“No. It cannot.”
The voice sighed. “Fine.”
There were some muffled sounds, then he heard Reynard’s voice and the other one, but from farther away, and he couldn’t quite make out both sides of the conversation. “Misha… please… it’s Geoffrey. He never calls to just ‘shoot the shit.’ Where do you come up with these phrases?… Misha. You must do as I say… Misha!… Fine.Beagle.Are you happy now?… Give me the damn phone!… Hello? Geoffrey? Why the devil are you calling?”
“Reynard?” Geoffrey asked. “Are you well? Do you need assistance?”
“No! I mean, yes, I’m fine. No assistance necessary. What do you want?”
Used to his brother’s terseness, Geoffrey got right to the point. “I need my net worth, please.”
All business, Reynard asked, “How detailed?”
Geoffrey hummed. “To the nearest million should be fine.”
“I’ll text it. I hope this is necessary, brother.”
“Extremely,” Geoffrey replied. “Unless you’d prefer that Marduke Brand be in charge of the Topaz clan.”
Reynard swore long and loud. An appreciative whistle was heard in the background. “I’ll text it right away,” he said, then hung up the phone.
Geoffrey decided that he had no wish to speculate on what his brother was up to. Instead, he stroked Ian’s hair and waited for the text. When it came, he showed it to his mate. “This should be enough,” he said.
Ian laughed harshly. “You can’t become head of the Topaz clan, Geoffrey.”
Matthieu’s eyes narrowed. “But you can,” he said. He looked up at Geoffrey. “Can’t he?”
“But that’s not my money,” Ian gasped. “It’s yours.”
Geoffrey shook his head. “No, love. It’s ours.”
40
Matthieu
In a bed that would comfortably fit a giraffe, basking in sunlight from the room’s oversized south-facing window, Matthieu lay on his side and found space to fit each of his precious eggs against his bare stomach and chest. Over the last five months, he’d picked up on suggestions through the egg bond—little inklings about what each individual egg liked, and general sensations of happiness and excitement when Matthieu got it right.
The egg with the shell whose color reminded Matthieu of a fiery sunset, for example, enjoyed being placed near Matthieu’s chest, where the dragon inside could feel the rhythm of Matthieu’s heart. The darkest purple egg enjoyed the softer skin of Matthieu’s stomach. The twins, Matthieu had learned to his great displeasure, were already squabbling, and bickered incessantly over where they wanted to be placed. It had taken Matthieu a few weeks to figure out that if he held their egg at a certain angle by his navel, one twin would be able to enjoy the lower quadrant of his chest, while the other would snuggle his stomach.
Despite their particularities, Matthieu loved each egg more than anything else in the world.
For a while, Matthieu lay in bed with them, stroking each of their shells and sending them his love through the egg bond. The eggs communicated with him in exchange, each new sentiment bursting inside Matthieu’s chest brightly, like bubbles risen through champagne.
Warm.
Happy.
Love!
Snuggle
Peaceful.
Safe.
It wasn’t until a sound distracted Matthieu that he realized how engrossed in their little conversation he’d become—at least an hour had passed, but it felt like no time had gone on at all. Egg brain had him in its clutches, and it wasn’t letting go.
The noise, as it turned out, was Ashley. He’d knocked politely on the pane with his beak, then butted the in-swing egress window open with his head and tumbled into the room. A pendant dangled from his beak, remarkably similar to the kind Perry liked to wear. It was dainty and understated, boasting a tiny, individual diamond and a white gold chain with the smallest links Matthieu had ever seen. Proud of himself, Ashley paraded over to the bed, hopped up, and laid the pendant delicately on the palest Amethyst egg.
