When he left, I fixed my attention on Wynnie, who was storming toward the closet while she irritably ripped at her buttons.
“You had better give me some comfortable shards-damned nightclothes this time, Closet,” she called out. “I swear to the Shard Mother I will slowly unravel every one of your favorite gowns if I have to wear another lacy monstrosity on the top of this shardsforsaken day.”
Lumen lifted his head at Wynnie’s tone, giving her a slow blink that looked suspiciously judgmental before resting his chin back on his paws.
The closet was ominously silent for several heartbeats before it apparently decided her threat was genuine. A flannel nightgown sailed out to smack her in the face.
It was patterned in puce green and an even more offensive shade of orange, colors I hadn’t been aware existed in my wardrobe. My sister narrowed her eyes, running her hands along the fabric while Batty let out what I could have sworn was a tiny snort.
“Take your wins where you can get them,” I warned Wynnie.
“Fine. Another one for my sister, but warmer,” she demanded.
The second nightdress was also flung directly at Wynnie’s person, but this one was navy and silver, intricately patterned and lined with plush fur.
“Yes, you’ve made your point,” Wynnie snapped, tossing the fabric at me with far more gentleness than the closet had thrown it at her.
We changed in silence, but for the curses Wynnie grumbled under her breath. Batty curled herself into the fluff of my collar, her tiny heartbeat thrumming along my shoulder like she was trying to soothe mine into matching it.
When Mirelda returned with heaping plates of food and the world’s smallest bottle of wine, she cast a predictably displeased glance at our comfortable state—wholly inappropriate for dinner even in one’s own rooms, according to her—but said nothing.
Lumen chose that moment to scoot closer to me, sniffing not-so-subtly toward my plate. I snuck him a small piece of food, and Mirelda pretended not to notice, lest she have to express her disapproval for that as well.
Only when she had excused herself and Wynnie was already pouring the wine did I finally ask the question I had been mulling over.
“Is he… a shartwyrm all the time?” I asked, my fingers absently stroking Batty’s back.
She let out a humorless laugh, tossing back her spiral curls. “Surely you know that better than I do. He’s your husband, after all. But no, I don’t actually think that as much as I think he’s in need of a solid stick-from-ass removal. He’s shown hints that one day he could even be fun, post-removal, obviously.”
I shook my head, lips tilted in a smirk at her deliberate misunderstanding. “No, I meant our father.”
My sister went still. For several seconds, the steady stream of wine trickling into the glass was the only sound in the room. Even Batty’s wings froze mid-flutter, a few errant snowflakes settling on my shoulder. Then Wynnie set my glass next to me, settling into a chair with her own.
“I don’t know, really. Is being absent the same thing as being a shartwyrm? I suppose it could have been worse.” She shrugged, though bitterness bled into her words like ink spilling onto fresh parchment.
“Was he like that before I showed up?” I asked, shifting as the fur collar suddenly felt too warm.
I had wondered more than once what their relationship would have been like if I hadn’t arrived. Was he already a drunkard? Did my arrival tip the scales? Did she only hate him for my sake?
“Not as bad, I suppose,” Wynnie said, taking a sip of wine that seemed to sting on the way down. “But he was always distant. When you came it was like… like looking at you hurt him. I never knew if it was because he had loved your mother or hated her, but he must have felt something for her if it bothered him that much.”
I weighed her words against what I knew of the male, then his confused plea in the infirmary. He had pushed my mother to leave… for her own safety, and for mine.
“Do you think so? With the way he loves to whore around, I’ve wondered if it wasn’t just a… moment of escape in grief.” My throat tightened, my fingers curling into Batty’s fur.
Wynnie and I were only a couple of years apart. Her mother had died when she was an infant, but that still didn’t leave much time for… my conception.
We made twin faces of disgust at the idea of our father having any kind ofescape.
“No,” Wynnie countered. “He might have cared about my mother, but theirs was an arranged marriage. He didn’t love her.”
“Does he love anyone?” I muttered.
Even as I said the words, I wondered how much I meant them.
He had taken me in when he knew I posed a threat to his entire existence, to the daughter he claimed. He had acknowledged me as his daughter when he could have claimed me as a ward, had given me his name instead of leaving me with a single name, which was the custom for bastards in the Seelie Courts.
I had never brought myself to ask him why, and now… now maybe I never would. I swallowed back another sip of wine, watching my sister do the same as she fixed her gaze on the puffy clouds just outside my window.
