After changing her clothes, Jaenelle Saetien chose a book from her current stack of reading material and went downstairs to find Papa. He wasn’t in his study, which surprised her, since he always had business papers to read or letters to write to the managers of the family’s various estates. He wasn’t in the morning room or the sitting room either. Just when she became uneasy and wondered if he’d left without saying anything, she found him in the informal sitting room that looked out over the town house’s back garden.
He wore casual black trousers and a deep green shirt that had a soft gray pattern, like wisps of smoke, and his feet were bare, the soft house shoes dropped near the sofa where he sat reading a letter from the stack in his lap. He looked amused by something in the letter. When he looked up and saw her, his smile warmed and deepened.
She sat on his right side, so close she could feel the heat from his body, could breathe in his scent—a scent that, today, meant safety. And love.
Zoey’s story about her sire brought home the truth that, even when she felt cross with Papa, he still loved her and would be there if she really needed him, whatever the price.
She intended to read her book while he read his letters. She often cuddled next to him in the evening, reading her book while he read one of his, although, if she asked, he would read her a story like he’d done when she was younger. But she didn’t feel content. Instead, a thought scratched at her, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse—getting an answer or always wondering what the answer might be.
“Papa?” she asked after he put aside the first letter.
“Witch-child?” he replied as he broke the wax seal on the next letter.
“Should I write reports for you?”
She braced for him to tell her she was being foolish because she wouldn’t have anything interesting to say, not like Zoey, who was a Queen. Not that Papa had ever made her feel foolish when she asked a question, but . . .
He stared out the window at the garden beyond. Quiet. Thoughtful. Then he said, “If something troubled you and you weren’t comfortable talking about it directly, you could write it down for me to read. Otherwise, I would hope that you could sit down and tell me whatever was on your mind.”
“Zoey is going to write reports to send to you.”
“Zoey doesn’t live with us, and she doesn’t live near the Hall.” He put an arm around her. “I receive reports from Dhemlan’s Queens informing me about any concerns they have regarding things happening in their territories, but the Queen of Halaway comes up to the Hall once a month. We sit in my study and have coffee and whatever treats Mrs. Beale has made that day, and we talk about the village and the people. She rarely writes a report because she’s just down the road, and I’m in the village several times a week to see Tersa and Manny, and I spend a few minutes chatting with her Steward or Master of the Guard. Those chats are just as valuable as the reports.” He gave her a hug. “It’s a question of distance.”
Jaenelle Saetien leaned against Papa. “Zoey doesn’t have a papa who listens to her.”
“I know,” he replied softly.
“And her mother . . . That’s so sad.”
“Yes, it is sad.”
She looked up. “You’ll read her reports?”
“I will read her reports.”
“And we’ll all be friends?”
“If you and Zoey like each other and want to spend time together, then, yes, we can all be friends.”
She hesitated, then asked her final question. “Do you wish that I was a Queen?”
“Never.”
His firm, and instant, answer surprised her.
“A Queen is bound by her caste. Everything in her pushes her to rule something, regardless of whether it’s large or small. No matter what other talents she has, or what she might have wanted to be, she is first, and always, a Queen. There were boundaries around Zoey’s life from the moment she was born. But you, my darling, can be anything you want to be, can follow your dreams to do whatever work gives you joy. I’ve always been happy that you have that choice.”
“So many choices,” she said quietly.
“We make our life out of choices. Do we like the color green better than blue? Or strawberries better than radishes? Small things or big things, eventually those choices shape who we are.” He kissed the top of her head. “But you don’t have to choose everything today. Except whether you want to eat strawberries or radishes, which taste very different but are both red.”
She giggled. “That’s silly.”
Satisfied, she opened her book. Papa went back to reading his letters. When her mother came home, the three of them talked for a little while. Then Papa put on regular shoes and he and her mother went outside to walk around the back garden together. Jaenelle Saetien watched them, the way they talked—so serious!—and the way Papa held her mother’s hand.
Sometimes her mother and Papa didn’t get along. Sometimes Papa had to live apart from them even when he was still at the Hall. But today, as they walked back to the house, they looked happier with each other—and she had made a new friend.
SEVEN
A month later, Daemon rode the Black Wind to Amdarh for an early-morning meeting with his second-in-command, whose terse summons made him a little wary. Surreal had returned to the town house a couple of days ago and Jaenelle Saetien was at the Hall, where he was supposed to be the parent on duty for the next several days, since he’d been away from home so much these past few weeks.
After being told Surreal was on her way downstairs to meet him, he entered the breakfast room and sat down. Then he looked at the two letters Helton placed next to his plate with a care and precision that gave him a good idea of how much trouble he was in.
“Couldn’t those wait until I’ve had breakfast?” he asked.
“Lady Surreal also received a letter this morning,” Helton replied. “Hers was marked Urgent and came from the Queen of Amdarh. I thought you would want the letters that were delivered at the same time—by the Queen’s Master of the Guard.”
Hell’s fire. Sending the Master out before dawn to deliver letters seemed a bit excessive.
Then Surreal strode into the breakfast room, a letter in one hand. “Sadi, what in the name of Hell did you do?”
“Do?” He might have gotten away with sounding as if no one should be concerned if Helton hadn’t chosen to make a hasty retreat from the room, almost slamming the door in his hurry to leave the field of this particular battle.
Not that there should be a battle.
Daemon broke a corn muffin in half and took his time buttering it. “You summoned me to Amdarh, remember?”
Surreal sat opposite him. “I requested your presence because yesterday two of the Ladies in Zhara’s First Circle approached me and hinted that you were the cause of considerable agitation in the Queen’s family. I thought it best to find out why. Then this letter arrived before any reasonable person should be awake.” She dropped the letter on the table and leaned toward him. “You shoved a Prince into Zhara’s court without consulting her?”
“I did no such thing. I merely introduced Zoey to a young Prince whose company I thought she would enjoy.”
“A Sceltie Prince.”
“But not a Warlord Prince. That would have been excessive.”
Surreal narrowed her eyes and said nothing when he poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of her. Then, “Have I met this one?”
“No.” And thank the Darkness for that. “He’s been at the school in Scelt.”
“Is he the reason you’ve spent so much time in Scelt these past few weeks?”