by Anne Bishop
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
A flutter of anticipation swept through the town house’s staff.
Since he’d let his awareness spread out beyond the town house to pick up the emotional currents and psychic scents of the people coming and going within the square where his family resided, Daemon knew the moment Titian paid the driver of the street-coach and walked up the steps to knock on the door. He tidied the papers on his desk, capped his pen, and tried to convince himself—again—that it couldn’t be that serious. Maybe some art supplies that weren’t within the budget she’d been given or . . . something else that was urgent for a girl her age but would seem trivial to an adult.
He’d come to expect moodiness from Jaenelle Saetien, but he hadn’t seen those swings in temper from Titian, so he didn’t know what to expect.
He didn’t like not knowing what to expect.
A quick knock on the study door before Helton opened it and Titian walked in.
“Hello, witchling.” Daemon came around the desk to accept the hands she held out to him and give her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re looking well.” He glanced at Helton. “Dinner in an hour?”
“Yes, Prince.”
The door closed, leaving him alone with his quiet, talented niece . . . who looked well, yes, but also looked a little different. She’d put up her hair, and her dress, while demure, had more style than what he was used to seeing on Titian. It wasn’t quite her style, but he was definitely looking at a girl growing into a woman.
“Should we . . . ?” he began, thinking they could sit in the social area of the room, where he visited with people or read for pleasure.
Titian perched on the edge of a chair in front of his desk and looked at him expectantly.
Whatever she wanted to talk about was more official than social. Damn.
Resigned, Daemon took the other seat. “What’s on your mind?”
She stared at him for much too long before blurting out, “Permission before action.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
It was going to happen. Of course it was going to happen. But why in the name of Hell did it have to happen on his watch?
“Who?” He was pleased that he sounded interested yet calm.
“Zoey.” Titian gave him a wobbly smile. “Lady Zoela.”
Daemon blinked. Not what he expected.
“Uncle Daemon . . .”
Realizing he had to say something before she took his silence as a negative answer, he delicately cleared his throat. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that since you both have breasts, it’s not like you’d be seeing anything you haven’t seen before.”
Although, since she had brothers, the same could be said for her knowing about the male body.
He leaned toward her and closed her trembling hands in his. “But, my darling, the same rules for the first stage of romance are going to apply. That means kissing and touching are permitted from collarbone to crown of head and from elbows to fingertips. If any other body parts start to connect, you and I are going to have trouble.” He released her hands and sat back. “However, since you and Zoey are responsible young women, I will extend the touching to include assistance with buttons and zippers and clothing that laces up or ties—as long as you’re careful about where you put your hands. Understood?”
“Understood.” Her eyes were tear-bright and her face seemed flooded with too much emotion. “Thank you, Uncle Daemon. Thank you!”
He was halfway out of the chair when she leaped on him with enough force to knock him back in the chair and lift the front legs off the floor. If he hadn’t used Craft to hold the chair upright, they would have gone over backward and landed in a heap.
After getting everything and everyone upright and the correct number of feet solidly on the floor, Daemon took a step back. “Why didn’t Zoey come with you to ask permission?” His father had always required both people’s presence when making a request of a sexual nature. Saetan had done it simply to be sure that both people were willing participants. So it bothered him that Zoey hadn’t been with Titian for such a significant moment.
“She’s talking to her grandparents and getting their permission,” Titian replied. “And . . .” She hesitated, then added in a rush, “And Zoey respects you so much and your opinion matters so much, it would have crushed her if you were upset or angry or disappointed in her. In us.”
“Well, she doesn’t have to worry about that.” He smiled. “Your hair looks lovely that way, but I think a couple of pins have come loose. Why don’t you go upstairs and freshen up? I expect Helton will be announcing dinner very soon.”
When she didn’t follow him to the door, he returned to where she stood staring at him. Apparently there was more.
“Uncle Daemon?”
“Yes?” He slipped his hands in his trouser pockets and waited.
“Mother says you have a very good eye for women’s clothes.”
“I like to think so.”
“The thing is . . . I’m good with colors, but I don’t know . . . And some of the girls at the school have started wearing all this lace and so many ruffles . . . Who wants to wear rows of ruffles around their hips?”
“No one with taste,” he murmured, wondering what might be in Jaenelle Saetien’s closet at school.
“Exactly! I don’t want to look ridiculously girlie, but I don’t want to look like a little girl either. And neither does Zoey.” Expectant, hopeful stare.
It had been a long time since Surreal had felt comfortable receiving clothing of any kind from him. Maybe that would change when his sexual heat diminished with age, but that would take centuries. And Jaenelle Saetien didn’t want his help with anything right now.
He missed accompanying a woman to a dressmaker’s and playing with styles and fabrics to help her look her best. But here was his niece, asking for exactly that kind of help.
“When used correctly, ruffles and lace can be effective accents,” he said. He waged a tiny battle with himself before adding, “Seductive accents.”
“Really?”
Lucivar was going to kill him flatter than dead. Ah, well. Everything had a price.
“Really. If you like, I would be happy to escort you and Zoey to a dressmaker who created a lot of outfits for Lady Angelline. She didn’t like excessively girlie clothes either.”
Titian beamed at him.
He walked her to the study door, then handed her over to Helton . . . who had been hovering nearby. Which made Daemon wonder exactly what his staff knew that he didn’t.
Something to find out later. Right now . . .
He wrote a quick note to Lady Zhara, informing the Queen of Amdarh that he had no objection to this budding romance. He barely waited for the ink to dry before he folded the paper and secured it with red wax and his personal seal. Then he left the study to look for someone to deliver the message.
Helton once more hovered in the entrance hall.
Daemon held up the note. “I need to get this to Lady Zhara as quickly as possible.”
“As soon as you and Lady Titian are seated for dinner, I’ll take it myself,” Helton replied.
Before he could comment about that, someone knocked on the door. Vigorously.
Helton hurried to open it. Lord Weston strode in, then stopped when he saw Daemon.
“Do you object?” Weston asked brusquely.
“Are you asking for yourself or for Lady Zhara?” Daemon countered.
“Both.”
He held out the note. “I have no objections. There are discussions that need to be had tonight within the family, but I can meet with Lady Zhara in the morning if that’s convenient.”
Weston took Daemon’s note and held out the one he’d brought. “I believe that will suit the Lady.”
*Did you suspect anything?* Daemon asked on a psychic spear thread.
*Art and Titian have been part of Zoey’s conversation for decades, so her talking about either one wasn’t unusual,* Weston replied. *The only thing I’ve noticed is that Jaenelle Saetien is mentioned less since the three of them started school.* He shrugged. *Girls grow up, and some friendships fade for lack of common ground.*
Why was there no longer common ground? Or was it as simple as Zoey and Titian growing closer in a way that excluded others, at least for a while?
“What about you?” Daemon turned to Helton as soon as Weston left. “Did you suspect anything? Something that maybe you should have mentioned?”
Helton hesitated. Hesitated. “Lady Titian told the maid who looks after Lady Surreal’s clothes that she’d like to get a couple of new outfits and asked what material might suit her figure and Eyrien wings and which dressmaker made Lady Surreal’s clothes. And she asked about suggestions for new hairstyles. But young Ladies do those things, don’t they, even if there is no hint of romantic interest?”
Daemon suppressed a sigh. It seemed that not only did his staff have opinions; they all had a romantic streak. “If anything the children asked about might be a cause of concern . . .”
“I would tell you at once.”
“Thank you, Helton.” He had to be satisfied with that. “I’m going to have some things to deal with after dinner, so I’d like you to escort Titian back to the school.”
“With pleasure, Prince.”
As Daemon went upstairs to freshen up before dinner, he thought about how much Helton doted on the females in the family. Surreal had been the butler’s favorite for centuries, and she allowed Helton to fuss over her and pamper her in ways she didn’t tolerate from anyone else. Marian, too, received a large share of attention when she visited Amdarh.
Judging by the dishes that were presented at dinner that evening—all of them among Titian’s favorites—Daemon realized that, according to some measure by the town house’s staff, Lucivar’s quiet daughter had ascended to the level of care given to a woman rather than the permitted indulgences given to a girl.
* * *
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Daemonar reviewed his evening as he knocked on the front door of the SaDiablo side of the town house. While he was closer to Mikal in age, he’d always liked Beron, who had settled into the role of older cousin after becoming Uncle Daemon’s legal ward. Tonight he discovered that he also liked Beron’s friends a lot more than most of the boys he’d met at the school. They were funny and opinionated and passionate about the theater, whether they worked in the theater or were training in some other profession. They were full of noisy enthusiasm, and at one point three of the young men stood and sang an impromptu song about the dishes the chef had made that evening.
It became clear that patrons of this particular dining house were used to being serenaded about the joys of a properly cooked steak or delicately spiced potatoes—or being entertained by a snippet from a play in rehearsal.
What made them stand out in comparison to the boys at the school was their interest in him. What was he studying? Had he ever seen the dragons who lived on the Fyreborn Islands? Beron used the Eyrien sparring stick he’d been given years ago as a way to exercise and stay fit for the more demanding and active roles. Several of them had also acquired sparring sticks and had learned the exercises, but that wasn’t the same as actually sparring with someone who had been doing it since he could stand on his own feet. Would he be willing to work with them when they all had a free day?
Some of those young men came from aristo families. Some did not. A couple of them wore darker Jewels. Most did not.
If there were bullies in the theater like there were at the school, they weren’t among Beron’s friends.
Daemonar smiled at Helton when the butler opened the door. “My uncle asked to see me when I got home.”
“He’s in his study.”
Of course he was. The town house was more Aunt Surreal’s residence, so Uncle Daemon tried to keep his presence contained to his study and his bedroom.
He walked into the study and spotted his uncle in one of the comfy reading chairs.
Daemon closed the book and set it on the round table beside the chair. “Did you and Beron have a good dinner?”
“We did. An entertaining one with some of his friends from the theater.” He studied Daemon Sadi and felt his stomach sink. “Sir? Is there a problem?” The request to see him wouldn’t have been casual if there had been an accident or serious illness within the family. But something had happened.
“No, there’s no problem—and you are not going to make a fuss about this.”
That didn’t sound good. “About what?”
“Titian had dinner with me tonight, and we talked about permission before action.”
“Per—What?” He stared at Daemon. “You said no, of course.”
Daemon slowly rose from his chair. “As a matter of fact, I did give my permission.”
He wanted to punch his uncle. He really, really did. But challenging a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince was just plain stupid. “Which one of those aristo curs—”
“Lady Zoela.”
He could have sworn that his brain spun a couple of times. “What?”
“Zoey,” Daemon said patiently.
“Zoey is a girl.”
“We’ve noticed that.”
“But . . .” This study had an annoying lack of room to pace, so he circled the open floor space as he tried to regain his balance. “Is this our fault?”
Daemon blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is Titian attracted to a girl because of us, because of the way we are?”
Daemon delicately scratched an eyebrow with one long black-tinted nail. “Boyo, even for a man in our family, that is an arrogant statement.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“We’re bossy and volatile and there’s the sexual heat everyone else has to deal with, and we’re born to stand on killing fields and that makes us different from other men. That’s a lot for a girl to live with.”
It was Daemon’s smile that warned him he was close to getting a whack upside the head.
“Titian adores her father, and she’s fond of you most of the time,” Daemon said. “So if I were you, I would not voice those reasons to anyone else.”
Daemonar spun around and headed for the door. He felt the Black lock even before his hand closed on the knob—and he felt the chill in the room warning him that he had provoked Daemon’s temper. “I need some air. I need to think. Please.”
The room chilled a little more. Then the Black lock vanished.
He opened the door and rushed out of the town house.
Needed to think. Needed to talk to someone who might understand.
He spread his wings and flew to another part of the city. A few minutes later, he knocked on the door of Beron’s flat.
* * *
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“Well, that was disappointing,” Daemon muttered as he poured himself a brandy. He’d expected surprise, certainly. Hell’s fire, he’d been surprised. But he hadn’t expected the boy’s total refusal to accept Titian’s choice.
He could keep Daemonar leashed to some degree. But Lucivar . . .
He swallowed the brandy, then reached for his brother on an Ebon-gray psychic thread. *Prick?*
*Bastard?*
*Am I interrupting something?* Considering the lateness of the hour, he could be interrupting something.
Amusement. *Nothing that will earn you a fist in the ribs.*
Would that be true after this conversation? *We need to talk.*
*About?*
*Permission before action.*
A pause. *Daemonar is interested in someone?*
A long pause. Even the distance between Amdarh and Ebon Rih couldn’t mask the heat of rising temper. *Who?*
Daemon sighed and prepared to fight. *Zoey.*
A long pause. Then Lucivar said, *Huh. You drew the lines?*
*I did.*
*I’ll be there in a couple of days.*
*Luci—*
Lucivar had already broken the link between them.
Daemon returned to his chair and picked up the book. Instead of reading, he sat for a long time and thought about the many flavors of love—and thought about what it would mean to someone like Titian if her family wouldn’t accept her feelings.
* * *
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Beron didn’t immediately agree with him, but he listened while Daemonar told him about Titian and poured out all his concerns about her reasons for choosing Zoey.
“I could use something stronger than that,” he said as he watched Beron prepare some kind of tea.
“Maybe you could, but you’re getting a cup of the Lady’s blend of tea,” Beron replied with a smile. “What do you think Jaenelle Angelline would say about your . . . opinions?”
“Thank the Darkness, she is never going to find out.” At least, he wasn’t going to tell her.
Beron poured the tea into two large mugs and set one in front of Daemonar before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Jaenelle and I were good friends for most of her life. When she was fifteen, we were in school together for a short while. When my mother was killed, I was still a youth too young to live on my own, and Jaenelle was thirty-five. She and Daemon stood against my grandfather and became legal guardians for Mikal and me, assuring that we could follow our dreams. She was the reason I was able to come to Amdarh and study at the school for dramatic arts.
“My grandfather isn’t a bad man. He loved my mother, but he didn’t want her son on the stage. She was a Queen after all, and he had been fiercely proud of her. He would arrange to meet me in the city or summon me to have dinner with him, but every meeting was a heavy-handed attempt to get me to come live with him so that he could shape me into what he thought I should be. Eventually, I stopped meeting him, but I sent him tickets to every opening night and looked for him, hoping he’d come just once to see me perform and understand how much I love acting. But he never came. Not once. Jaenelle and Daemon came to every opening night.”