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“Why are you not king? Servant Demos said the prince’s younger sister was queen. How can that be?” she asked, holding the teacup with way more finesse than Fadon held his. In his hand the delicate porcelain looked out of place, as if Fadon were a wild, hairy animal wearing jewels.
“Ah. The Ongahri rule from the youngest up. For various reasons, it works better for us than the kings of old in your people’s day.”
“Interesting.” She took a sip of her tea, her thoughts hidden.
“Are you interested in history? Your father mentioned it briefly when giving me a tour of his library before I retired last night. Very impressive collection he has.”
“Oh. Yes, very much. I’m afraid I’m more… unconventional than most girls of my station.” She lowered her eyes.
Was that something to be ashamed of, being unconventional? Fadon wondered.
“Good. It will serve you well where we’re going.”
“Pardon?” She met his eyes, setting her teacup down.
“The Mor is nothing like your Providence. It’s harsher. Colder. Darker. If Providence were a plant, it would be a daisy. The Mor, an aged oak. Are you cut out for it?”
She colored. Clearly her pride was nicked by Fadon’s words.
Good, he thought. She needs to open her eyes.
“I will do my duty, my lord. I am not as fragile as you think.”
He merely nodded. “Good.”
“Yes. Good.” Then she smiled and released a pent-up breath.
Her scent reached him then. Sweet, warm. Different. He took more in, inconspicuously so as not to alarm her, not letting his true form reveal itself lest he scare the girl away. The scent entered the back of his throat, where it swirled and rose to that sensitive gland in his upper airway. A memory popped into his head but one so old he couldn’t hold it long enough to examine it. In its wake, though, a feeling of pleasure touched his core, like last night’s ale but oceans of it instead of a cup full.
“Are you all right, my lord?”
He realized his eyes were shut, so he opened them to find her staring at him as if he’d suddenly grown horns.
Taking another sip of his tea to clear his palate, he waved her off. “Yes. I’m not used to your humidity.”
She didn’t look convinced but seemed to let it go. She changed the subject. “Tell me about your brother. Servant Demos told me nothing.”
Fadon leaned back in his chair and felt more at ease. “Lysander. Handsome, so they say. Charming, social. He’ll never hurt you, you can trust that.”
Her lips pursed, and Fadon found himself studying them. A luscious mouth, small. Perfect.
“Well, I never expected he would, my lord. What are his passions, interests?”
“Passions.” Fadon was at a loss there. Ander’s only two passions were fucking and drinking. Obviously, he couldn’t mention those. “Let’s see… he enjoys horseflesh. Has a few winners, studded some fine stock, actually.”
“Does the Mor have a library?”
“We do.”
Her relieved expression made him grin slightly.
“And does Lysander read?” she asked, full of hope.
Ander reading? He read the weather when he wanted to go for a ride, Fadon thought. Just picturing his brother with a book was laughable. “On occasion.” He sipped his tea.
“Hmm. Well, I’m sure I’ll find out what he’s like soon enough. Why didn’t he come himself?”
Fadon choked, the tea going straight to his lungs. The girl was blunt, Ongar help him. Maybe she would work out for her brother.
