“No? You do not want it?” he asked, stepping back with an amused smile.
Semras gave him a little kick, just to remind him how much of a bastard he was, then dragged him into her arms again. “… Well …”
Estevan’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “‘Well,’ what? I am wait—”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
Groaning, he dropped his face into the crook of her neck. “… Where are you keeping the wolfsbane seeds again?”
The witch laughed. “Why? You want me to give some to whoever stands behind our door? I know how to trick someone into swallowing one; I could—”
“Kiss another man, and I will eat the rest of them,” he whined.
“You’re so dramatic sometimes.” Semras patted his head and slid down the table, sidestepping his grabbing arms to hurry to the front door. Another knock came from it, and she quickly smoothed down her skirt. “I have to answer. What if it’s your mother? Or your father? Or—”
“No, don’t say his name!” Estevan said, trailing behind her. “He always appears when someone says—”
Semras opened the door. “Oh, Cael!”
“… his name. Ugh, too late.”
Beyond the threshold, Inquisitor Callum stood in the cool air of spring, a deep crimson frock coat covering his inquisitorial finery. Face as impassive as ever, he nodded his greeting.
Semras smiled at him, then glanced back at her Wyrdtwined. “Look, Estevan! It’s your handsome brother, a man who knows how to knock on doors! Such a rarity these days.”
Annoyed, her Wyrdtwined scowled, eyes fixed on Cael. “No, that is an inquisitor. They are dangerous. Close the door and come back to me.” He grinned mischievously. “Quick, before the beast steps inside.”
“Don’t listen to him, Cael,” Semras said. “Please come in!”
Over the past few months, she had come to learn just how much Cael’s fey inheritance bound him. Changelings had all the advantages of both species and none of their weaknesses, but that didn’t mean they were free from their influence. Crossing thresholds uninvited always made Cael tense his shoulders, as if fighting some inner compulsion, so Semras made sure to verbally welcome him in at each of his visits.
The two brothers had sorted their quarrels in the weeks following Estevan’s resignation. Cael came out the winner, proving with exacting Seelie logic how right he’d been about Estevan’s place—or lack thereof—in the Inquisition.
Her Wyrdtwined couldn’t argue against it, and his grudging acceptance had made the half-fey smile genuinely. Beyond his Seelie tendencies, Cael had genuinely believed his brother would be happier after leaving the sacred institution—he had been right about it too.
Stepping into the hut, the inquisitor threw a cursory glance at the disarrayed worktable, then at Estevan and Semras.
She flushed with embarrassment. Her Wyrdtwined was still bare-chested—it wasn’t hard to guess what they had been doing before his arrival.
“I would usually suggest passing by another time,” Cael said, watching his brother buttoning his shirt up, “but it is far more entertaining to stay when you so obviously want me gone, Estevan. You seem well, brother. You too, Madam Velten.”
By now, Semras had resigned herself to the oddity of having a family name—along with the title of ‘madam.’ It sounded important to Estevan, so she had accepted them both without protest.
“You as well, Cael,” she said. “Would you like a drink? A cup of cocoa, maybe? It’s still cold outside these days; you must be freezing.”
“I am not.” Cael removed his coat and hung it on the hall tree next to the door. “But if it is not too much of a burden, I would still appreciate a hot drink.”
Smiling to herself, Semras invited him to take a seat at the nearby kitchen table, then went to the cast-iron stove to prepare his drink.
Adorned with scroll and crisscross patterns, the curious apparatus had been a gift Cardinal Velten brought them once, while on his way to Leyevna’s home for their new monthly supper tradition. He had marvelled so much at the chunk of metal and its supposed superior efficiency compared to older models that she hadn’t had the heart to refuse it. Now it lay in a corner of her kitchen, acting like a bulky, albeit pretty, preparation table for her.
Semras stretched her arm to grab what she needed from the wooden shelves hanging above it. Her hand hovered just beneath the highest one—where her teapot waited for her to grow three inches taller.
“Here, let me help.” Stepping next to her, Estevan brought it down to the cast-iron stove. “I will take care of our tea while you make that atrocious sugary mud my brother calls hot cocoa.”
Shaking her head at his choice of words, Semras leaned against her Wyrdtwined as they prepared the beverages side by side. The cocoa didn’t take her long to make, and she took care to add double the usual amount of honey. The Fey loved milk and sugar, and she knew Cael did too. Another one of his bloodline quirks.
Once done, she brought the drink to the table, her Wyrdtwined following close behind with two cups filled with tea. One of them was her favourite: the one speckled with glimmers of ore he had broken when they first met—now repaired with gold filling its cracks.
