“Do you think Jaenelle Saetien would want to serve in a court? Isn’t it too early to think of these things?”
“Daemon.” Witch gave him a warm smile. “In the end, you’ll have no say in your daughter’s choices. Maybe she’ll serve in a court. Maybe she won’t have any interest in doing so. Maybe she’ll be friends with Zoey. Maybe she won’t. Not your choice or decision, Prince. You’re providing an opportunity. The rest is up to them.” She paused. “Is there a stout lock on your study door?”
“Yeeesss.”
“Then you’ll be fine.”
Oh, that didn’t sound good.
“Your father survived this, and he had the entire coven living with him.”
That sounded worse—and he did not want to think about it. “Which art supplies do you think I should give to Titian to let her know everyone in the family supports her interest in drawing? Right now she’s been using a pencil and cheap paper.”
Witch stood and walked over to the bed. “It would be more fun with colors.” Using Craft, she sorted the supplies into packages. “Start with the colored pencils. You can give her the charcoal another time, and then the pastels.” A beat of silence. “And, of course, the watercolors for Winsol.”
He sighed, but he couldn’t say he minded.
“Speaking of children, how are Beron and Mikal?” Witch asked.
He and Jaenelle Angelline had become Beron’s and Mikal’s legal guardians after Sylvia died and made the transformation to demon-dead—and married Saetan. Jaenelle had made sure Beron had been allowed to go to drama school and train to be an actor, despite his grandfather’s objections. She’d also arranged for Mikal to live with Tersa, an arrangement that had suited everyone over the years. He was still the boys’ legal guardian, but Witch didn’t ask about them often. His time at the Keep was usually spent in the continued healing of his mind and the quiet draining of some of the Black’s reservoir of power to keep him sane and steady. It was not a time for her to show interest in other males, even boys he loved.
“Beron’s doing well,” Daemon said. “He doesn’t always win the second male lead when he auditions for a play, but he’s happy to take a small role, so he’s seldom unemployed. And unlike many young men, regardless of their occupation, he doesn’t spend everything he earns, so he can weather the idle times.” He shrugged. “He shows up at the town house at least once a week for a meal. That works well for everyone. He keeps in touch with me, per his agreement with me, but I also hear about him through Helton—a fact that Beron uses as a roundabout way of telling me things without telling me things. That way I know which young Lady he’s currently escorting around the town without him having to make a formal statement of interest—and without me showing up in Amdarh to ask a few pointed questions about something someone else mentioned.”
“Aristos can be such gossipmongers,” Witch said primly.
Daemon choked on a laugh. Lady Perzha, the former Queen of Little Weeble, had said much the same thing. Still said much the same thing. Having Witch and Perzha agree on something was a little terrifying—and a bit like trying to reason with a rockslide instead of getting out of the way.
“Mikal is growing into a fine young man, into adolescence now and thinking about his future,” Daemon continued. “Depending on the day, he wants to be a butler, since he feels that, while I may own the Hall, Beale is the real power there.”
Witch laughed. “He’s not wrong.”
“Or he wants to be some kind of court administrator, either a secretary like Holt or a Steward, because they also control the day-to-day running of things and people. Or he wants to design and run a hotel for kindred horses so they don’t have to stay in stables with the ordinary horses when they have a reason to deal with humans on an official level. Or maybe it was for all the kindred since he naturally would include Scelties if he was accommodating horses. He was vague about that part.”
It was so gratifying to see her standing there looking flummoxed.
Then he realized why she’d brought up the boys. “Any other young men you would like to discuss?” he asked sweetly.
Flummoxed changed to suspicious—as well it should, since she also used that particular tone of voice to good effect.
“Daemonar will be coming for private lessons twice a week from now on. Lucivar requested it after the boy had words with the young Eyrien Queen.”
The sweetness now had a chill and an edge as the Sadist purred, “Now, why did he do that?” Did Lucivar know the bitch must have been the one who had hurt Titian? Daemonar wouldn’t have gone after the girl otherwise.
“Not your fight, Prince,” Witch warned.
“Not my fight?” He smiled a brutally gentle smile. “When the sun shines in Hell.”
“Not your fight,” she said again. “Daemonar’s response was more than adequate, and anything you and Lucivar did now would be out of line. But Daemonar’s response is the reason Lucivar wants him to have that training—with me. In the sitting room right across the corridor from our suites, since it would be too much of a risk for the boy to stay in the Misty Place long enough to receive lessons. He’s not strong enough, or mature enough, to survive that.”
Daemon looked toward the door to give himself time to quiet his temper and the Sadist. The Queen’s suite, including the sitting room connected to her bedroom, was private, out-of-bounds to everyone but the Queen’s triangle of Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort—or those who were invited. But there had been sitting rooms within this area of the Keep where the First Circle could gather with the Queen to relax or discuss any concerns.
She was asking him to tolerate the presence of another male. Here. Spending time with his Queen. Asking for his agreement, not telling him he had to swallow this decision even if he choked on it. That difference gave him room to think about who had made this request.
Lucivar. Asking his Queen for help with his son.
“Sometimes Daemonar’s lessons will coincide with your being here for solitary rest,” Witch said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t disturb you, but you’ll have to tolerate his presence for that hour.”
Could he do it for his brother, for his nephew?
Daemon took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Not just another male. Not even family, which was important to him. A young Brother in the court. Someone who also needed their Queen.
He looked into her sapphire eyes and relaxed his hold on the leashes that held his temper, his power, his sexual heat—and the Sadist. Even when she’d walked among the living, a part of her had stood too deep in the abyss to be influenced—or frightened—by any aspect of who or what he was.
“If I have trouble with him being here, I will tell you.”
Witch smiled. “Good. Then we’re agreed?”
He nodded, then asked too softly, “Are you sure it’s not my fight?”
“I’m sure.” She gave his arm a thumping pat. “Besides, you already have a young Queen to deal with.”
Yes. He did. Not the same, though.
“Maybe you should suggest that Titian write to Zoey and let her know how she likes working with the colored pencils,” Witch said. “That way you won’t have to be the go-between.”
She rested a hand against his face. He turned his head just enough to kiss her palm. He felt nothing, but his lips—and heart—still knew exactly where her skin would be, and he wondered if she felt his touch even if he couldn’t feel her.
“My apologies, Prince. I undid all the good Lady Zoela achieved.”