Page 54 of Never the Roses

And when she dreamed, they were all her own.

The next day brought a messenger.

Oneira knelt in the garden, diligently weeding the peas, occasionally pausing in the task to stake up a stray vine. They were flowering, the blossoms colorful and sweet smelling. Lounging in the shade nearby, Tristan recited an epic poem for her that she hadn’t heard before. She did enjoy listening to his tales. With his fluid voice mingling with the distant surf and the humming of bees, the sun warm on her back, and fertile earth beneath her, she was relaxed, even happy. The arousing conversation with Stearanos felt like a pleasant daydream, immediate in the keen pleasure of that shimmering, lively desire, distant enough to be simply a remembered pleasure. She could indulge in her memories of him in the loveliest way.

Then her wards pinged.

For a moment—brief, but far longer than she liked—she actually hoped it was Stearanos. Foolish of her, as Stearanos didn’t politely knock. Stearanos didn’t do polite anything. No, thatwasn’t fair. Once they’d established their truce, he’d been excruciatingly correct with her. With the exception of some startlingly frank conversation.

Oneira kicked herself for the palpable disappointment she experienced. She should berelievedit wasn’t him. But if this wasn’t him, then…

Her wards pinged again, more insistently. Focusing her senses, she arrowed her attention to the familiar point on the road to the world of men, from whence Tristan had come and should have returned already. Why had she even kept the road? She should fill it with forest. Nothing good came of the wretched thing.

That opinion was only confirmed by what she saw: a young man in the queen’s livery.

Internally she groaned, once again cursing Stearanos. This had to be all his fault. She didn’t know exactly how, but she had no doubt it was. She’d love to ignore the messenger. Or, better yet, fry him on the spot with a judicious bit of lightning from the Dream, though that would violate her resolve not to cause any more deaths and, besides, the poor manwasonly the messenger. She could summon a nightmare to chase him away, however, with no lasting damage done.

She discarded that impulse immediately. If she didn’t receive the message, the queen would only send more and more. It had never mattered to the queen that Oneira turned her messengers away, unanswered. Zarja simply continued to hurl missives at her like squirrels barraging interlopers with nuts. Better to find out what Her Majesty wanted, send a polite, but firm refusal, and go back to her quiet life.

Waving Tristan to silence, she stood. “There’s a messenger at the road,” she explained, brushing the dirt off her hands.

Tristan bounced to his feet with enviable agility and swept her a florid bow. “I can go for you, my lady.”

“I need to go down and release the wards,” she reminded him.

“You let me through the wards from the house.” His brow furrowed. “Though I suppose you never have shown me the mechanism.”

And never will.She gave him a pleasant smile, tempted to pat him on the cheek, but she’d established a no-physical-contact rule between them and intended to keep it. Not that she was tempted by him any longer, but she wearied of fending off his advances. “I don’t intend to let a messengerinsidethe wards. He can pass along the message and be on his way again.” She wasn’t letting anyone else, anyone human, inside her wards. Look what had happened with the two exceptions.

“But, my lady, what if he is required to wait for a reply?”

“Then he can wait for a reply.”

“On the road?” Tristan sounded almost plaintive.

“I assume he is equipped to pass the night outdoors, if necessary,” she replied caustically. “If not, he can journey back to the nearest village.”

“A day’s ride away!”

“Then back to wherever he came from this morning,” she replied implacably, attempting not to lose her patience. Oneira wasn’t accustomed to being questioned and Tristan had grown far too familiar with her. Past time for him to move on. Fortunately, Galahad had nearly healed enough for the journey. “Why do you care, Tristan?”

“It would just be nice to have some new company,” he answered, a hair away from sullen.

“I’m sorry my company is so tedious.”

“I didn’t mean—”

She waved him off as the wards pinged again, insistently. “I can always send my reply to Her Majesty with you. Then you can be back at her court and in all the stimulating company you like.”

“This is the queen’s messenger?” he squeaked in equal parts alarm and excited glee. “My lady is a confidante of Her Majesty?”

Oneira regretted the slip. This was one of the many reasons that prevaricating, even lying by omission, landed one in a tangled web. “Not a confidante,” she corrected. “But I have, on certain occasions, performed services for the crown. Now, wait for me here.” She stopped short of telling him to be a good boy, and sighed at herself for ever contemplating bedding him. She blamed Stearanos for that, too, whether it made any sense or not.

“But I should go along to protect you,” Tristan protested weakly.

“I have my animals.” She walked away, Adsila winging in to light on her shoulder, Bunny bounding up from the sea steps, dripping wet and shaking himself dry. Moriah melted in from the shadows, black fur hot from whatever spot the cat had found to sunbathe in. Their presence would keep Tristan away. He tried to pretend the animals didn’t frighten him, but it was clear there was no love lost between any of them. Her animals tolerated him and left him mostly alone, which was all she required of them.

Oneira unlocked the gates, passed through, and locked them behind her. The path wound down the hillside to the road. Not far. Stearanos was at least partially right in mocking her ward-building ability; she hadn’t been able to construct them at as great a distance from the house as she’d have liked, and he’d reconstructed them along the same boundaries.

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