours and the like.

It prompted her to cross to her side of the bed. To sprawl out beside him, her back propped against the pillows.

Taken from home. The mattress had been supplied, as well as the frame, but all the linens had been stripped and flown over from home.

She didn’t mind. Preferred it, actually.

“Lucian,” she began, her voice low with sympathy. “Is something...” Her attention went from his face to the page he was reading.

Her mouth dropped open.

And she reached for it with nothing but outrage, compassion utterly forgotten.

“What are you doing with my book?”

It wasn’t a screech. It wasn’t. But it was nearer than was proper, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when she was flushed all over with mortification as he was looking at the very diagrams she had studied in her earlier days. When she’d grown curious and insistent that she wanted to know the way of men and women. When Mama’s explanations had led only to more confusion, so Da had presented her withthatbook and no reason at all.

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