So we whispered our goodbyes, and we pulled the armchairs closer to the bed, squashing them as close to one another as the wide arms would allow. Then Wynnie grasped my hand in hers, and we sat without a word, holding our silent vigil until the very end.
Maybe it was more than what he deserved, but it was what we deserved—the closure in death he had never granted either of us in life.
Chapter 27
Everly
There was no memorial.
Draven had my father’s body moved to the family tombs without question or ceremony before meeting me back in my rooms where Mirelda brought up extra dinner that she had to know we wouldn’t eat.
But I didn’t complain because she also brought up a bottle of Shivermark gin.
I poured out three generous servings, pushing away the irony of drinking to mourn a male who had perfected the art. Something hollow twisted low in my chest, the unfamiliar shape of grief for a male I had never truly gotten to know. Mourning the idea of a father felt ridiculous, but the ache was still there, raw as an open cut.
Wynnie settled back against the sofa with her portion, tangling her free hand absentmindedly in Lumen’s fur like she had momentarily forgotten how she usually took great pains to avoid touching him. Even that small, unconscious gesture—the need for comfort overriding old habits—tightened something fragile inside me.
I sat next to Draven, at least in part for his siphoning, because Batty had already shocked me twice today and it was starting to hurt in a lingering way. I was almost grateful that she was out for a fly right now, lest she get overzealous in her duties when my limbs were still twitching from her last intervention.
But I also soaked in his warmth and the steadiness of his presence. And most importantly, the way he didn’t ask stupid questions like how I was feeling.
I couldn’t have answered anyway.
My emotions were a tangle of resentment and longing and loss, a storm with no real center. That was just where my father was concerned, not even taking into account the way it had sharpened the danger to Nevara in my mind.
I was sure Draven was thinking the same, but he hadn’t given voice to the blow that not a single one of us could handle right now.
Nevara was stronger than my father had ever been. She would have to be all right.
After a long beat of silence, Wynnie cleared her throat, raising her glass. “In… dubious memory… of the male who would have appreciated this gin more than he appreciated our presence at his deathbed.”
Draven was the first to clink his glass without delay, like that was the nicest thing he would have said. I followed with a humorless snort.
“May Winter welcome him home with the same loving arms of his favorite lady of the night,” I added, the words bitter but steadier than I felt.
“May his soul find all the peace his face found in a plump set of bosoms,” she continued, wrinkling her nose like she instantly regretted the mental image she had created.
Which made two of us.
Draven’s lips twitched, though he gave the barest shake of his head.
“Perhaps we’ll appoint you as the ceremonial death officiant for all of Winter,” he offered dryly.
“Perhaps you should,” she agreed, downing her gin. “Then at least no one could lie about how all the blustering bags of assholes at court were beacons of light in their communities.”
My husband was silent for several heartbeats, an uncharacteristic hesitation trickling through our bond before he cleared his throat.
“If only you had been at my father’s memorial.” The words were tense and clipped, but they hit a sardonic note all the same. “Then no one would have dared put forth what an outstanding paragon of righteousness he had been.”
I furrowed my brow. Normally, if he shared anything at all, he would have said it in my head.
It was only when Wynnie blinked, caught off guard, that I realized he was giving her this on purpose. A shared bit of not-quite-grief as an olive branch for my sister, who was entirely alone in the world now except for the people in this room.
Her eyes met his, widening with a hint of surprise. “He, too, was a big steaming bag of assholes?”
“That’s quite the understatement, My Lady.” The voice came from behind us, Mirelda’s proper tone harder than I had ever heard it.
Instead of chastising us for drinking, she poured us each another hefty serving.
