“In due time, time being something you can respect as a son of Ashwind?” Estelar’s aversion for Taven was barely disguised. It wasn’t freshly made either. It predated their arrival.
“Of course. I only know Ellie is suffering now?—”
“Aelloven, dear, are you suffering?” Estelar asked.
The question was loaded, and her answer would risk angering one or the other. But she’d spent too many hours coddling Taven’s sensitive constitution, and even more dreaming of being exactly where she was standing. “I only feel a slight tingle from Jesstin’s absence. I’d like to continue.”
“I was hoping you’d agree.” Estelar patted her arm. “For there’s someone holding our seats at the March of the Marionettes, someone who would very much like to meet you.”
“Oh?” Elloven perked. Was it Laxius, finally?
“Your brother, Acheron.”
Chapter 12
The Paradox of Wishes
Acheron was the spitting image of Gennady. Same soulful eyes and slightly unruly hair. Even his quick but heartfelt smile was a reminder of what happiness felt like. Her heart caught up with her head as the man with the sandy-red hair rose from his seat in the pavilion box to come greet her. Beside him sat a comely young woman with dark hair and a painted-on smile.
“Aelloven.” Acheron’s entire face illuminated with joy. His arms spread as he approached and folded her in. “At long last.”
She didn’t enjoy hugging strangers, but she needed no proof of lineage to know the man was kin.
It hadn’t really hit her that Wilder Hawthorne wasn’t her father until she met Acheron. Esmeray must have had a dalliance with Estelar’s brother, which might have even been the catalyst for her leaving. Maybe they’d had a falling out, and she feared losing her children?
But if golden-red hair was a gift from their father’s line, why did Gennady have it too? Or had Esmeray really had three children with Laxius of Rivenholde and only taken two with her? That didn’t sound like her mother, but she’d kept so much to herself, Elloven wasn’t sure she knew her as well as she’d thought.
And where was this Laxius?
She stared at her newfound brother.
“Prominence Ashwind,” Acheron said with a quick smile, guessing incorrectly what had caught her attention. “The ears.” Like Taven, Acheron’s ears came to the slightest point at the tops. He gave them a playful wiggle. “And this is Dasha, my consort. Prominence Grymwood. Arcana.”
The first thing Elloven noticed about Dasha was that her eyes were different colors. One was violet, the other a striking amber.
“Acheron’s sister. Hmm. I was beginning to believe you were just a myth.” The woman’s gaze settled briefly on Elloven before returning to the stage below. Her delivery was bland and monotone, like she was being put upon and couldn’t be bothered to pretend otherwise.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you both.” Each time Elloven said the words, they seemed to hold both more and less meaning. The pieces of her life were at last coming together, but the warning building in her chest reminded her that not everything she’d wanted had been good for her.
She wondered where Jesstin and Sesto were, if they would be joining them for the show. Jesstin, at least, couldn’t be far, because the tickle in her chest had dulled to nothing. But Ryquin and his consort, Daire, were also missing, as were Estelar’s consorts.
“It’s my hope you and your brother will make up for the time you’ve lost,” Estelar said. “Time we’ve all lost...”
Thanks to Esmeray seemed to be the trailing sentiment.
Acheron guided them all to their seats, high above the stage. Elloven was positioned between Estelar and Acheron, with Taven on the other side of Dasha.
“Have you ever seen a marionette show, Aelloven?” Acheron asked, leaning in.
“Puppets?”
“Close. Instead of hands to prop them up, they use a series of wires dangling from the top of the stage, which the marionettists control. Do you see?”
Elloven followed where he was pointing. Most of the area above the stage was blocked by the top of a colossal purple curtain, but in the space between the round rivets, there were men playing with large crosses of wood, testing wires attached for strength. They looked as small as ants from her vantage point. “And they make them move that way?”
“The marionettists practice for years and years before their skills are worthy of the stage. Many mothers and fathers pass the skill to sons and daughters. The troupe conducting tonight is three generations of the same family. Darius, his daughter Sasha, and her son, Darius the Younger. We’re expecting his son, Darius Once More, to join them in a few seasons, and the boy is only seven.”
“Where I come from it’s elder and younger.”
