He remembered how it had felt to want a place of his own—and how it felt when he’d moved out of SaDiablo Hall and into the eyrie when he became the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. He couldn’t fault her for that, but . . .
“One of the SaDiablo estates is next to the village, which is why Lady Surreal chose this location for the sanctuary,” Jillian continued. “And the village isn’t too big or too small. And this house has almost two acres of land. Plenty of space for me to put in a small garden and leave room for exercise and play.”
“‘Play’ meaning a Sceltie will be living with you?” It took effort, but Lucivar kept his voice mild.
Jillian held up two fingers. “One from the Little Weeble pack and the other from Scelt. They wanted a new experience.”
“Uh-huh.” Better with you than with me.
“The owner’s man of business assures me that, while some things could benefit from being updated, the house can be lived in right now. And I can have first consideration of the furniture the owner didn’t take with her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This is the price.” Jillian hesitated, then thrust a folded half sheet of paper at him.
What in the name of Hell did he know about the price of houses in a Dhemlan village? He lived on a mountain in Ebon Rih, and the only time he focused on what should be considered a reasonable amount of money was when he set his children’s quarterly allowances, reviewing them each year to make sure that what each child might want could be attained if spending choices were made wisely. The rest of it? The SaDiablo family’s wealth was so vast, he refused to think about it.
He eyed the man of business Jillian had spoken to when she first viewed the house. The man had backed off after realizing who he was and what his being there with Jillian meant. Lucivar figured the price was going to be adjusted to avoid Daemon’s sharp interest in this transaction. He also figured telling a young woman that the house could be lived in depended, again, on who was defining the terms.
A handful of men pulled up in a wagon, climbed down, and gave him a subtle bow.
“My witchling is interested in this house.” Lucivar used Craft to make sure his voice carried to the man of business—who bleated in alarm at Lucivar’s confirmation that Jillian was his witchling. “I’d like you, as skilled craftsmen, to go over the house and tell me what it would need to be livable.”
The men eyed Jillian, gave him a long look—and nodded. He’d summoned them because they all had some connection to the vineyards, the winery, or the other pieces of this SaDiablo estate. They’d know whose standards, besides his, defined “livable.”
“Don’t you want to see it?” Jillian asked, sounding anxious.
“Let the men take a look on their own. Show me around the outside.”
A low stone wall defined the boundaries of the property. Jillian pointed out a couple of places for gardens, both a kitchen garden and flowers. Plenty of room for sparring and for the Scelties to play.
“So what is it you’re going to do at this sanctuary for broken girls?” he asked.
She met his eyes. “Teach them how to fight. Show them that, even without the power they once had, they can be strong in a different way.”
Tension crackled between them.
“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked too softly.
“You taught me well. Now I want to teach them.”
That didn’t answer his question. Or maybe it did.
The men met them outside and gave their report. Good structure. No mold or damp. Chimneys were in good shape. Plumbing needed to be replaced from the pipes all the way up to the fixtures. And neither bathroom upstairs would comfortably accommodate an Eyrien. And the necessary on the main floor would need to be enlarged as well. Kitchen could use a new stove and cold box, new sink. Roof needed repairs in a couple of places before it started to leak. Give them the nod, they could pull in enough skilled labor to get the job done in a couple of weeks.
And every one of them, as he walked past Lucivar, mumbled that he wouldn’t pay a hundred gold marks for all the furniture left in the place—just in case someone thought to sell it.
Jillian had gasped when they’d told her what the work would cost.
Once the men had climbed into the wagon and headed back to their day’s work, Lucivar looked at the man of business and said, “Stay there.” Then he led Jillian into the house to have a look around.
“There’s no point,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I’ve saved up some money, but nowhere near enough to pay for the house by itself. I certainly can’t pay for the house and all these repairs.”
“What were you going to do?”
She made a face. “Get a loan. Somehow.”
“No.” He wandered from room to room. Big enough for an Eyrien to live in comfortably. The men were right about the furniture. Most of it that had been left was barely worth the effort to turn it into kindling. “There’s no need for you to take out a loan. I established accounts for all my children a long time ago. You would have had access to the money in a few years, anyway, and this is a good reason to let you use it now. The interest, at least.”
“I have money?” Jillian frowned at him. “Enough to buy the house and make the repairs?”
He shrugged. “You’ll have to talk to Daemon. He’s been handling that for me. He won’t let you touch the principal, so if the interest that has accumulated isn’t enough for what you need, you’ll have to talk to him about a loan.” He’d be the one to fund it—quietly—but when it came to money and family, everyone talked to Daemon.
He looked at her. Nerves and excitement filled her gold eyes. “You sure about this, witchling?”
She nodded and gave him a brilliant smile. “The next adventure.”
Lucivar tipped his head toward the man of business, who was still hovering nearby. “Then let’s talk to him about what the house is really worth.”
A quiet knock on the door between his bedroom and Witch’s.
Daemon slipped back into his black jacket and said, “Come in.”
The door opened and Witch walked into the room. His room. He allowed himself a moment to feel the bloom of possessive desire before he smothered it. Not here. Not yet.
In all the centuries since she’d healed his mind for the third time and made her bargain with him to help him remain sane and whole, she had never worn the illusion of clothing. She was Witch, and not all the dreamers had been human. The only times she’d made an exception to that was when Daemonar was present.
Now she stood before him in that same simple dress that left her arms bare and came to midthigh, but instead of the sapphire blue she usually wore when the boy was around, this dress was a shimmering black.
“Prince,” Witch said.
He bowed. “Lady.”
She looked troubled. Weary in mind and heart. “Daemon . . .”
He stepped up to her and raised his hands to rest just above her shoulders. If he tried to touch her right now, his hands would go through this shadow of her Self. “Take me to the Misty Place.”
“What needs to be said can be said here.”
“No, it can’t.” He leaned forward, letting his sexual heat uncoil as his lips almost brushed her delicately pointed ear, and whispered, “Take me to the Misty Place. Please.”