ERINA
“You’ve sighed enough to fill my entire House with your worries,” came Syndras’s wry observation, her bright eyes peering over the rim of her cup as she took a sip of wine.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Then sighed again. Then laughed, the sound sheepish. “I’m sorry.”
“Is it the child?” Syndras asked, her voice knowing. Her lips curled. “Or the father?”
My eyes went to Braanelle, who was standing stock-still by the door of the sitting room. I’d decided to visit Syndras this afternoon after she’d written to me yesterday.
Braanelle met my eyes, inclining her head briefly, before she stepped from the room, closing the door behind her until it was just me and Syndras.
“The father,” I answered. “Not that anything has been bad between us. It’s the opposite actually. Everything has been perfect. But that’s the problem.”
“Ah,” Syndras said. “I understand.”
“You do?” I asked, a littlehopefully.
“My dear girl, I’m older than some of the trees in Vyaan,” she said softly, setting down her teacup on the small table next to her. One of her keepers, Finly, had brought in a small tray earlier, laden with special treats. “Tell me what’s been troubling you.”
Relief threaded through me as I looked at Syndras, who was, perhaps, my only friend outside of Kaldur. Maudoric held affection for me, yes, but I felt like I could tell Syndras whatever I needed. With Maudoric, it was difficult because her loyalties would always lie with House Kaalium, as did Braanelle’s. I didn’t want to put them in a difficult position.
I stared down at my belly, running a hand over where our daughter grew.
“I’ve been happy,” I confessed.
Syndras laughed. “That is terrible news indeed.”
“These last few weeks have been…they’ve been everything that I always imagined they could be,” I added. “With Kaldur.”
She sobered. “And you don’t trust it.”
“Exactly,” I breathed, my shoulders sagging. “I keep waiting for the bad.”
Syndras rose from her chair, reaching for her cane. Her wings were weathered, the membranes slightly wrinkled. I knew it had been years since she’d last flown. I frowned when I watched her walk over to me.
“Hush—you’re pregnant,” she said when I began to fuss. “I’m merely old.”
I sighed but waited as she took the seat beside me on the chaise. She took my hand, her palm cool to the touch. She turned it over, inspecting the flattened surface, running one finger down my middle one.
She met my eyes, and in her patient way, she said, “Tell me, my dear. And I’ll give you what advice I can.”
Advice was what I desperately needed.
Syndras saw my struggle, however, to form the words of everything that was jumbled in my mind.
Instead, she asked, “Tell me one thing. Do you love him?”
The answer seemed to ring through my entire body. Syndras probably saw it plastered over my face because her expression was almost sympathetic, though understanding.
“I think that,” I began, “the heart is such a stupid, foolish thing, with no sense of self-preservation at all.”
“That has been my experience, yes,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “And isn’t it marvelous?”
Syndras’s hand was as soft as silk when I gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I do love him,” I said quietly, the confession easy, “but it’s hard to trustmyselfwith that love.”
“It’s not about him, then?” she asked, trying to puzzle it out in her careful way.
