Page 63 of The High Mountain Court

A human man opened the door. “Carys!” he said, grabbing the warrior and wrapping her into a tight hug. “It’s been months since we last saw you. How are you?”

“I’m good.” Carys laughed as the human put her back down. “I’m only in town for a couple nights, but I was hoping I could stay over. I brought a friend.”

The human man peered around Carys to size up Remy. He was middle-aged and lean but looked strong. His shaggy brown hair was beginning to gray at the temples along with his thick brown beard. He smiled at Remy, and it made her fidget with the bow in her hand.

“Remy, this is my brother-in-law, Magnus. Magnus, this is Remy.” Carys introduced them.

Magnus put out his hand and Remy shook it. His hands were rough with calluses from his unknown profession. “Pleasure to meet you, Remy.”

“Likewise,” Remy said. She felt wary. No stranger was kind to her. Magnus probably thought she was a human and not a witch.

“Come on in, Morgan’s just put the kettle on,” Magnus said, ushering them inside.

The townhouse was modest, with plain wood floorboards and peeling wallpaper, but it felt warm and welcoming. Magnus led them down the hallway through the home, ending in a sizable kitchen.

“Carys!” Small, delighted voices shouted as three small children bombarded Carys. She dropped to one knee to scoop them all into a giggling hug.

The woman at the stove turned, brushing her hands on her apron. She was a striking middle-aged blonde woman, the same color hair and blue eyes as her sister, though her cheeks and jaw line were softer. Her ears were longer at the top but didn’t taper into the fae peaks at the end. It was so strange to see ears looking somewhere between human and fae. She was much shorter than Carys, too, her figure was more filled out with motherly curves rather than Carys’s muscular soldier’s physique. But the familial link was clear—they were sisters.

“Hi,” the woman said, turning to Remy and shaking her hand. “I’m Morgan.”

“Remy,” she replied.

“Nice to meet you, Remy,” Morgan said. She had a tender countenance, very different from her sister in that regard as well. Morgan looked to the heap of children clamoring over Carys. “My eldest is Matthew,” she said, nodding to the boy with flaxen blond hair and warm brown eyes. He stood in the middle of his siblings. “Then Maxwell and little Molly.”

Remy smiled. They all had names beginning with the letter M. Her own siblings all had names beginning with the same letter. Some rolled their eyes at the tradition, but she had loved it. It had made them feel like one solid family unit.

“Have you brought us anything?” Maxwell asked. He would have looked the twin of his sibling were it not for him being an entire head shorter. Matthew nudged him. He had that well-mannered confidence of the eldest child.

Carys laughed. “I’d never forget to bring you something.” She raised a conspiratorial eyebrow as she pilfered through her pack. The boys lit up with excitement. The youngest, Molly, couldn’t have been over three. She played with her golden hair braided over her shoulders as she looked to her brothers, more interested in their reactions than the presents brought for them.

Something in Remy ached at that look Molly gave the older boys. She remembered that feeling so well, like her older brothers hung the sun in the sky, with her following their lead like a duckling, to their great frustration.

“Gifts from the West,” Carys said as she produced a bundle of cloth from her pack. Unwrapping it, she produced three small clay disks, a string loop attached to the top of each one. A different detailed little painting covered the face of each ornament. She handed the painting of a falcon with a fish in its talons to Matthew, a moon and constellations to Maxwell, and an oak tree brilliant with autumn colors to Molly. Remy wasn’t sure why she had chosen each painting for each child, but they seemed to be delighted with her selections.

Carys had brought these gifts all the way from the Western Court. They had been in her pack for weeks, undamaged during the endless hiking and riding. Remy thought back to how mindful she was not to sit on her pack round the fires like the rest of them. It now made sense. Carys had brought those clay ornaments all this way. She had been thinking of them this whole time.

“All right you three, go wash up for dinner.” Morgan’s voice cut above the din of her squealing children.

Morgan and Carys hugged each other at last, a long, beautiful hug that Remy yearned for. The children did as they were told, rumbling down the hallway and up the stairs to prepare for dinner.

The tightness in Remy’s muscles loosened. She felt that loving warmth as if it hung in the air. It was the feeling of being in a family.

* * *

After the children washed, they all crushed in to eat dinner around the kitchen table. A fae, a witch, a halfling, and a human sat at the table. It sounded like the beginning of a joke. Two chairs had magically appeared from somewhere in the house. Although the house was a bit run down, there was a sense that they loved the home. A patchwork of paintings hung on the walls. Baskets filled with grains and fresh produce were tucked into the corners. A mishmash of painted teacups hung on hooks on the wall. Evidence of three young children was everywhere: toys, drawings, and shoes strewn about the floor. It was happily chaotic and brimming with love.

Morgan prepared a delicious meal for them. The stew was hearty and spiced to perfection, the bread fresh and spongy. They carried on pleasant conversations, Carys telling the children exaggerated stories of all the places she had traveled. Morgan and Magnus seemed to understand that Remy didn’t want to answer questions about her life, so they chatted about their own. Magnus was a carpenter. He owned a shop on the high street selling ornate dining sets to his Eastern fae patrons. Morgan was a seamstress and repaired other humans’ clothing at night when the children were sleeping. They talked about their lives in such simple terms. Magnus would ruffle Maxwell’s hair, and Morgan would rub a hand down her husband’s back. Such mild, affectionate touches. It was a family.

The shadows grew long, and the bowls of stew disappeared. Remy lost herself to the fantasy of what a family would be like—to sit around a large dining table with loved ones and friends. Heather and Fenrin would be there, her children chasing each other around the table. She would sit with a swollen belly, her third child, and her husband would rest a warm hand on it and beam at her with happiness. She knew that husband’s face, though she dare not admit it to herself. They would laugh and eat until the candles burned out.

And as they did, that daydream twisted into one of smoke and screams. Northern guards running in as she ran to cover her children . . .

“Remy?” Carys’s voice snapped her out of her waking nightmare. “You want any more bread before I finish it?”

Carys held out the breadbasket to her. Remy shook the visions from her mind. It was a fantasy to think she could ever have something like that. Until the Northern King was dead, she would know no peace.

“No thanks,” Remy said, forcing a smile. “I’m stuffed.” She turned to Morgan and Magnus, “It was delici— ”

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