“We should wash up,” Daemonar said. “If Mother won’t let Papa sit down until he washes his hands, I don’t think she’ll bend that rule for you.”
Daemon laughed. “I know she won’t bend that rule. You go on.”
He walked into the kitchen. Marian put down the platter of sliced meats and looked at him, a question in her eyes.
He kissed her cheek and smiled. “She’ll be fine. I have some thoughts for a couple of outings, both here in Ebon Rih and in Amdarh. In the meantime, Titian is helping me with a project related to art.”
“Helping her uncle.” Marian nodded. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and accepted the towel she handed him. He looked at the table and the various dishes. A simple meal by Marian’s standards. “Can I . . . ?”
“No one fills a plate until everyone is seated,” she said sternly. “And don’t think giving me that but-I’m-starving look will make any difference. I have male children. I am immune to that look.”
“You are so strict.”
“Always.” Then she laughed. And because he was family, she tossed him in with her ravenous horde and let him battle for his share of the food.
There were questions Jaenelle Saetien wanted to ask, things she wanted to know, but she didn’t want Papa to think she was being a brat and fanning about because she was special and thought she could ignore any rules that didn’t suit her. But her teachers and the other grown-ups in Halaway had treated her like she was special because she wore Twilight’s Dawn, and all her friends—except Mikal, but he was part of the family and didn’t count in the same way—had thought she was special.
Or maybe they hadn’t dared tell her that her Birthright Jewel didn’t make her special. Except Mikal, who didn’t hesitate to call her on it. He didn’t say she was fanning about. Not anymore. He’d just point at her, then stick his butt out and wiggle it.
She’d been a brat and had told Morghann to do a wrong thing when the Sceltie had been very young. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad thing at the time, but now that she was a little older, she understood how much trouble a person could cause when she let selfishness rule over kindness. The younger Scelties who were now living at the Hall played with her and kept her company, but went to Papa for training and teaching. Or they went to Holt or Beale to understand about human things. Or they went to Morghann, who taught some of the Scelties how to be a special friend when she wasn’t being Papa’s special friend. But they didn’t want to learn from her because she had told Morghann to do a wrong thing.
She was sorry about breaking trust with the Scelties, but more than that, she sometimes worried that her being a brat during that time was the reason Papa had become so ill and still needed to go for special healing at the Keep twice a month and stay in the sealed suite of rooms at the Hall a couple of days each week.
She loved her mother, but she adored Papa, and she tried very hard not to be a brat or cause trouble or talk about things that would upset him and make him ill again.
Making the raft and going over the waterfall might be considered trouble, but Papa didn’t know about that, and Uncle Lucivar hadn’t seemed all that concerned—and the reason for that made her upset and wasn’t something she could talk about until she got home and could tell Mikal what she’d learned.
“Something on your mind, witch-child?”
They were riding the Winds in a small Coach, and Papa had allowed her to sit in the other driver’s seat instead of in the back, which was wonderful, except Papa tended to ask questions, and even small fibs could have consequences.
But she didn’t want him to think she was being a brat.
“Titian is really happy with the pencils and art paper you bought for her,” she said.
“I’m glad. Lucivar and I are hoping that our encouragement will negate one person’s unkind remark.”
“And the boys liked the drawings they can fill in with color.”
He laughed softly. “I’m not sure about that, but the line was drawn between what is hers and what is theirs.”
She found a loose thread and pulled it—and started unraveling the hem of her shirt until Papa made a snipping motion with his fingers and used Craft to cut the thread.
“What’s on your mind, witch-child?”
His deep voice was still quiet, still pleasant, but the question was no longer an invitation; it was a command to speak.
“How come you never bought drawing stuff for me?” she asked in a small voice.
“You, my darling, have never been shy about telling me when you were interested in something. I didn’t always agree with you pursuing a particular thing, usually because I didn’t think you were old enough. And sometimes you decided you weren’t interested enough in a thing to follow the rules that were part of the deal. I simply assumed that if you were interested in learning to draw, or play a musical instrument, or do any number of activities, you would have pounced on me when I was working in my study and told me all about it.”
“I don’t pounce on you.”
He burst out laughing.
She didn’t think it was that funny.
He finally stopped laughing and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. If you are interested in trying your hand at drawing, we can visit the art supply shop in Amdarh when we’re in the city later this week and pick up what you would need. If you would like to have an instructor, I will find one. If you would like to invite your friends in Halaway to join you for drawing lessons, I will arrange it. However, if I do arrange for an instructor to provide drawing lessons for any children who are interested, those classes will continue whether you give up on drawing or not. And I will insist that you give the lessons a try for the full measure of a season, and not give up after your first attempt simply because the cat you drew looks like a sausage with ears.”
He gave her a pointed look softened by a smile—a reminder that she often gave up on things if she couldn’t do them perfectly on the first try. Some things. Other things she worked hard to learn. And some things Papa insisted she learn, like basic Protocol and the proper way to do Craft. Papa gave her those lessons and didn’t allow anyone to interrupt their time together, but he wouldn’t let her . . . embellish . . . a spell or alter the way she used Craft to do something until she could show him that she could do the thing the ordinary, proper way. And Protocol was just boooorrrrring. But those lessons had started as soon as she’d acquired her Birthright Jewel, and it was the same thing over and over and over.
She grumbled sometimes, but Papa’s answer was always the same: Among the Blood, Protocol isn’t about following a bunch of tedious rules. Protocol is about survival. Protocol is the way those with less power can survive dealing with the Blood who wear darker Jewels. Without it, there would be slaughter.
Maybe she would ask Uncle Lucivar if the Blood would kill one another if they didn’t have a bunch of stupid rules. No, she’d ask Daemonar if he had to learn Protocol. They didn’t have to do boring lessons whenever she visited; they did things like sparring and exploring and learning about plants and animals. So maybe, if Uncle Lucivar didn’t think things like Protocol were important, she could talk Papa into dropping the boring stuff for lessons that were more interesting.
He was always willing to add lessons, but dropping lessons? Not so much. Not at all, really, until she fulfilled her side of the agreement for having the lessons.