Page 47

"It's too beautiful to eat," I say.

"Nothing is too beautiful to eat," Rhydian says, already pulling out his chair.

We sit down together. The four of us. Candlelight glowing along the beams, the fire crackling, the last of the snow falling softly outside.

And it's wonderful.

We eat until we can barely move. We tell stories. Rhydian has three helpings of everything, and we all mock him mercilessly for it, and he doesn't care at all. Every time I compliment one of Kaelen's dishes, he goes a little pinker.

And I discover the fastest way to make him turn as red as the solstice ribbons.

"Your future wife," I say, taking another bite of pie, "is going to be a very lucky woman."

Kaelen chokes on his wine.

"Oh, he'll marry the first woman who tells him his bread is good," Rhydian says. "He'll propose on the spot. He'll get down on one knee right there in the kitchen."

"I'm going to put something in your next plate," Kaelen tells him. "You won't know what. You won't know when."

Rhydian takes a very large, very defiant bite.

Dinner stretches on and on. Nobody wants to get up. We talk and laugh until the candles burn low.

I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a holiday meal like this. This is loud and messy and warm, and I wish we could do it every single solstice for the rest of my life. That part, I keep to myself. But I think it so hard it aches.

When nobody can eat another bite, we clear the table together. We put away the leftovers and wash the dishes.

"On solstice," Rhydian complains, up to his elbows in soapy water. "Chores. On a holiday. It's barbaric."

"Just because you didn't help make anything," Kaelen says. "Doesn't mean you don't help clean up."

When the kitchen's finally clean, Kaelen pours us each a mug of his spiced eggnog, and we collapse onto the sofas and chairs around the fire. I tuck my feet up under me in the big chair, and Rhydian sprawls on the rug at my feet with his head against my knee, like always.

"Right," he announces. "Presents."

My stomach does a little flip.

I've been working on my presents all week. Sitting by the fire every evening with my needle and thread, while they pretended not to look. And they've been working on theirs. I've seen them, all three of them, whittling away at little pieces of wood in the corner, hiding them behind their backs every time I wandered too close.

We've all teased each other mercilessly about our mysterious projects. Nobody's gotten a proper look at anything. But now, suddenly, my gifts seem so small. So silly. They're lords. They probably get jewels for solstice. Gold. Fine horses.

I made them flowers. Out of scraps.

"Me first," I say quickly, before I can lose my nerve. "Mine first. Wait here."

I run to one of the chest of drawers and dig them out of the back, where I've been hiding them. Three little fabric flowers, sewn from bits of old shirts I found in a trunk in the attic. I hold them behind my back as I come back to the fire.

"They're not much," I warn them. "Don't laugh."

"We would never," Rhydian says, but he’s smiling.

I give Zarek his first. A white rose, every petal stitched carefully into place.

"Because you're beautiful," I tell him. "And elegant. And also a little intimidating."

He looks at it. Then at me. His face doesn't change much. It never does. But his eyes go soft.

Then Rhydian. A bright yellow flower, cheerful and open.