Her fair cheeks flushed to match her shawl, and she looped her arm through his as they made their way out to join their friends.
Carlijn clapped excitedly when she saw them, patting the blanket to encourage Hannalinde to sit beside her. He had not visited the balcony in some time, Rikard realized. It was not useful to him now that he could not fly, so he usually avoided it, but it provided a stunning view of a moonlit Solvantis, its lanterns punctuating the dark like scattered embers.
Hanna began to lower herself gingerly to the floor, and Rikard, realizing her pregnant state made such contortions difficult, rushed to her aid.
Lucan blinked, staring between the two of them with a dismayed expression. “Oh no. No. It can’t be! Am I losing you sosoon? Will I never see you at the tavern again because you’ll be chained to a hatchling’s cradle?”
Rikard barked a laugh, settling down next to Hanna, who gave him a fond look when his arm pressed against hers. He wished his wings were not bound already so he could wrap one around her shoulders. She might not mind their tattered state. “Have you only just realized that she’s with child? You didn’t notice that she grows rounder by the day?”
“I thought she was better fed since your mating.” Lucan pulled a comical frown when Carlijn laughed at him, too. Shaking his head, he poured them all generous tankards of mead, grumbling, “How was I to know?”
“You could open your eyes,” said the green moth, which had followed them out to wheel around the exterior lantern. “But when has a gargoyle ever seen what was right in front of him?”
Lucan made a show of lunging for it, but it flapped away lazily, past the edge of the balcony where he could not reach without flying himself.
Hanna giggled at his antics. “Let me guess,” she murmured so only Rikard could hear. “It questioned his intelligence again?”
“Exactly right.”
Bastien appeared then, landing on the balcony rail with precision before folding his enormous wingspan. He wore his duty harness, polished and buckled, which meant he was headed to his post in the human king’s court after his visit. His head swiveled toward the jugs of mead, and a look of naked longing crossed his broad, earnest face.
Lucan raised it, a question on his face.
“Don’t tempt me. I report to the palace in an hour.”
“One cup,” Lucan coaxed, already pouring.
“I can’t.” Bastien eased himself onto the plinth at the far corner of the balcony so he could lean against the wall. “The humans are hosting the fae emissary tonight. If I arrive at thepalace smelling of mead, the Zenith will have my wings for wall hangings.”
Bastien accepted a piece of bread and a wedge of cheese offered by Carlijn instead, which earned him a jealous growl from Lucan and more laughs from everyone else, and then the five of them settled into easy conversation.
The mead was, as Lucan had promised, extraordinary. As he drank the first cup slowly, watching the others over the rim of the tankard, its warmth spread from Rikard’s throat to his chest and loosened his shoulders. Hanna merely sipped at hers, but Carlijn drank with enthusiasm and little restraint.
It was an approach she shared with Lucan. The two of them sat close on their blanket, her skirts arranged so they spilled into his lap, and she laughed at everything he said. They were alike in many ways, as Rikard and Hanna were. It was natural that an attachment should form.
“A toast,” Lucan declared, raising his second cup of mead. “To the Nadir’s balcony, which has better views than mine and considerably better company.”
“To the mead,” Carlijn added, giggling.
“To the hatchling,” Bastien said, lifting his piece of cheese in Hanna’s direction.
“You knew? Did everyone know but me?” sputtered Lucan.
Bastien snorted. “Yes.”
Rikard raised his cup toward Hanna, too. “To its mother, who had the courage to take me on as a mate.”
Hannalinde’s cheeks flushed. She raised her still-full tankard. “To friends, old and new.”
They drank until the mead ran dry and ate until they emptied the plates. The conversation wandered, loosened by the mead, until Bastien had to leave.
Then the mood shifted. Lucan sang as he often did when he was in his cups, but this was no bawdy drinking song. He sang aballad about a moth who fell in love with the moon, remote and strange, and died without ever reaching his true love, no matter how high he flew. His voice cracked on the high notes, and when he finished, Carlijn had covered her mouth with both hands and Hannalinde dabbed away tears with her shawl.
“You’re a menace,” Rikard told him, a rough catch in his voice betraying his own emotion.
“I’m adelight. Ask anyone.”
Rikard motioned to the two humans. “I did. We agreed on menace.”
