“Rorik. We were beginning to worry.” Orin looked between us as we sat.
“I highly doubt that,” Rorik said. He grabbed his glass and took a heavy pull. “What was all the commotion about?”
“Your reckless brother has just informed us that he plans to invite the Starglens and Waterstones to the silver fete,” Lydia said, practically hissing. If she’d been glaring at me instead of Orin, I might have shrunk under the weight of her affront.
The silver fete. The exhaustion from my training fled, and I straightened in my chair. Never in my wildest dreams would I have fathomed I’d be anywhere near it. The Ferngloves hosted it once every twenty-five years, and only the elite townsfolk of Willowfell were permitted to join. It was a multiday affair full of revelry. Receiving an invitation elevated one to the upper echelon of Willowfell society, and many scrambled at the opportunity to get in good with the Evers. I glanced at Orin, but he’d already shifted his focus back to Lydia.
Beside her, Clesian gripped her hand tight. “You’ve yet to tell us your reasoning.” His rich, smooth voice was pleasing and heady, despite the tension clearly riddling his frame. Beside him, Amalyss and Tasia sat silently with their gazes fixed on their plates.
Orin sighed. “We need to keep our households allied.”
“I fail to see why,” Lydia spat.
“Well, you are shortsighted,” Seville purred.
“Enough,” Orin said, just as Lydia abruptly stood. Her chair scraped angrily against the floor, and an attendant quietly came to her side to scoot it back into place. Lydia slowly sank to her seat without even bothering to check if the chair had been replaced.Once she’d aimed her gaze back at Orin, he let out a long sigh. “It is vital that we continue to work with other Evers in case new magic is discovered.”
“You mean in case our threadmender fails,” Lydia said.
I stilled in my chair. None of them looked at me. I was there, and yet I wasn’t—just as important as the attendants who flitted around them, but as voiceless as the matriarch who once ruled this house. My gaze slanted to Mavis. Sometimes it was hard to remember she even existed. That faraway stare. The absent way her lips remained parted as if she were about to speak.
Orin grimaced as he reached for his glass. “I have every faith Edira will find a way to cure blight. But as a failsafe, yes. We don’t know how much time Mavis has left. Imagine if the Waterstones or Starglens unearthed a new method for curing her ailment and we were none the wiser.”
Silence followed his words, everyone’s attention riveted to the matriarch—the apparition—beside me. After a full, weighted minute, Lydia dared to speak.
“I’m surprised the Starglens are willing to attend. It’s any wonder they even allow Briar to join your lessons.”
“We willnotdrag the past into this.” Rumbling anger colored Orin’s voice. Or maybe it was his magic, because at the same time as the words left his lips, a drying heat as intense as the summer sun cooked the air, and the ground trembled. Everyone at the table stiffened. Orin flexed his hands, as if trying to call the magic back into his body, and the tremors subsided. Then he sighed. Rubbing his temples, he met his aunt’s gaze. “It’s time we set aside petty squabbles and find a way to deal with blight together. There will be no more arguing about the fete. The date and time have been set.”
Rorik leaned back in his chair so the front legs lifted from the floor. He cupped the back of his head and sneered, but his stare turned flinty. “When?”
“A week’s time,” Seville said as she twirled her fork acrossher plate. The scrape of metal raised the hairs on my arms. “Everyone”—she dragged out the word as she pinned Rorik with a pointed stare—“is expected to dress accordingly.”
His lips thinned in a deranged, stiff smile. “Clothing is the least of my concerns. What of Edira?”
The sound of my name jolted me, and Ywena consequently sent a shock arcing down my arm. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything. They were too focused on the nearly visible thread of distaste stitched tight between the siblings.
“What of her?” Seville took a small sip from her goblet.
“She’ll attend, of course,” Orin said.
“You’ve lost it.” Rorik chuckled, and that small action eased the tautness of his frame. He let the legs of the chair fall back to the floor as he snagged his glass. He drained its contents in one fell swoop. “Why would you put our threadmender in harm’s way?”
“Are you suggesting we can’t look after our own?” Orin asked.
Rorik’s answer was quick. “Look what happened just a few days ago under your watch.”
Amalyss and Tasia appeared as though they wanted to melt into their chairs, and they glanced at me through the tops of their lashes for the briefest of moments. Lydia slammed her palms against the table, rattling the dinnerware, while Clesian let out something resembling a growl. Seville laughed, but each cackle felt more like a threat and was just as frightening as the others’ outbursts.
Orin shot daggers at his brother with his eyes. “Edira—”
“Is a person, not an object, and can speak for herself.” I reached for my wine and took a long drink, steadying the rising irritation in my chest. “I’ll go.”
Finally, they looked at me. I held my ground under the weight of their scrutiny, softening only a touch when I met Orin’s stare. He exhaled quietly—a relieved, soothing thing—and his lips lifted in a grateful smile.
“It’s settled then.” He never looked away from me.
“Right, well...” Rorik rotated the stem of his empty goblet, then reached over and snagged Clesian’s untouched glass. He cradled the cup with his fingers as he stood and made for the hall. “I have more interesting things to do.”
