Free Twilight's Dawn by Anne Bishop Page B

at the sleeping boy. Daemonar had been delighted with the jingling sound. He and Lucivar had been even more delighted when they realized how easy it was to locate the little beast. Neither man had much hope of convincing Marian to make the bells a permanent accessory for the boy, but they were sure going to try to talk her into it.
    “So,” Jaenelle said as she selected a piece of fudge. “I think we’re ready for Winsol.”
    “I think we are,” Marian agreed.
    “And I think the two of you are handling the High Lord’s decision very well,” Daemon said, raising his coffee cup in a salute.
    “Decision?” Jaenelle asked. “Oh! That reminds me. Papa did say there was something the two of you needed to talk to us about.”
    Daemon felt the meal he’d just eaten solidify into solid rock and sink his stomach to the floor.
    *He didn’t,* Lucivar said on a spear thread.
    *Oh, I think he did,* Daemon replied. He looked at Jaenelle and Marian—and wondered if he could run fast enough to get out of the room before one or both exploded. “He didn’t say anything to either of you?” “About what?” Jaenelle asked.
    “About not joining us for Winsol?”
    Their answer was a thunderous silence.

    Wearing nothing but a long winter robe, Daemon slipped into the bedroom and joined Jaenelle, who was standing at the glass door that overlooked her private courtyard. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her back against him to keep her warm and rubbed his cheek against her short golden hair.
    “Are you upset about Father’s decision?” he asked.
    “A little,” she replied. “But not surprised once I had time to think about it.”
    Something more. He could see it in her face, reflected in the glass.
    “Before I reached the age of majority, there were parties,” Jaenelle said. “Lots of them. The coven was still living here most of the time. The boyos too. Saetan attended an exhausting number of formal celebrations as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and stood as my escort for almost as many others. Then the coven and the boyos would go home to celebrate Winsol with their families.
    “A dazzling whirl of people for six days. But on the eve of Winsol, just before midnight, Saetan would bring two cups of blooded rum to my sitting room. A toast to the living myth. I always found it embarrassing, being toasted like that. And then we would dance. A court dance. Very formal. Very traditional. A pattern that was only performed during this time of year.
    “The next evening, the longest night of the year, was for family. No visitors. No outsiders. Just Mephis, Prothvar, Uncle Andulvar, Papa, and me. A simple dinner. Afterward, we would open the gifts from each other.”
    “I don’t remember you and the High Lord having a private celebration,” he said.
    “We didn’t these past two years. He stepped aside. For you.”
    “I see,” Daemon said quietly. And he did. The Steward yielding to the Consort. The father yielding to the lover. The fact that he was the lover must have weighed heavily in Saetan’s decision.
    He looked at their reflection in the glass. It was like watching Jaenelle delicately unwrap layers of her heart.
    “What else?” he asked.
    “Those years were a dazzle of people during Winsol,” she said. “A kaleidoscope of colors and faces. Even more so after I became the Queen of Ebon Askavi and had my own list of social events to attend as part of my duties as Queen. But the moment I remember clearly, the moment that stands out from each of those years, is that dance with Saetan.”
    “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
    He saw her lips press together in a tight line, could feel her breath shudder in and out. He held her and waited, watching their reflection.
    “One day I’m going to wake up and realize I’ve gotten old.” She lifted her left hand. “You knew when you gave me this ring what the difference in our races would mean.”
    “Some people spend a