Page 83 of Never Been Gargoyled
Feydin watched me fold sweaters with the same intensity he'd probably once used while studying legal documents. His gray eyes tracked my every movement, like he was memorizing the way I smoothed wrinkles from fabric or the particular way I tucked sleeves.
“You know,” I glanced up at him perched on the edge of the bed, “most people don't find laundry folding that fascinating.”
His wings shifted against his back. “I find everything you do fascinating.”
“Even when I'm being neurotic about perfect cornerson fitted sheets?”
“Especially then.”
I laughed despite the knot of anxiety in my belly. “You're weird, Feydin. But I like weird.”
“Good,” he said seriously. “Because I plan to be weird around you for a very long time.”
The way he said it made my chest ache in a good way. Whatever happened with the estate, we had each other.
But I still held my breath every time the phone rang.
On Friday morning, while I was making pancakes in the cottage's tiny kitchen, Feydin's phone buzzed. I watched his face change as he read the message, his expression shifting from neutral to something I couldn't interpret.
“What is it?” I asked, flipping a lopsided pancake.
“Judge Harrison's clerk. She wants to see us at the courthouse this afternoon.”
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles. “This afternoon? Alright. What do you think she’ll tell us?”
He set down his phone and came over to where I stood at the stove. “I don't know.”
I nodded, though I wasn't sure I could actually speak around the lump in my throat. The pancake I'd been flipping was starting to smoke.
“The pancake,” Feydin said gently.
“Right. Pancake.” I scraped it off the pan, adding it to the growing pile of breakfast casualties. “I'm not really hungry anymore.”
“Neither am I.”
We spent the morning in a strange kind of limbo,pretending to read books and making conversation that didn't quite stick. Feydin kept flexing his wings in a way that I was learning meant he was agitated, and I couldn't sit still for more than five minutes at a time.
Thirty minutes before the appointed time, he flew us to the courthouse.
“Whatever happens,” I said as we walked up the front steps, “I want you to know that these past few weeks have been the best of my life.”
Feydin stopped and turned to face me. “Don't talk like it's over.”
“But what if?—”
“No.” He cupped my face in his hands, stroking my cheekbones. “Whatever the judge decides, it's not done for us. The estate doesn't define what we have.”
“I know. I just… I wanted to say it. In case I forget to do so later.”
He kissed me, soft and sweet and full of promises I desperately wanted to believe.
Inside, we were directed to Judge Harrison's chambers rather than the courtroom. Rebecca was already there with her lawyer, both looking tense. Rebecca's perfect composure seemed to have cracked around the edges.
Judge Harrison gestured for us to sit. “I've reviewed all the evidence presented in this case, including the letters and medical records discovered by Mr. Budiere.”
My heart surged against my ribcage. Feydin's hand found mine under the table, linking our hands together.
“The question before this court,” the judge said, “iswhether Helga Morrison's will accurately reflects her true intentions, or whether her biological daughter has a stronger claim to the estate.”
