Lysara found Daevyn waiting in the front parlour with her parents. All three rose as she entered, though it was Elowen who reached her first, her smile broad enough to rival the afternoon sunshine spilling through the bay window. She took Lysara by the shoulders and kissed both her cheeks before holding her at arm's length, her eyes already suspiciously bright.
"Oh, darling," she exclaimed. "We're so very happy for the two of you." Her gaze travelled over Lysara critically before soft laughter escaped her. "Goodness gracious, child. Did you roll around in the paint?"
Lysara glanced down at herself. She had managed to remove the worst of it, but flecks of cobalt still stained the backs of her hands, and there was apparently a streak of burnt sienna she'd somehow missed near her elbow.
"Possibly."
She fought a wave of resentment as Daevyn stepped forward. She had wanted to speak to her parents herself, and he had taken that from her, she thought angrily. Though, she admitted, perhaps she had procrastinated too long. The proposal hadn’t been private. Sooner or later, word would have reached them.
Still… It was her news to deliver. And she… Well… The queasiness roiled uneasily in her stomach as the words she didn’t want to say fought to surface.
"I've seen artists leave studios in considerably worse condition." Daevyn’s smile showed no sign that he thought he’d transgressed, and she couldn’t decide if it was because he truly didn’t believe he had, or because he was forcing her hand. “Dinner is served at House Vale at half past six, and I'd rather not arrive late." He glanced at his watch. "We've a little time yet, but not a great deal."
Theron crossed the room without ceremony and drew her into a proper embrace. He smelled faintly of cedar and expensive coffee, and for a moment she simply rested against him, wishing she’d had taken the opportunity to speak to him before...
"Be sure, little star," he murmured quietly enough that only she could hear as if he knew her inner turmoil. When he released her his eyes searched hers for a long moment, not asking for explanations or demanding reassurances, merely reminding her that she still had a choice if she wanted one.
"I will, Papa." She gripped his elbows for a moment and barely breathed. “I… need to talk to you. Soon.”
A shadow crossed his features, his eyes flicking to Daevyn and then back to her before he nodded ever so slightly.
Behind them Elowen had already turned her attention to practicalities. "I'll ring the wedding planner this evening," she announced. "I imagine we'll all meet at House Vale tomorrow?"
"That would probably be easiest," Daevyn agreed.
Lysara quietly escaped while discussion turned towards guest lists, flowers and catering, climbing the staircase two steps at a time.
She scrubbed the remaining paint from her hands in the bathroom sink, washed the streak from her face, then peeled off the clothes she'd worn to the salon and dropped them into the laundry basket.
The thought of returning to spend the night at Vale House should have filled her with excitement. Instead, it left her with the feeling that she had climbed into a carriage travelling at full gallop and discovered far too late that nobody had handed her the reins.
She groaned and covered her face with her hands. Did she trust her gut and the bond, or her eyes and ears?
She drew in a deep breath and release it slowly before adding her toiletries and her sketchbook to an overnight bag.
She was trusting the bond, she decided.
She tried to pretend that it wasn’t at least partially due to the fact that the expectation had outgrown her doubts. To the Winter Court, her parents, his family… The wedding was just a matter of time. Breaking it off now would require explanation. And she had none, other than…
Lipstick on his cheek.
A drunk singer at the door.
Phone calls that interrupted constantly.
A slap in a night club.
A kiss she shouldn’t have seen.
Many Fae nobles played outside of their marriages. Unfaithfulness was measured in shades of grey. Many in the court would consider this just… normal.
She would be seen as dramatic and unsophisticated to break it off for so little, and that would reflect on her family. It would affect their acceptance into the court.
And she wasn’t sure that the court would be wrong for their point of view. Perhaps she was naïve for wanting… more.
She drew in a breath and released it, and slowly resumed packing.
When she returned downstairs carrying the bag, Daevyn relieved her of it before she had taken more than two steps into the hall. He tested the weight in one hand and raised an eyebrow.
"Packing rather lightly."
"I wasn't entirely certain what I'd need."
"I have been meaning to discuss with you…” He hesitated, his eyes searching her face. “It would perhaps be convenient if you stayed into Vale house in the lead up to the wedding? There is a lot to plan which will be easier done from within the house. And you’ll want to use a Fae designer for your dress, no doubt…"
"I suppose so."
He smiled, apparently satisfied, and checked his watch once more. "Fantastic. We’ll collect your things tomorrow. We really should leave."
The Aston Martin slipped quietly out through the gates of the Ashwyn estate before joining the afternoon traffic. For several minutes neither of them spoke. The silence was not uncomfortable, merely thoughtful, each of them apparently occupied with their own reflections.
"Are you alright?" Daevyn asked eventually, glancing across at her.
"Yes." She lied. She watched the countryside drift past the window for another mile before speaking again. "Do you believe in soul bonds?"
He answered so quickly that she doubted he'd needed to consider the question at all. "Yes."
She turned to look at him, a flutter of hope in her heart. He felt it too, she told herself. All this doubt was just cold feet if he felt it too...
"I do," he continued quietly as if answering the unspoken question. "Not because they're always convenient, and certainly not because they're always fair, but because I've seen it. There is something in our world that occasionally draws two souls together with extraordinary certainty." He smiled faintly, though there was little amusement in it. “And little can be done to deny that pull.”
"It would be easier," Lysara admitted softly her mind going to Étienne, "if fate minded its own business."
"Perhaps." His fingers shifted slightly on the steering wheel. "Most people speak as though fate makes our decisions for us. I've never believed that. I think it presents possibilities, nothing more. The choices afterwards remain entirely our own."
She considered that in silence.
"The old Houses," he continued after a moment, "are built on those choices. The needs of a House don't always align with the desires of the Lord who leads it, and sometimes duty demands decisions that the man himself would rather avoid." His voice remained calm and matter-of-fact, but she recognised the quiet conviction beneath it. "All any of us can do is try to make the right choice."
She watched his profile as he drove, searching for some hint of uncertainty and finding none. Whatever else lay between him and Aurora, whatever grief had shadowed his face the previous night, he believed every word he had just spoken.
"And you think you have?" She asked quietly. “Is this the right choice?”
"I do. And, yes. It is." He said it simply.
"Alright," she said softly, the single word feeling very much like a leap of faith.
As the countryside slipped by beyond the window, another uncomfortable thought quietly presented itself. She had judged Daevyn for struggling to untangle whatever remained between himself and Aurora, yet she still hadn't spoken to Étienne. She had simply postponed the conversation, tucking it away in the hope that tomorrow might somehow make it easier than today.
Perhaps they were both rather better at delaying painful endings than either of them wished to admit.
"Alright," she said at last, drawing a steadying breath as she forced herself to think about something less complicated than Aurora. "No lilies."
Daevyn glanced across at her with obvious surprise. "No lilies?"
She shook her head. "They always remind me of funerals, and roses are terribly overused. I'd much rather have something that belongs to House Vale. The thistle, perhaps. It's woven through the stained glass, carved into the fireplaces, even worked into the floor tiles. It feels..." She searched for the word before smiling faintly. "As though it has earned the right to be there."
"I think my mother would approve of that," he replied, the tension that had lingered around his mouth easing a fraction. "She'll be delighted that someone has finally noticed the tiles."
Lysara settled more comfortably into the leather seat. "And I'm not especially interested in endless speeches or formal processions either. Let's simply say the vows, feed everyone properly, put on some music and allow the evening to become a celebration rather than a performance."
His smile broadened into something altogether more genuine. "I was rather hoping you might say that. I've attended enough Winter Court weddings to know exactly how exhausting they become."
"Oh, gods, yes. And I refuse to have an army of bridesmaids trailing after me."
"Or a matching army of groomsmen," he agreed. "If we're fortunate, perhaps we can avoid choreographed dances as well."
She laughed, the sound coming more easily than it had since the previous evening. "I think we might actually agree on how to get married."
"I rather think we do."
The conversation faded naturally after that, leaving only the quiet hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road beneath the tyres.
Lysara watched the white lane markings disappear beneath the Aston Martin one after another, her thoughts slipping almost immediately back to the question that refused to leave her alone.
It seemed ridiculous that flowers and music should be so easy to agree upon when the one thing that truly mattered still sat silently between them, and before she could lose her nerve she heard herself say, "I won't tolerate infidelity, Daevyn."
He did not answer immediately. His hands remained steady upon the steering wheel, though she saw his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly as another car swept past them, its headlights briefly illuminating his profile before darkness settled around them again. She kept her gaze on the passing countryside rather than looking at him. "I expect from my husband exactly the same loyalty that I'll offer him," she continued quietly. "Nothing more than that, but certainly nothing less."
The silence that followed was long enough for unease to begin quietly knotting in her stomach. Celeste's words drifted unwillingly back into her thoughts. The old Houses produce remarkable men. They also produce men raised to place duty before almost everything else. She knew, too, that Winter Court society had never regarded discreet lovers with quite the horror that she did. There were noble marriages where everyone knew and nobody spoke of such arrangements aloud, where appearances mattered infinitely more than fidelity itself. It might have been acceptable to others. It never would be to her.
"It's not a difficult question," she said at last, surprised by how steady her own voice sounded. "It really only requires a yes or a no."
He let out a slow breath before answering. "No," he said quietly. "It isn't a difficult question." The corners of his mouth tightened almost painfully before he continued. "There will be no other woman in my bed."
She turned then, studying his face in profile. He had not looked at her when he spoke, nor had he embroidered the promise with grand declarations or dramatic assurances. He had simply answered her, plainly and with complete conviction, and although something about the careful precision of his words brushed fleetingly against her thoughts before slipping away again, the knot inside her chest loosened enough for her to breathe.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Neither of them spoke again for some time. Lysara rested her head lightly against the cool glass of the window, watching the rising moon drift between the dark silhouettes of the trees, and found herself thinking, with more than a little discomfort, that she had judged Daevyn rather harshly for failing to untangle whatever remained between himself and Aurora while she herself had done nothing at all about Étienne.
The situations were hardly comparable, yet the uncomfortable truth remained that she had quietly postponed a conversation she knew needed to happen simply because tomorrow always seemed an easier day to have it.
Tomorrow morning, before dance class, she would write to him. Whatever happened after that, she could at least ask no less of herself than she expected from the man she intended to marry.