“Not much I could say, since Jaenelle Angelline and I built a raft out of kindling and Craft and rode those same rapids and went over that same waterfall.” A beat of silence. “Twice.”
Daemon stared at him. He looked like he was trying to say words, so Lucivar drank brandy and waited.
“Why do it twice?” Daemon finally said.
“Because it was a wicked bitch of a ride—and it was fun. And because Jaenelle had given me that look and that smile—you remember those?—and said, ‘Lucivar, I have a wonderful idea; you’re going to hate it a lot.’” He shrugged. “We were well shielded.”
Daemon drank the brandy like it was water, then took a shuddering breath. That much brandy might make him a little light-headed for a minute or two, but wearing Jewels as dark as the Black or Ebon-gray meant they both burned up alcohol as fast as they burned up food, and even getting a bit tipsy required serious effort.
In fact, the only time they had managed to get stupid drunk since they began wearing the Ebon-gray and Black was on a pub crawl with Jaenelle Angelline. That night—and what they had done—became tilted and fuzzy after Jaenelle started making a drink called a gravedigger.
“What did Father say?” Daemon asked.
“He would have said plenty if I hadn’t told him that the only reason he was angry was because he was jealous that Jaenelle invited me to test the raft instead of him.”
Daemon wheezed.
Lucivar watched his brother. This was going better than he’d hoped. “Father tossed me out of his study—this exact room, in fact—and never spoke of it again. Didn’t allow anyone to speak of it again.” He drank some brandy and waited until Daemon’s face was almost its usual golden brown color. “That’s why we never told him that we tried it again a couple of years later after Jaenelle had perfected blending small objects with Craft to create a raft—or a pallet if you were out in the wild and needed to move someone who was injured.”
Daemon leaned forward, placed his tightly locked hands on the desk, and said, “So our Lady built another raft out of kindling and Craft and the two of you did that asinine stunt again?”
Lucivar snorted. “Not much point doing the same thing again. That last raft was made out of twigs, leaves, and Craft—and shaped to have a bow. Made it easier to maneuver in the rapids.”
“You are a heartless prick,” Daemon snarled. “Is telling me that story supposed to make me feel better?”
“Doesn’t it?”
Daemon’s answer was succinct and very unflattering.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I took a breath from the moment I saw them go over the falls until they surfaced in the pool below,” Lucivar said.
“Why would they even think to do this?”
“Because we—meaning you and me—had children who are, in every sense, our children.”
Daemon closed his gold eyes. “Mother Night.”
“And may the Darkness be merciful.”
“How is young Andulvar doing?” Daemon said after a moment. “Staying out of trouble?”
“As much as any Eyrien boy that age stays out of trouble.”
“Which means he’s no trouble at all when he’s asleep.” Daemon shook his head and smiled. “Beron has a supporting role in a new play that will be opening in Amdarh soon. If Marian wants to get away from trouble, I would be happy to stand as her escort for an evening at the theater.”
“I’ll let her know and have her make the arrangements with you. She could use an evening for herself.” He would attend the theater with his darling hearth witch or go to musicals or whatever else Marian wanted to attend, but Daemon would discuss the play and the actors and the costumes and sets and all the other things that would interest Marian but had no interest for him. Well, Lord Beron, being Daemon’s legal ward, was of interest to him, but that wasn’t the same thing.
“And your cuddly witchling? How is she?”
Nerves danced under Lucivar’s skin. He pushed out of the chair, set the snifter on the desk, and began to pace.
Daemon came around the desk, immediately on alert. “Prick?”
“Something I want to show you.”
“All right.”
Lucivar called in the drawing pad and handed it to Daemon as he passed the desk. He needed to move, couldn’t quite look at his brother as Daemon examined the drawings and sketches on each page.
“Titian drew these?” Daemon asked.
Lucivar nodded.
“This upsets you?”
“No, it doesn’t upset me!” Lucivar whirled toward the desk and Daemon. So tempting to aim some of the fury churning inside him at a man strong enough to meet it. But his hot fury would be met by Daemon’s cold rage, and that rage could freeze blood. Literally.
He gripped the back of his neck, trying to ease some tension. “I just found out about her drawings before I headed out to see you. She’d been hiding them from us. From me more than Marian. Someone told her a true Eyrien wouldn’t be drawing flowers, and she was afraid I’d be disappointed in her.” That stung more than anything else.
He inhaled warm air—and exhaled in a room that had turned so cold he could see his breath.
Daemon held up a hand. A few moments later, the room returned to its normal temperature—but the brandy left in the snifters had frozen solid.
“My apologies,” Daemon said.
“No need. It took my mind off destroying your furniture to work off some temper.”
“I could ask Beale to find something in the attics that you could rip to shreds.”
Daemon would do it, and that made him smile. “Save it for another time.”
“Do you know who said that about true Eyriens?” Daemon asked too softly.
Lucivar shook his head. Better if he didn’t know. Much better for everyone if Daemon didn’t know. Besides, he’d have a pretty good idea of who had said it the next time Daemonar scrapped with someone. But . . . “How do I fix this, Bastard? I don’t know a damn thing about art, but if my girl wants to draw flowers or wolf pups or rocks or . . .”
“Nudes?” Daemon suggested.
“Not at her age,” Lucivar snapped. Seeing Daemon’s smile, he blew out a breath and began pacing again. “The point is, if she wants to draw, how do I help her?”
“Does she know you’re showing me her work?”
Lucivar nodded.
Daemon looked through the drawings again, then fingered the paper. “Would you allow an indulgent uncle to handle this?”
“How?”
“A gift of better paper and a set of colored pencils. Not so much that she might think we had expectations she couldn’t meet but enough to let her know we want to encourage her interest and she has our support.”
Lucivar felt the tension easing out of his neck and shoulders. “An instructor?” He wasn’t sure where to find one. Were there any artists in Ebon Rih? Would he trust anyone with a sensitive child who was the daughter of the Demon Prince? His sensitive child? Wouldn’t more verbal needles inserted in a vulnerable heart be a subtle way to attack the man?
“Let her play and explore on her own for a while,” Daemon replied. “If she wants a teacher, give her a chance to ask.”
It might take her a while to work up to it, but if Titian wanted something, she would ask.
Daemon closed the pad and handed it to Lucivar. “How early is that early dinner we’re having?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Sometimes, Prick, you’re as useful as a boot full of piss.”
Lucivar laughed. “I’ll ask Beale how much time you have to deal with more of those papers.”
Daemon looked at his desk, then headed for the door. “Forget the papers. Holt can scold me in the morning while he pulls out the paperwork and contracts he needs to have me look at first. Let’s take a walk.”