Once she was gone, he located her entry in the ledger and drew a line throughComplaint recorded.Beneath it, he wrote a single word.
Resolved.
Chapter 7
Hannalinde
Hannalinde counted each rung as she climbed to what would be her new home for the first time. Counting helped her pace herself and kept her from looking down. It was a long way to the floor. The Tower was built for gargoyles, which meant each level had high ceilings, so the ladders were long between them. To add to it, the rungs were spaced for gargoyle limbs and assumed the climber had claws and a tail for balance.
She had neither. What she had were two weary human legs and a pair of boots with smooth soles, but she refused to arrive at her future in-laws’ home winded and weeping.
Rikard climbed ahead of her, his pace unhurried. His ruined wings were bound tight to his back with leather straps, a bit like folded umbrellas. It did not seem much effort for him and his powerful hind legs, but he’d likely made the climb a thousand times. Perhaps her limbs would strengthen in time.
Her husband-to-be did not speak to her, but twice she noticed him pause at a landing to listen and look before proceeding past it, before she realized he was checking for other gargoyles. Making sure the landing was empty before she passed.
He was sparing her their derision. Or himself the shame. Either way, she appreciated the consideration.
By the fifth tier, her legs and lungs were burning, and the nausea that had been her constant companion for weeks made a pointed reappearance. She stopped to catch her breath, leaning her cheek against the cool stone wall between rungs. It smelled of minerals and moss. Not unpleasant, just a long way from the dusty leather and roses of her rooms above the cobbler’s shop.
“We’re nearly there,” Rikard said when he reached the landing for the next tier and realized she was no longer on his heels. His voice echoed in the hollow center of the Tower, flat and uninflected. “Can you manage, or should I have my father fly down to carry you the rest of the way?”
Fallen gods, what a first impression that would be. Hannalinde wiped her damp palms on her dress one at a time and climbed the final ladder-and-a-half as quickly as she could. Rikard was waiting for her and held out a hand to help her dismount.
The hollow center of the seventh tier was circled by a wide, open-air corridor carved from the Tower’s pale stone, with arched doorways leading to individual eyries. The scaleof everything was enormous, the ceilings twice as tall and the doorframes twice as broad as even the tallest and broadest in Lamont House.
Rikard led her to one of the doors. Before he could push it open, she put a hand on his arm.
“How much do they know about me? What did you tell them?”
His mouth twisted, and she feared what might come out. “They know your father’s name. They know you’re human. They know I have claimed you.”
“That’s all?” she pressed, suddenly afraid of what she was walking into.
“I don’t know much more about you than that. I have not mentioned the hatchling, if that’s what you’re asking. I will leave that coin in your purse to spend.” He pushed the door open without ceremony, motioning for her to enter.
Carved stone shelves lined the walls of the antechamber, holding a collection of statuary. She did not have time to examine it before he led her further into the eyrie, to the main living area that opened onto a wide balcony. She could just make out a moonlit view of the palace quarter beyond.
The furniture was gargoyle-scaled. She hadn’t considered that. There were high stone benches instead of chairs, a heavy table that came to her chest, and on the balcony, a thick railing that served as an outdoor roost. Tapestries depicting midair battle scenes lined the walls. It was all quite grand, especially compared to the sad pair of rooms she inhabited above the cobbler’s shop.
“Mother, Father!” Rikard called. “Come meet Hannalinde.”
Two gargoyles swiftly entered from one of the adjoining rooms.
Rikard’s mother, who he introduced as Cléa, was stocky and broad-shouldered, with a wide mouth and smaller horns capped with gold filigree. She wore a delicate, draped gown of yellow silkedged with silver that floated all around her as she moved. It was so pretty that it made Hanna regret returning Pudding’s pink gown so soon.
His father, Roul, was bigger and softer, a gargoyle who’d been formidable once but had let the years and the mead have their way with him. He held a cup that was clearly not his first of the evening. But his gaze, when it settled on Hannalinde, was sharp.
“You must be the unlucky female my son convinced to mate him,” he boomed jovially.
Hannalinde smiled politely at the joke, determined to be the most appealing daughter-in-law she could be in spite of her species. “It was I who did the convincing, I’m afraid.”
Beside her, Rikard blew out a disbelieving breath. “Do not be so modest. I would have mated you months ago if I had my way.”
He was playing along. She nearly laughed with delight. It was an incredible feeling, having an ally in this.
Cléa circled her the way a tailor might circle a dress form, assessing from every angle. Hannalinde held still and let herself be examined. She’d endured worse scrutiny when she’d come out at court, where the human noblewomen could flay a girl’s reputation with a single raised eyebrow.
“You’re pale,” Cléa observed. “Are you ill?”
