Chapter One - Dinah

The baby griffin I agreed to pet sit over the winter holidays is high. Again. And I don’t mean he’s finally learned to utilize those sneeze-inducing feathered wings of his.

“No, Griffy,” I say, swatting rather unsuccessfully at the half-lion, half-eagle’s beak as he munches on the seeds he plucked from my catnip plant. “Those aren’t for you.”

Unfazed by my scolding, Griffy—yes, I know, not the most creative name, but he’s not my pet, so who am I to judge?—hops backward three paces toward a lone strip of sunlight breaking in through the cabin window, then rolls on his back, content to bask.

If basking were the only activity Griffy took part in when he was high, I would gladly turn a blind eye to his indiscretions. But if the past is to be repeated, he’ll eventually be overtaken by an insatiable hunger.

I’ve already lost three perfectly good sourdough loaves to the creature. I’m not about to lose another.

Griffy doesn’t protest being hoisted from the ground. Spoiler—baby griffins are heavier than you would think, which makes no sense to me. They’re supposed to be aerodynamic, are they not? I mean, isn’t that what the wings are for? Then again, Griffy is months overdue when it comes to this particular developmental milestone. That’s according to his owner, Lady Vashara, the wife of one of Naenden’s ambassadors. Apparently, she was concerned enough about his being behind to dump a pile of Griffin-rearing books in my arms, but not distraught enough not to leave him for a month as she traveled on holiday.

That probably sounds judgmental. I really don’t mind keeping him.

It’s just that the cabin I’m staying in for the Solstice holidays was slightly cozier before it had the misfortune of encountering Griffy.

The patchwork quilt covering my bed, the fuzzy rug, the wooden paneling on the walls and floors… Yeah, they’ve seen better days.

Better days being yesterday, before I arrived with my entourage.

I run my fingers over Griffy’s slick black beak, trying to pry it open and salvage a few of the seeds before he can swallow them, but he unfortunately has the clamp strength of an alligator.

Partially because it’s no use, partially because he’s really heavy and my back has been bothering me lately from hours spent bent over boiling pots at the food bank back in Meranthi, I contemplate dropping him. He’s supposed to be able to fly, isn’t he? Maybe his owner held him too much, and that’s why. Perhaps if I just…

No. If I drop Griffy on the floor and he doesn’t fly, then I’ll have to explain to his owner why Griffy has a broken leg.

Besides, I would feel awful. Surely.

Praying that I won’t throw my back out, I settle into a deep squat and place Griffy back on the ground. His stomach gurgles.

I should have Griffy-proofed this cabin.

Easier said than done, since Griffy isn’t the only pet I have the pleasure of sitting over the Solstice holidays.

Summoned by my thinking of them, two baby sabers slink from underneath my bed, pawing at the mistletoe-patterned quilt hanging over the edge of the bed. Whisper pads up next to me, rubbing against my calf, while her brother Nimbus treats my legs as an obstacle course, winding through and around them.

They’re both from the litter that my sister Asha’s saber, Nagivv, gave birth to two months ago. Whisper and I had bonded instantly. She’d been mine from the first moment I’d held her and felt her silky black fur against my skin as she rested in my arms.

Nimbus—well, I’d saved him for Fin.

Fin, who I’m not supposed to be thinking about.

Not thinking about Fin is one of my Solstice resolutions. Yes, I’m keenly aware that making Solstice resolutions has yet to be adopted by the general population. But by the time the New Year rolls its lazy self around, it will be too late for my poor, trampled heart.

You see, the pattern of events surrounding Winter Solstice is so predictable, a child could recite it with ease. It starts about a month out from the lovely holiday, when the present purchasing begins and I find Fin the perfect Fin-specific gift that I’ve been plotting all year. (Okay, so technically it starts before I’d like to admit to myself.)

Then the daydreams ensue. I can’t tell you how many times our late-night conversations by the hearth, spiced cocoa in hand, have turned into Fin’s heartfelt declaration of love, his hands gently finding the curve of my jaw as he pulls me in for his last first kiss. All in my mind, of course. (Don’t ask me what happens to the spiced cocoa in his hands—I’m a hopeless fool, not a choreographer.)

And then Solstice happens. The real, non-reverie Solstice. The crew gets together for the holidays, usually in a secluded village somewhere in the mountains. Fin makes a point of hugging me, poking at me, and teasing me. We sit by the fire and talk for hours (kind of like my daydreams). Days pass, and so does the Solstice.

And then Fin leaves.

In the past, I’d wait an entire mooncycle for his letter—you know, the one declaring he missed me fiercely and couldn’t stand to be without me—to arrive. Over the years, I’ve shaved that bit of desperate thinking down to less than a fortnight, thank you very much.

And then the cycle repeats. It’s been like this for seven years, each year filled with an assortment of Fin’s new girlfriends, most of them gorgeous, all of them interesting. One of them was the archaeologist who recently discovered the remains of a basilisk, a creature thought to be mythological before she dug it up. The woman literally changed history books. And I had the audacity to internally critique how dirty her fingernails were. She was nice, too.

One of the many reasons this has to end here.

This is the Solstice I get over Fin.

Unfortunately, I first have to introduce him to his pet. While Fin’s the brother of Kiran, my sister Asha’s husband and the King of Naenden, and thus a prince, he’s spent the last several years working as an ambassador for Naenden. This is mostly because he’s “the twin with the people skills.” Kiran said it, not me.

This means that Fin spends the vast majority of his time away, off on official palace business. He’d been disappointed to discover he wouldn’t be around for Nagivv to give birth to her litter. So I had offered to save him one.

That had been a mistake.

Not because I mind taking care of Nimbus. But because the delight on Fin’s face had provided enough fuel for my delusions to last an entire three months.

Nimbus strides across the cabin floor, gingerly stepping over Griffy’s splayed body on the way to his catnip plant. When he finds the leaves decimated, he paws at it expectantly. Like he thinks if he keeps bothering it, his recreational drug of choice will magically bloom. 

Whisper follows her brother’s lead, and soon I’m faced with two pairs of vibrant and immensely disappointed green eyes staring up at me.

Stupid Lady Vashara.

Guilt instantly plagues me at the harsh thought. She’s not the one who destroyed my catnip plant, after all. It was Griffy, and had I been paying closer attention to him…

Knocks in the cadence of a nursery rhyme sound at the cabin door.

That would be Ajay.

I shuffle over to the door, almost tripping over something on the floor. At first I think it’s the rug, but when I glance at my feet, I find a long, scaled tail wagging happily.

Did I mention I’m also keeping a baby dragon? I gently push the dragon’s tail back underneath the bed, to which it shouts, Ouch! in my head.

“Do you want to have children tugging on your tail?” I ask. I find myself considerably more frank with this baby dragon than I’ve ever been with anyone in my life. I suspect it has to do with her being telepathic.

Prickly happens to like children, she says. An orange glow flashes underneath my bed. Probably her snorting. I’ll have to remember to find her somewhere else to sleep at night. I’d rather my bed not go up in flames.

By the time I make it to the door, the knocking has transitioned into something more akin to pounding.

“Didi! Open up!” calls an energetic but muffled voice from the other side of the door. When I unlatch the door, my nephew Ajay goes barreling face-first to the floor. Apparently, he had taken to resting his entire body weight on the door. Better to reserve his energy for pounding my door down, I suppose. The child is undeterred by the fall, though. He bounces to his feet, then attacks me with a rather violent embrace, tugging at my skirts as he tries to climb me like I’m an oak and not his aunt.

Still. His hug practically melts me. Especially when he throws his head back, resting his chin on my belly as he turns those enormous hazel eyes to me. “I missed you so much,” he says. “I thought you were gone forever.”

I saw Ajay yesterday, when our caravan stopped to rest at lunchtime. The only reason I went on ahead instead of continuing to travel with my sister’s family’s carriage was because I wanted to arrive early so I could settle the creatures I’m tending into their temporary environment.

Asha rolls her one eye at her rather dramatic child, then steps into the cabin, examining what will be my living space for the next ten days.

“It was tidier before I got here,” I explain, suddenly nervous that I’ve already given them a less-than-positive impression of the accommodations Evander and Ellie, rulers of Dwellen and our dear friends, put us up in. We spend every Solstice with the Thornwalls, partially because we love them, partially because by the time Solstice comes around, we’re dying to escape the overbearing Naenden heat. And Dwellen just so happens to experience four seasons rather than our measly one. Ellie usually makes the arrangements, but this year, Evander had been adamant that he’d found the perfect little village. He’d been so excited about it, I’d hate for my mess to give Asha and Kiran a bad impression.

“I’m sure it was,” says Asha, consternation written all over her face as her gaze flits from the saber cubs, now digging their claws into the doorpost, to Griffy, pawing at the dust flecks floating about in the ray of light by the window.

“Is it just me,” asks Kiran, stepping across the threshold, carrying their three-year-old daughter, Nuri, in his arms, “or is Asha suddenly not the only one who is possessed by the Old Magic?”

Asha and I exchange confused looks. She’s inhabited by a rather curmudgeonly bit of Old Magic. Has been for years now. Still, neither of us has any idea what Kiran is talking about. I don’t have a spark of magic in my body.

A glow flickers underneath my bed, and it dawns on me. “Oh, no. That would be the b-a-b-y-d-r-a-g-o-n I’m keeping. Apparently they’re telepathic.”

“A baby dragon!” exclaims Ajay, flinging himself off of me and sprinting in erratic circles around the room. “Where?”

Asha shrugs. “He can spell now. It’s his father’s fault.”

“I’ll admit, it was a mistake,” says Kiran. “Had I understood the consequences, I would have left him illiterate. But alas, what’s done is done.” He bounces Nuri in his arms. She’s got her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, one thumb tucked into her mouth as the other plays with a strand of Kiran’s now-graying hair. As she twirls it around her finger, tufts of snow fall out and pepper the floor.

My heart gives a sad little lurch at the sight. I love my sister and her family. My family. But sometimes I want what she has. Not Kiran—ew, gross. I just wonder sometimes when it will be my turn. If it will be my turn.

Asha quirks a brow. “How many pets are you keeping?”

I go through a list in my head, ticking them off with my fingers as I recite them aloud. “That’s Griffy over there on the—wait, where did he go? Well, he’s around here somewhere. Then Prickly. That’s the baby dragon Kiran is hearing. Olwen sent her with a message that she and Quill would be late, and apparently she decided it was too cold to fly back home. Sorry if she’s being rude.” Kiran shrugs. “And then there’s Whisper and Nimbus, of course.”

“Ah, yes. Fin’s pet,” Asha says, staring at the male cub and not at all bothering to mask her judgment.

Kiran narrows his brow at his wife. “Did I or did I not just spend the entire ride up here listening to how perfect the two of them would be together?”

Oh, good.

“It’s not really the idea of Fin and Dinah being together that I disapprove of,” says Asha. “It’s that they’re not together, and she’s keeping his pet for him.”

This is a fair point. Unfortunately, I had not yet made my Solstice resolution when I told Fin I’d take care of Nimbus in his absence. And a commitment is a commitment.

“I like taking care of Nimbus,” I say, reaching down and attempting to pick him up. This proves to be more difficult than I anticipated, considering his claws are as embedded in the floorboards as a fishing hook in the jaw of a trout.

“Mhm,” says Asha.

“That’s coming straight out of Evander’s deposit,” says Kiran, seeming rather amused by the idea.

I am not amused. Obviously, I can’t let Evander eat the cost of the damage made by animals that are supposed to be under my watch. Luckily, I get an allowance from Kiran. Perks of being a sister-in-law to the king. I try to give most of it away. It’s not as if I have to pay for food or lodging since I have a room in the palace. The little I do keep, I’ve been saving up for some spices from Laei that are rather expensive. I have a few dishes I’d love to try them out in. It’s a good thing I have the money, anyway. I’ll just have to find whoever owns the cabin and give it to them. That way, Evander will never have to worry about it.

“Ajay, don’t eat that!” yells Asha.

I spin around to find Ajay, hand outstretched toward what my friend Bezzie has assured me is the hottest pepper in the world.

Did I mention I’m plant sitting?

Asha and her family leave shortly after to settle in their own cabin, mostly because Nuri, exhausted from being in the carriage all day, gets fussy. I’m left with approximately three seconds of peace when there’s another knock on the door.

My heart stops in my chest.

Olwen and Quill aren’t supposed to arrive until tonight, and neither are Ellie and Evander.

Meaning that has to be…

I squeeze my eyes shut. Picture squeezing my feelings for Fin out of my heart as if I’m wringing milk out of an udder.

Okay, so perhaps that’s not the most palatable visualization.

Before I can come up with a simile that’s less farm-like, a voice I’ve practically memorized calls through the door. “Hey, you hoping I’ll freeze out here?”

I bite my lip, open my eyes, and, hands shaking, undo the latch.

When the door swings open, it’s to Fin, leaning against the doorpost with his arm extended, hand splayed. He flashes me an intoxicating grin, one I return with a smile that’s completely outside of my control. His black hair is mussed, hanging over his brow and his pointed fae ears. The look serves to enhance his youthful charm. Deeply tanned skin wrinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes when he sees me, his gaze flicking over me, taking me in.

I may or may not be slightly overdressed for being alone in my own cabin. I’d picked out the outfit with meticulous precision—a thickly woven red shawl with a hood I can pull over my head if it starts snowing. Underneath is a black dress. 

Not with the intention of impressing Fin, of course.

“Man, Dinah, you look—”

My heart, already elated even before he completes his sentence, is left hanging in midair.

Because before Fin can finish telling me how I look, there’s a whizzing sound overhead, and suddenly, Fin’s perfect hair is covered in something white and runny, and very much not snow.

 

Chapter Two - Fin

For being defecated upon, I can blame no one but myself.

What can I say? It’s been a boring several hours. Nothing to entertain me but the rattle of my royal carriage making its way through the Dwellen countryside and a stack of foreign relations papers tall enough to reach my knees.

And the occasional thought that I’d get to spend the next ten days with Dinah.

And meet my new pet saber, of course.

But even the thought of getting to spend time with one of my favorite people and a cuddly little feline with ridiculously long teeth couldn’t protect me from the boredom of the long drive and the paperwork. Not unless I wanted to shift from looking forward to spending time with Dinah to (the decidedly different) fantasizing about spending time with Dinah.

I determined years ago I wouldn’t allow my mind to do that.

Is it beyond dispute that Dinah is the most stunning female in all of Naenden? Obviously. Otherwise, Asha and Kiran wouldn’t be married today. (Although this is a joke Asha would find funny, I doubt Kiran would. It’s sort of a long story.)

Seven years ago, when I first laid eyes on Dinah tending to Asha in the infirmary of our palace, had I noticed how beautiful she was? I mean, I wasn’t blind. Yes, perhaps I had flirted with her a little—probably poor form given how injured Asha had been at the time. But that wasn’t what Asha was upset about.

What she had been upset about was me, her brother-in-law, twenty-four years of age at the time, flirting with her sixteen-year-old sister.

I too had been upset by this information. Sure, I’d played it off with some offhand joke I’d regretted the moment it came out of my mouth, but I’d been mortified. Even worse, I’d been recently widowed, and I couldn’t escape the sense that I’d betrayed my late wife, Ophelia, by flirting with a woman—no, a girl—only months after her death.

Thus had been the demise of my fantasies about Dinah.

They’re not simply deceased. They’ve decomposed. Rotted. I’m unsure how long it takes for a body to return to dust, but that’s how I consider any straying thoughts about my sister-in-law.

This is despite the fact that everyone around me seems intent on rekindling that flame. A flame that has been drowned in the ocean. And covered with a thick woolen blanket for good measure.

Now, you might be thinking I’m a little too flippant when it comes to making death jokes about my feelings for Dinah when my feelings for her are so connected to my wife, who is actually dead.

Trust me, if your wife betrayed you to save her brother’s life, then ended up dead at the hands of your brother, you’d have a complicated sense of humor about you too. 

Either way, Dinah deserves someone a tad more emotionally available.

Besides, even if I, hypothetically speaking, had occasionally considered whether Dinah and I might be a good fit over the years, I’d always reached the same conclusion.

Loving women who put their family before all else has only ever ended poorly for me.

All of that is to say, with nothing at all to entertain me over the past few hours, I was practically begging for something out of the ordinary to occur to make this insufferably long day worth remembering.

This is why I take full responsibility for the fact that something unpleasantly warm and sticky is now running down my forehead, halted only by the integrity of my eyebrow—an underappreciated body part, in my opinion.

I’m about to express as much to Dinah, who looks as if she’s taking this the same way she would if she had accidentally hacked off my leg with a blunt axe, when she says, “Fin, I am so so—”

Her apology is immediately interrupted when she too becomes target practice for the—is that a baby dragon?—hovering above us, wings about as visible as a hummingbird’s.

Prickly apologizes. Prickly is not yet potty-trained, says a voice inside my head—I’m assuming the baby dragon’s. Let’s hope that’s what it is and not some alter ego making itself known in my thirty-first year of life.

The look on Dinah’s face is about what you would imagine from someone who is used to having full control over her snarky mouth, but not necessarily her snarky thoughts.

She’s closed her eyes in frustration, and it reminds me of the moment you bring the water on the stove to a boil, only to realize too late that you overestimated how much water goes in the pot, and it’s about to boil over and there’s nothing you can do.

Unless you’re a fire-welder. Which I am not, and my father thoroughly enjoyed reminding me of that before his untimely demise.

Never mind that.

That Dinah’s eyes are closed—like she’s going to her safe place—gives me an opportunity to look her over.

Looking at Dinah is different from fantasizing about her. I mean, she’s right here. Where else would I look? Certainly not at the baby dragon flitting above our head. Boring.

I’d say she’s just as beautiful as she’s ever been, but that would be a lie. She’s just gotten prettier with time. Her face has filled out, providing her this feminine grace mingled with poise. It’s a look that I frankly find a tad intimidating. The rest of her has filled out too. Her winter gown hints at what I imagine—or don’t imagine, as the case happens to be—is a beautiful figure, just letting you know it’s there. Like when someone walks into the room and you can sense their presence, even if you can’t see them.

Dinah must deem herself centered because she opens her eyes and offers me a smile. It’s not like the one she gave me when the door first cracked, the kind of smile you give by accident when you’re taken aback. I’d preferred that smile, but this one is cute too. This is the I’m-put-together smile, and it certainly has its place among my favorites.

“You look good,” I say, then, glancing at her shoulder, which is also covered in a white substance, add, “Feces notwithstanding.”

Gone in a blink is the smile I was looking for as she glances down at her soiled shawl. She whips around and, presumably, gets to scolding the telepathic baby dragon in her head. Hard to tell for sure when she’s speaking in her mind. But she certainly has that scolding look about her.

Dinah would make a good mother.

Whoa. Where that thought came from, I have no idea. It sort of just popped into my head. Probably because she’s good at the “I’m disappointed in you” face.

That’s all.

Once the baby dragon has landed and trotted defiantly under the bed to pout, Dinah beckons me in and rushes off to fetch towels for both of us. When she opens the door to the bathroom, I think I hear something splashing in the tub, then quickly decide I’m probably just imagining things.

The towel she brings smells a bit…well, like animal, but I know better than to joke with her about it. Dinah is good-humored, but not when she thinks you’re questioning her ability to take care of you.

“I really am sorry about the dragon,” she says, cheeks still stained pink from the event.

“It’s less the dragon, and more the feces,” I say, making sure my grin is obvious so she’ll know it’s a joke.

She doesn’t laugh, but she presses her lips together in a tight-lipped smile that tells me she wants to. “Well,” she says, rubbing her palms on her skirts like she feels like that’s the least they could do since they’re not doing anything productive right now, “I’m assuming you came for Nimbus.”

“Considering how intolerable I find your presence,” I say, watching her carefully as she scans the room for the little feline, “he truly is the only reason I ventured near your cabin.”

She flits her hand over her shoulder as she hauls open the chest at the foot of her bed, rummaging through clothes. “I figured as much. You’ve always made your detestation of me plain.”

Some people show their emotions on their cheeks. I am one of the fortunate few whose embarrassment presents as hives on my torso. Uncomfortable, but easily hidden. It makes seeming unbothered much easier. Which is convenient, as I’m almost positive Dinah’s sarcasm is referring to the first time we met, the idiot that I was for flirting with her.

But then she places her hands on her hips, consternation on her forehead, and I remember that Dinah doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She wouldn’t mock me, not for something I’m truly embarrassed about.

Finally, she finds the saber cubs, one napping atop the other inside the wardrobe resting against the far wall. She brings one to me, setting him in my arms. During the transfer, she scratches the little cub underneath its jaw, causing her knuckle to brush against my arm.

It’s the slightest touch, innocent. She probably is too focused on the adorable cub to notice it. From this angle, I can’t help but notice how long her eyelashes are, dark and fluttering, angled down toward the creature in my arms.

“Nimbus, you said?” My voice cracks a bit. Embarrassing. I cough to cover it up.

“You can rename him if you’d like,” she says quickly. “He’s yours, after all. I just needed something to call him in the meantime.”

“I like Nimbus,” I say.

Dinah smiles.

Since it’s sort of mandatory that I scrub the dragon defecation off of me before dinner, I bid Dinah farewell for the afternoon.

“What time do you want me to pick you up?” I ask, stroking Nimbus’s silky head as I stroll to the door.

When Dinah doesn’t answer, I turn around. It’s quite possible that she didn’t hear me over Prickly’s telepathic chatter. She’s been going on about how it’s not fair that I’m taking her friend Nimbus away from her, to which Dinah patiently reminds her she never liked playing with Nimbus to begin with.

“What?” I ask, when I find Dinah is looking at me, and peculiarly.

“Nothing,” she says. “You can pick me up at six.”

I raise a brow. “Isn’t dinner at seven? I thought the main cabin was just down the road.”

She offers me an amused, pressed-lipped smile, stroking Whisper, who’s curled up in her lap as Dinah sits cross-legged on the bed. “Yes, but I like to be on time for dinner.”

I cross my arms. “You think I’ll be late picking you up?”

“I know you’ll be late picking me up.” Amusement tainted with a fair amount of judgment alights on her full lips.

I huff. “Okay, I know I’m late sometimes, but everyone is late sometimes. Not all of us can be perfect like you.”

Dinah holds up a fist and starts counting on her fingers. “Last Solstice you showed up an entire day late—”

“That doesn’t count. Kiran told me the wrong date.”

Dinah ignores me and taps a second finger. “Lydia’s coronation—we had to start without you.”

“Yes, well, my sister only held the throne for a matter of weeks before she became bored of it and handed it back to Kiran, so I’m not sure it mattered—”

“Kiran’s second coronation—he was determined we wouldn’t start without you. The vizier passed out from the heat.”

Okay, I do feel a twinge of guilt about that, but only because of the vizier’s age.

“Ajay’s birthday party—he cried because he thought you forgot about it.”

I find I am enjoying this little game less and less. “Alright, well, had I known you were paying such close attention to my arrivals and were going to use it against me, I might have been more intentional about showing up on time.”

I mean it as a joke, but Dinah’s neck turns the faintest of red. I can’t help but wonder why.