“Does Lucivar know about this?” Rainier asked.
She grinned. “Not yet. But I’m going to make sure he does. In fact, I’m going to make sure everyone in the family knows I fatigue easily.”
“Why . . . ?” He thought for a moment, then huffed out a laugh. “Well, I guess he’ll back down a little bit if he knows he’ll get his ass chewed by Jaenelle every time you start wheezing.”
“I hope that will be enough incentive, but you can’t count on it with Lucivar.” She wasn’t looking forward to spending the winter months in Ebon Rih. For a lot of reasons.
She drank her brew, and they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.
When she caught Rainier eyeing the piece of berry pie, she snarled, “Mine.”
“Greedy,” he muttered.
“I’ll share the sandwich, grapes, and cheese.”
His expression told her plain enough he didn’t consider that a fair exchange, but he perked up when Helton returned with another tray that was a duplicate of her own “tray of nibbles.”
Draining her cup and setting it aside, Surreal studied the tray—and sighed. “I guess I’ll eat myself into a stupor and let Helton roll me up to my room.”
“When you’re drinking healing brews, your body burns even more fuel,” Rainier said. “You actually do need that food.”
She looked at him, her unspoken question filling the room.
He held her eyes for a moment, trying to bluff. Then he looked away, snatched his plate off the tray, and began to eat.
“Leave it alone, Surreal,” he said after the silence became strained. “As a favor to a friend, leave it alone.”
For now. But she was going to have a chat with Jaenelle and find out how bad things really were with Rainier.
“So were you just out wandering today?” Surreal asked.
“Actually I stopped by to bring you this.” Rainier called in a wrapped package and handed it to her.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You finished your shopping?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve got all the damn presents wrapped? Hell’s fire. If I don’t have more luck finding things to buy—and how do you buy things for a family like mine?—I may be wrapping the presents moments before I hand them out.”
His smile was brittle. “I’m usually run off my feet just before Winsol and don’t have time to shop. There’s a traditional court dance that’s only performed during Winsol. There’s always a group of people who want to brush up on the steps—and there are the young men each year who figure out that males who know that dance get a lot more attention at the parties, and they want lessons.”
“You’ll teach them again next year.”
The brittle smile turned bitter, and he said nothing.
“So you’re delivering packages early because . . . ?”
“I’m going to spend Winsol with my family.”
“Why?”
A pained laugh. “Because they felt obliged to ask me, and this year I didn’t have the excuse of being too busy to come until the last days of Winsol.”
“You can still be too busy. I’ll get some paper. We’ll make a list.”
“Surreal.”
I don’t know how to fix this, Surreal thought, hurting for him. Does anyone know how to fix this pain that’s killing the heart of who and what he is?
“Well,” Rainier said, getting to his feet. “I’d best be on my way. I have some things to do before I head to Dharo.”
She met him at the sitting room door and hugged him.
“Happy Winsol, Surreal,” he said, his voice husky.
“Happy Winsol, Rainier,” she replied, wishing she could say something more.
SIX
The day before Winsol began, Daemon walked into a sitting room in the family wing of the Hall and stopped abruptly.
“Mother Night,” he said. “Where did you find such a magnificent—and perfect—evergreen tree?”
Jaenelle grinned at him. “It did turn out well, didn’t it?”
It dazzled his eyes and tugged at his heart. Little balls of color shone among the branches, which looked like they had been given a light dusting of gold on the tips of the evergreen needles. Crystal icicles hung from the branches. And the smell . . .
Daemon frowned and walked toward the tree, baffled. The evergreen scent should be filling the room.
He touched a branch. His fingers went right through it.
“If it fooled you, it will fool anyone,” Jaenelle said.
“It’s an illusion?” He tried to touch another branch, unwilling to believe.
“Yes. I made it. Marian and I decided to limit the number of trees that the family would cut down for Winsol.”
Lucivar and I didn’t get a say in this?
He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He hadn’t participated in a typical Winsol celebration here at the Hall, so maybe he wasn’t supposed to make many—or any—decisions.
“We took a couple of trees whose elimination would benefit the surrounding trees,” Jaenelle said. “We’ll use the branches to create wreaths or other decorations. That will add the scent to the room.” She edged toward the door, then stopped as if listening to something beyond the room. “Oh, good. Marian is here.”
Which meant Lucivar was also here. *Prick?* he called on a psychic spear thread.
*Let me stash the little beast and I’ll meet you,* Lucivar replied.
“All right,” Daemon said to Jaenelle. “Since Marian is here, I’ll—”
“Stay here,” Jaenelle said, heading for the door. “I need to pee, and someone needs to guard the gifts until they’re all properly shielded.”
Daemon looked at the gifts stacked around the tree. “Huh?”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t leave the room. When I get back, Marian and I will sort the gifts and put on the appropriate shields.”
“What are you figuring is going to happen to them?”
She just looked at him.
“Fine,” he said, trying not to grumble. “I’ll guard the gifts.”
She was almost out the door when she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “Papa arrived a little while ago, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
Then she was gone, and he felt as if he’d been shuffled to a back room and given a senseless task just to keep him out of the way. Hell’s fire, his father and brother were in the Hall. He should be spending time with them instead of guarding boxes. Or he should be in his study, working. He still had some work to do. Not much, but some. And even if he didn’t have work and just stretched out on the couch and read a book, he wouldn’t feel like a stray puppy that someone had forgotten. Not if he was in his study.
A quick knock on the door. Before he could say anything, a maid and two footmen entered the room, their arms full of boxes.
“Excuse us, Prince,” the maid said. “We were told to bring these gifts here.”
Daemon smiled at them and stepped aside.
“Are you going home for Winsol?” he asked.
“We’re drawing lots tonight to see who’s working which days,” the younger footman said.
They stacked the packages in front of the tree. Moments after they walked out the door, Lucivar walked in.
“Hiding already?” Lucivar asked. “Winsol hasn’t officially started.”
“I’m guarding the gifts,” Daemon replied.
“From what? You didn’t put any food under there, did you? You never put food gifts under the tree. I did that one year, and the younger kindred found the boxes of fudge and the boxes of rawhide strips. What a mess.”