Page 62 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“You’re not doing anything sitting here.”

My shoulders sagged. “I’m planning.”

“Your planning is as appalling as your posture.”

I straightened up. “I blame both on pregnancy.”

“You’re barely pregnant.”

“Emotionally, I’m enormous, and drained enough that you’d think I was nine months gone. And I need a rest.” I stood and looked out at two guards passing each other as they scanned the perimeter of the estate.

Maeve retreated, for now. “All right. I’ll see you at dinner.”

In the corner stood the easel.

Artem had bought it after finding me sketching on the back of an envelope during breakfast.

“You’re more high-strung than a guitar,” he had said, setting the wrapped parcel in front of me as if he were handing over state documents. “Paint something useful.”

I’d told him, “That wasn’t how art worked.”

He had said, “That’s how family works.”

Then he had left before I could do something embarrassing, like cry at a Russian man over expensive paints and that he noticed.

The paints were arranged on the little table beside the easel, along with oils, brushes, palettes, proper paper, everything too nice for someone who still thought of art as a secret habit rather than a life. I changed into leggings and an old shirt, then tied my hair up and stood in front of the blank canvas.

For ten minutes, I did nothing.

Then I painted.

It wasn’t a proper landscape, just gray-blue strokes dragged across the canvas with too much pressure. Then came deep blackberry, and a smear of whiskey gold I hated because I knew exactly why I’d chosen it.

My hand moved faster.

Rain came next, though paint didn’t smell like rain and I resented the limitation. I put it in anyway, dark lines added structure under the softness.

Then violet.

I stopped with the loaded brush hovering near the canvas.

Violet had been the worst of it. The scent proved I was theirs but they never came back. They said they would.

I swallowed as I painted it small at first, hidden in the corner beneath the rain. Then again, and again.

By the time I stepped back, violet had bloomed through the whole thing.

“Subtle,” I muttered.

Outside, movement caught my eye. I went to the window with the brush still in my hand. Gregor was walking Fergus along the gravel path near the orchard. Though, walking was generous. Fergus was approximately the size of an ambitious teapot and appeared to believe he was leading a military exercise. He trotted ahead with his tiny head high, then stopped abruptly to inspect something invisible near the lavender bush. Gregor, enormous, scarred and patient, waited with the lead in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

Sneaky treats. The betrayal was confirmed.

Maeve walked beside him, one hand tucked through his free arm. She said something I couldn’t hear. Gregor looked down at her, and his serious face shifted into the smallest smile.

Maeve laughed. It wasn’t the sharp laugh she used when she wanted to win or the brittle one from before. This one was easy, private, and full of a life I’d watched her earn the hard way.

Gregor bent to pick up Fergus when the dog appeared to challenge the distant Dobermans at the far gate. Maeve laughed harder, and Gregor said something that made her press her face against his arm.