“She’s human,” Rikard said dryly. “They come in that color.”
“I’m well enough,” Hannalinde said. Then, because the moment required it and because she’d come too far to be coy: “I’m also with child.”
The effect was instantaneous. Cléa’s claws flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide, then bright, then wet. Through her tears, she looked at Rikard, and the question in her face was so naked it hurt to witness. “You’re healed?”
Rikard met his mother’s gaze without expression. “Obviously.”
“How?”
“I visited a human apothecary for a series of treatments,” he lied. “That’s where I met my dear Hanna.”
His dear Hanna.Of course, this was all a farce, but oh, they were pretty words. Pretty as a fallen petal.
Cléa made a sound that Hannalinde had never heard before, a low, vibrating hum that seemed to come from deep in her chest. A purr. Rough and quavering, it filled the room. She reached for Hannalinde with both hands, then stopped herself, claws hovering an inch from her shoulders.
“May I?” she asked.
Hannalinde had not been embraced by anyone except Carlijn in years. She certainly had not been embraced by a gargoyle. The request itself was so unexpected, so contrary to every interaction she’d had with their species, that she forgot to be afraid.
“Of course.”
Cléa’s arms closed around her, and the purr intensified until Hannalinde could feel it in her ribs. Over Cléa’s shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Rikard’s face. He was as bowled over by all of this as she was. What had they gotten themselves into?
Roul clapped his son on the back with a force that would have knocked Hannalinde flat. “Well done, boy. I knew you could do it.”
“It was only a matter of time,” Rikard said, and this time his lie was wrapped in truth so neatly that Hannalinde almost believed him.
What followed was a blur. Cléa released her and immediately let loose a torrent of plans and questions and declarations that left Hannalinde spinning and overwhelmed. There would be a grand ceremony. There would be two ceremonies, gargoyle and human. There would be feasting. There would be guests. The Zenith and his mate must be invited, and the human king and queen, and every family of consequence in the Tower.
Any idea that it would be a small or private affair evaporated. In all honesty, she was excited to have a more public event, closer to the one she’d always dreamed of as a girl. One didn’t grow up as the daughter of Lamont and imagine anything other than a grand affair with the finest lords and ladies in attendance. Cléa had a similar vision, it seemed.
“She needs a dress,” Rikard broke in at one point.
“Of course! A dress!” Cléa said giddily, gripping Hannalinde’s hands. “What will you wear?”
“I hadn’t thought about it yet. This is all so new.”
“We must think about it now so the dressmaker has time to stitch. The moths are already carrying the news. By tomorrow, every gargoyle in Solvantis will know my son is taking a mate. A human mate.” She paused, as though processing this fact anew. “This will require careful management if you are to be well received.”
“I trust you will be an excellent guide,” Hannalinde said mildly, and Cléa gave her a long, appraising look that was warmer than the first.
“You and I are going to get along,” she declared.
Over the following days, Hannalinde visited the Tower nightly and found herself securely tucked under Cléa’s determined wing. She was everything a society mother should be: energetic, opinionated, well-connected, and utterly convinced that holding the right social event could overcome any bad opinion. She reminded Hannalinde of the women who’d surrounded her as a girl, her own mother and the other wives of the palace quarter.
She had been raised in that glittering world of artifice. She’d been groomed for it, knew how to dress for it and wear her hair to its best advantage. How to curtsy and waltz and be diverting in conversation. She had mastered the fine art of entering a room so that every head turned.
She’d grieved the loss of those frivolous things almost as much as her own father. She knew they were frivolous. There were many things in life more important than a pretty hair ornament or shoes with little bells on the toes that chimed when one danced. But she’d loved them with a fierceness that ashamed her now, and she’d thought she’d buried that love alongside everything else.
Cléa dug it up.
“Silver thread or gold for the veil?” Cléa asked one evening, spreading fabric samples across the wide table. Rikard had retreated to the Nadir’s office hours ago, and Roul was at the tavern, so the two females were hard at work on the wedding planning.
Hannalinde climbed onto a stool to get a better look at the delicate embroidered edge. She would have liked to embroider it herself, but there was simply not enough time. “Gold if it’s in the budget,” she decided. “The silver thread will tarnish in time, and I want it to shine forever.”
Cléa clucked her tongue with approval. “Of course, we can afford it.”
Hannalinde ran her fingers over the ivory silk, its weave so fine it felt like water. She hadn’t touched fabric this quality in a long time. Even the mercer’s daughter did not have any this fine. Her callused fingertips caught on the threads, snagging slightly.
