I don’t add that last part out loud, aware that my lack of enthusiasm would draw a pout across my sister’s mouth. After all, she came up with the idea of celebrating my reign after reading about such a revel in one of her books.
“You’re in luck, Matsi.” Ilya stands and grins at his mother. “Konstantin has just appointedmeMaster of Jubilesque Accommodations.”
Izolda snort-grins, while the corners of my mouth flick up a fraction.
Milana, on the other hand, doesn’t look amused. “This revel isn’t some debaucherous gathering, Ilyusha.”
My kid brother’s smile only widens. “Perhaps it should be. Make love, not war, and all that.”
Milana’s scowl deepens. “The influence of that Crow?—”
“That Crowis my mate, Matsi,” Izolda snaps. “Think all the worst thoughts you want, but let them not trespass from your lips, for while Aodhan and I love living here, wewillleave if you persist in vilifying him.”
Milana sets her mouth, which gives her rigid cheekbones an even more austere angle.
Since humoring her will be the most expedient method to hasten her departure, I cross my legs and say, “You wanted to discuss accommodations, Milana. How can I help with that?”
“Which rooms should we give your fellow monarchs and their children? Do we set them up in the West Wing with our more illustrious guests, or would you prefer they stay in one of the suites in this wing?”
“Put the monarchs in the East Wing.”
“And their children?” Milana asks.
“West Wing. I don’t care to be kept awake by loud tots.”
“Tots?” Izolda’s lips draw so high that their corners prop up her freckled cheeks like easels. “Isla and Naeva are in their mid-twenties.”
“Even more reason to dock them in the wing farthest from me. Twenty-year olds are so…” At my brother’s cocked eyebrow, I swap the pejorative adjective warming my tongue for a word that won’t offend my youngest sibling—even though he turned thirty a scant month ago. “…lively. You know how attached I am to my peace and quiet.”
“Oh, we know, you curmudgeon.” Ilya smirks, then shoves his chair back and stands, smoothing his palms down his thighs. “Personally, I loathe peace and quiet, so I volunteer to host the princesses in my bedchamber.”
“Oh my gods, Ilyusha. You’re incorrigible.” Izolda rolls her eyes so hard that her blue irises vanish.
Milana doesn’t bother with an eyeroll since she knows my brother is only jesting. While I’ve no doubt he’d enjoy entertaining the female shifters, he’s well versed in politics and decorum, and knows the princesses aren’t fair game for a tryst.
“Actually, Ilyusha”—Izolda grins—“I’d love nothing more than to hear you suggest hosting Naeva and Isla to their respective fathers.”
My intrepid brother laughs.
“I hear the girls are close, so perhaps they’d be willing to share a room?” one-track minded Milana rambles. “That way you could put them in the East Wing as well. I’m certain their fathers would appreciate having their daughters nearby.”
“They’re both single by the way,” Izolda lobs in.
“Stand down from your matchmaking endeavor, sister.” Ilya gathers his hair in a topknot. “I tried; I failed. Our brother has zero interest in marriage.”
I lean back in my chair, my vertebrae clicking from the strain of the day, and rub the snowflake talisman under my shirt—a coronation present from Meriam and the Cauldron.
“A king shouldn’t rule alone,” Milana proclaims. “It was one of the first things your father told me.”
The mention of my father casts a shadow over the ambient mood. He and I may have had our differences, but he was a loving parent and an attentive husband, a foundational pillar in Glace and in my world.
Izolda pats her mother’s arm. “Kostya will change his tune the day he meetstheone. Speaking of…”
When her smile expands, I know that my private suite’s door is about to flap open once more. One would think I resided in a brothel instead of the heaviest-guarded wing of a castle.
The mental bond shifters share with their mates is truly something else. Something alluring to some and alarming to others. I fall firmly in the bracket of ‘others,’ because I cannot imagine having my mind flayed open for another to poke through.
“A school? They targeted children?” My sister’s joy wilts as Aodhan approaches, wincing.
