“Exactly.”
“Prince, that makes no sense.”
“Thank the Darkness for that.” Daemon raised his wineglass in a salute. “If this sounded reasonable to you, I was going to have to concede that it was male thinking that was getting in the way of my understanding, but if you don’t understand it either . . .”
“So no input at all?” she asked.
“Lucivar and I get to host and pay for the party that will be held when the book is published. That is our contribution.” He growled the last words. He couldn’t help it.
“This frustration at not being allowed to help is very . . . Sceltie . . . of you,” Zhara observed, fighting not to smile.
“It is a trait Warlord Princes share with that race of the Blood.” He drained his wineglass and set it aside. “But if you want to observe the pinnacle of being insistently helpful in the face of refusal, try to deal with a Sceltie who is a Warlord Prince. He doesn’t allow anything to get in his way—including the opinions of the foolish human he’s decided to help.”
Zhara eyed him. “Is this a longstanding observation, or have you been cornered recently?”
“Both. Would you like coffee in the sitting room?” When she hesitated, Daemon added, “Or my study?”
“The study,” Zhara replied. “This discussion is both a personal favor and an official request that I am relaying.”
Unlike Jaenelle Saetien, Zhara recognized the balance between the personal and official and settled into one of the comfortable chairs on the social side of his study. Daemon waited until Helton brought in the tray with coffee and a plate of desserts. He handed Zhara a cup of coffee fixed the way she liked it, then poured a cup for himself and waited.
“The Hourglass has always taken care of the Black Widows who become lost in the tangled webs of dreams and visions,” Zhara began. “Now they have a concern, and they asked me to speak with you because my daughter is one of those they are concerned about.”
Daemon set his cup and saucer back on the tray. “I thought she was recovering.”
“She is, along with a handful of others. But it’s difficult for Sheela to see the Sisters who are still lost and be reminded right now that she’d been one of them. It’s difficult not to feel some guilt that she had found her way out and they have not.”
“She couldn’t do anything about that. Your daughter followed a song in the Darkness. It led her back to the border of the Twisted Kingdom. Led her out of the Twisted Kingdom.” He knew what that felt like. He’d regained his sanity by following the path Jaenelle Angelline had laid out for him when he’d been lost in madness.
“Feelings are not always rational,” Zhara said. “The Sisters of the Hourglass who run that home for the lost all agree that the witches who have recently returned need to live somewhere else, a place where they can relearn the routines of day-to-day living and participate in a village in some way.”
“And they think Halaway is the place for those women to regain that balance?” Daemon asked. He couldn’t think of another reason why Zhara would be talking to him about this.
“The strongest Black Widow Healers among the caretakers looked into tangled webs for the answer, so the Sisters know those women should be in Halaway. They said that village will be the most dangerous place in Dhemlan, and that will make it the safest place to live. Because of you.”
Daemon sighed. Apparently the Black Widows in Dhemlan weren’t the only ones who had seen something coming.
He selected one of the miniature desserts. “Surreal owns a house in the village. She’s rented it to a number of people over the years. I’ll talk to her about turning it into a home for a small number of Black Widows who need some time readjusting to daily life.” Better if he was the one to discuss this with Surreal. She strongly objected to being nipped into giving the desired answer, and the decision had already been made—without any help from the humans.
He suspected Zhara would find his next comment amusing. Then again, she hadn’t been the one who’d been cornered. “A handful of Scelties showed up soon after Tersa reacted badly to a vision.” That was as far as he was willing to explain to anyone about what had been said and seen. “Two of them are going to live with Tersa and Mikal. The Warlord will help Mikal teach the puppies. The witch is a journeymaid Black Widow who is going to help—and learn from—Tersa.”
“Oh, my.” Zhara looked at her hands. “Do they . . . ?”
“Have a snake tooth and venom sac like human Black Widows? I do not know. I asked, and my answer was bright eyes and a wagging tail.” He’d found it unsettling to realize that, until she had shown up, he’d never seen a Black Widow Sceltie. He knew they existed, but if any of them had gone to the Sceltie school, they’d either left before their caste was apparent or they had learned to hide what they were very, very well.
“Oh, dear. Does anyone know about kindred Black Widows who could tell you?”
Daemon gave her a sour look. “Does anyone know about them? Oh, yes, I’m sure of that. Will those Ladies share that information? That is a different question.”
“But you’re . . .” Zhara looked at him. Considered. “Yes. Of course. Can’t exactly pull rank on anyone at the Keep, can you?”
“No, I can’t.” Daemon selected another dessert and popped it in his mouth. He’d have to mention to Helton that these were delicious—and remember to ask Mrs. Beale about providing sweets this size for the girls’ house party. “Anyway, the other three Scelties who arrived at the same time—one of them being a Warlord Prince—informed me that they would help the rest of the village until I brought the humans who needed them to their new house. Which is, or was, Surreal’s house since that is where they’ve taken up residence—an unexpected event that has encouraged the current tenants to leave as soon as possible.”
“Sweet Darkness.” Zhara put her cup down with a clatter. “They knew about Sheela and the other women who needed a new place to live.”
“Well, someone knew.” And he hoped his Queen was in the mood to chat when he arrived at the Keep tonight.
After promising to make the arrangements for the Black Widows’ residence in Halaway, he escorted Zhara to her carriage, made sure there was nothing Helton needed from him, and left the town house.
He stood on the sidewalk, studying the unoccupied side of the town house, then gave in to the need to know the boy’s state of mind. *Prince Yaslana.*
*Sir?* Daemonar replied instantly.
The boy didn’t sound unsettled, so the visit to the Keep had done him good.
*Where are you?* Daemon asked.
*With Beron. We spar a couple of times a week.*
*Not much room in his flat for sparring.*
*Close-quarters work. More Dea al Mon than Eyrien in style.* A beat of silence. *Uncle Daemon? Is there something I can do for you?*
*Not for me, but I had dinner with Lady Zhara this evening, and the cook was a bit too enthusiastic in the number of dishes she prepared, not to mention some excellent desserts that will go to waste if they aren’t eaten tonight.*
*Oh.* Another beat of silence. *Beron and I were just talking about going out for something to eat before I returned to the town house. It would be a shame to waste good food—or excellent desserts.*
*I’ll let Helton know to keep the food warm for you. I’m heading to the Keep now and will be returning to the Hall in the morning.*