Thiswas her solution?
Hannalinde’s jaw tightened. “I already did, to report the gargoyle who did this to me, much good it did. He turned me away. There was nothing he could do.”
“Hm.” Pudding stood and locked the door, then turned back to Hannalinde. She studied her with the look of someone who held a great many secrets and was deciding which one to spend. “What I’m about to tell you stays in this room. If it gets out,I’ll know it was you who talked, and I won’t take kindly to it. Understood?”
Hannalinde nodded.
“The Nadir is in need of an heir. He told me so himself. He needs a mate and a child.”
She wanted to laugh. “Sadly, the child is not his, and I doubt I could convince him that it was, even if I could convince him to marry me. As you said yourself, I’m quite far along.”
Pudding pursed her lips and gave an exasperated sigh. “Must I spell it out? I have reason to believe he can’t father one on his own.”
The room tilted as Hannalinde grasped her meaning. Pudding was suggesting some kind of practical arrangement rather than subterfuge. “Why do you believe he’d want this? Want…me?”
“Because I know him better than most.” Pudding’s mouth curved into a smile. “He’s my client, though probably not in the way you’re thinking. He pays me for company. Conversation. A bit of entertainment. He’s never laid a hand on me, and trust me, I’ve offered. Begged, occasionally.”
Hannalinde flushed, tryingnotto imagine what she described. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need a protector and already have a half-gargoyle child growing in you.” Pudding’s eyes held hers, steady and unapologetic. “He needs an heir and can’t make one. Perhaps two impossible problems are each other’s solution.”
Hannalinde’s pulse throbbed in her ears. The Nadir? He was so grim and intimidating with his large horns and scarred face. He’d turned her away without compunction when she begged him for help. Now Pudding was suggesting she…marry him?
“He won’t want me,” she objected weakly. There was not a gargoyle in Solvantis who did not know of her father’s treachery. Who did not recognize her family name. It’d bring shame on the Nadir’s family to take her on.
“That, I can help with.” Pudding flung open a wardrobe that was stuffed with more gowns and petticoats than Carlijn’s. “I know just what he likes.”
A thudding knock sounded at the door and Hannalinde flinched reflexively. It was only Carlijn, who’d carried up the tea tray herself and was stopped by the locked door.
“What are you two whispering about?” she said as soon as Pudding let her in. She set the tea tray on the dressing table and began to pour for all of them.
“A new gown for your friend,” Pudding said, rifling through her wardrobe. She paused to accept a cup of tea with cream. “One that might solve several problems at once, if your friend has the spine for it.”
“Oh!” Carlijn clapped her hands, nearly upsetting the teapot. “I’ve been trying to get Hanna to get rid of that awful gray rag she wears for months.”
“Spot of rouge wouldn’t hurt her either,” Pudding added. The two of them were suddenly thick as thieves, poking about for ways to improve her appearance and therefore her chances at securing the Nadir’s interest.
The idea was absurd. Outrageous. The kind of scheme that belonged in a storybook, not in real life. Marry a gargoyle. Pass off another gargoyle’s child as his. Build a life on a foundation of lies, in a tower full of creatures who hated her.
But beneath the absurdity, beneath the fear and revulsion and sheer impossibility, something else stirred. A thread of logic, thin and bright, like a strand of gold thread.
He needed what she had. She needed what he could give. And neither of them had other options to speak of. Perhaps, if they were very honest with each other, very clear-eyed about the arrangement, they could help each other.
“I like the pink one,” she said, pointing at one of the dresses in the wardrobe.
Chapter 6
Rikard
The Lamont woman was back. He recognized her name when the keeper announced it, and it was a good thing, because she was so changed that he might not have recognized her otherwise. Gone was the mothish dress and tight plait. This woman was a frothy confection, with rosebud lips and flowers in her pale hair. She looked as edible as icing on a honeycake.
Her hands were clasped in the same white-knuckled grip, though.
He hated to send her away again, but there was little he could do for her. When had that ever stopped a human from issuing a complaint, though? He reached for his quill with a sigh. “What brings you back, Miss Lamont?”
“I’m pregnant.”
The quill snapped in his fingers. He set the pieces down.
