In Which Farilon Is Remorseful for the Lizards

February 21, 1183

Unless the decorating consultation with his grandmother counted, Farilon's betrothed was the first visitor to the new house since the family had moved in.

Danthia had called a couple times when they'd been staying with Ietrin, and Farilon had mixed feelings about that. On the plus side, he'd a chance to get to know her a bit, to get used to her--to brace himself, if he was being honest. Then again, not meeting her until their wedding in April would have been one last happy year of blind optimism in regards to the match.

One last year--yes, that would have been nice.

He got the feeling that the distaste was mutual.

"Haven't you a servant to tend to the fire?"

Farilon gritted his teeth and prodded a chunk of burnt bark off the log. "It's the housekeeper's day off." Not that Danthia would have considered that servants had families or friends or lives of their own.

"Then perhaps you ought to hire a second housekeeper." She sniffed, and though he didn't turn his head, he knew that her nose was at an incline. "I have no idea how your brother expects your mother to run a household with only three servants, especially if she insists on giving them days off. We shan't be making that mistake when we move into our castle."

"Manor," Farilon corrected, though it occurred to him a little late that he might have been better off saying nothing.

"Yes, but that may very well be temporary. Your uncle knows that a prince ought to have a castle."

"Maybe." Not sure if he could tease any more out of the flames just yet, he put the poker aside and joined her on the couch, for all he would have preferred to rush out the door instead. "I could get used to a manor, though."

"Yes, but I could not." And if the note in her voice had anything to do with it, that was that. "I hear your sister-in-law had her baby. A boy, was it not?" Farilon nodded. He wasn't the brightest of men and he'd come to terms with that long ago, but he suspected he knew where this was going.

"A pity. If she'd only given your brother daughters, then you would have been king."

"I wouldn't make much of a king."

"Perhaps not, but I would make an excellent queen, and an excellent queen can make a mediocre king seem a great one." She pinched the velvet of her gown between two fingers. It was an odd sensation, empathizing with a piece of cloth. "Ah, but our fortunes may turn yet. Princes may be born, but there's never any guarantee that they will live."

Farilon swallowed, fighting back a sickly flush. He'd confided in his brother Conant that he thought Danthia had the heart of a lizard, but perhaps that had been unfair to lizards everywhere. "You're not wishing my nephew dead, are you?"

"I never said that. I was merely stating a fact. He may be the heir, but you are still his heir."

"And I could die any day too."

"A healthy young man of your age? Less likely--particularly since you're not the risk-taking sort. There's hardly an illness or object in existence that couldn't kill a newborn baby."

"Then maybe we should be concerned for our babies." Especially if your milk is as toxic as the rest of you. At least she would likely prefer a wet-nurse.

"I see no reason why I should be concerned for those who don't exist. But existence is a fickle thing, isn't it?" She shut her eyes, and he averted his own, back toward the hearth. A flame curled upward and tickled the air above while another ember retreated. "Perhaps your nephew will never be king. Perhaps our son will."

NEXT CHAPTER: