A.N.: I got thinking about the human realms, created after the Wall went up, and how Fae from south of the wall had to find new homes. The whole concept of the Wall is absurd – forced migration of the world's entire population, but for a few lucky ones! – but it's what we were given so I'll try to make it work. But it does make me curious about continental Fae politics and what could happen now that the Wall is down. I've created a map on my Pinterest board (A House of Flame and Flower!) so I can keep track of the different countries I've created because SJM still hasn't developed the ever-threatening Continent.

A House of Flame and Flower

14

Scanning the Horizon

"What do they say?"

Nesta gave him an impatient look and he backed up several paces, giving her room to breathe. An elf had appeared, grinning toothily and offering up several parcels, packages, scrolls and envelopes from his satchel with a squeaky salutation and a courteous bow. He had offered a wedge of neat envelopes sealed with wax to Nesta, bowed again and disappeared with a loud crack.

Nesta rifled through the stack of envelopes, examining the handwriting. Tamlin's own correspondence remained ignored as he waited for Nesta to open her letters. They had visited Fioren-Daara a week ago to post Nesta's letters: each letter had been hand-delivered by elves entrusted by Tamlin to navigate dangerous situations. It was no small thing to ask a faerie to venture into the human lands and Tamlin had considered the risks. The elves had been asked to remain in the human lands – and ensure their own safety should it come to it – until Nesta's correspondents had a reply to bring back.

The idea was that they could not ignore the letters.

There were loopholes, however. Nesta knew there would be those who would reject her letters on principle: she set those letters aside but Tamlin picked them up, snorting with anger at the language used by some of the Trust members.

"You have to wonder if they've thought we'll share these with the rest of the Trust," Tamlin muttered. "We offered the chance to collaborate and they threw it back in our faces – with insults."

Nesta murmured distractedly, "It's the ones who reply that interest me."

"Are there any?"

"Yes," Nesta said slowly, reading one letter with a frown on her face. She sighed and it was an irritated sound.

"But not the people you were hoping for?" Tamlin prompted.

"Lord Highmore. He is a grasping, unctuous, underhanded – " She broke off, her expression mutinous. "He somehow manages to sound as if he smokes twenty cigars a day and as if he is some kind of creature that secretes poisonous pus from every orifice."

"That paints a lovely picture," Tamlin grimaced.

"If he is interested in meeting with you, it is only because he's scared he'll lose out by not involving himself," Nesta said, crinkling her nose, but her eyes lit up and she gasped, delving for the other envelopes, "which means that he's heard rumour that Lord Velarion intends to meet with us."

"How do you know?"

"Because nothing motivates Lord Highmore more than an opportunity to undermine Lord Velarion," Nesta murmured. "Lord Velarion is courageous, intuitive, takes risks and commands fierce respect and loyalty. He knows what he wants and goes out and seizes it; he earned his prominence with his wit, his nerve and his tenacity… Lord Highmore possesses none of those things; he considers it his right to rule because he inherited wealth and resents and fears those who have earned their status by their own merit."

"You have a lot of respect for this Lord Velarion," Tamlin noted: he had never heard Nesta speak so well of anyone.

She went still and sighed softly. "He and my mother were friends."

"Not your father?"

"My father respected him and was friendly with him but Lord Velarion and his partner adored my mother," Nesta said. "Lord Velarion built his fortune in trade; he and my father were always in competition. But Lord Velarion is so much more than a merchant: he is a sailor-warrior, a tactician and a very shrewd man – he is also incredibly ambitious. The first person to forge an alliance with the High Lord of Spring will be remembered in Prythian's history-books."

Her expression filling with anticipation, Nesta tore through the other envelopes, scanning their seals until she found one in particular, the thickest of all the envelopes. She smiled, her eyes glowing triumphantly, tore the envelope open and settled onto the daybed to read the long letter. She was so intent on reading that Tamlin suspected he could have started dancing naked around her while the library burned and she would barely have glanced up from the paper to scold him for spreading ash on the carpet.

Nesta was still reading when he had finished opening his parcels and scanning his correspondence. Rather than disrupt her, he turned instead to the low table by the daybed where they were beginning to accumulate things they used in their everyday lives, including the paint-set Tamlin had produced for Nesta. The polished box sat in pride of place beside a tray filled with odds and ends Nesta used for her painting and crochet, including a small cut-crystal vase she used for water, filled with paintbrushes, hanks of yarn and a journal with dense hot-pressed pages that refused to warp no matter how much water-based paint she used on them. He reached for the journal and flicked through the pages, becoming engrossed by Nesta's paintings.

There were paintings of her favourite gardens, some of the chickens (which Nesta had given names – Sweet Pea, Bennie, Hatice, Paprika, Leia and Queen Angharad) and a still-life of the vase she kept in the kitchen accumulating the flowers Antares left for her. But there were also memories: the magnificent Pegasus mare; specific dishes from the floating market with annotations written beside them and queries about ingredients and methods used to prepare the dish; the chidbil and a dozen other everyday faeries that were unknown to Nesta but which Tamlin took for granted as Nesta would ladybirds, aphids, slugs and earthworms. Nesta had painted dozens of the Gardens but he found painting after painting of the Warrens, as many as Nesta could remember, with their bright round doors and lived-in, cosy atmosphere and flowers that tinkled in the air despite the frost. She had even painted Nalleth and his drakosha, and Tamlin went still as he stared at a small portrait of him, illuminated by firelight, his eyes closed as he played the violin. His expression was calm and almost rapturous. He wondered if this was how Nesta saw him.

Nesta had painted the Atelier – both the mellyrn tree as it was seen from the outside, and a detailed map of all she could remember of the shops inside. He smiled at Nesta's rendering of Adomal's exquisite jewelled perfume case designed to resemble the primrose-like plants found all over the Spring Court, which grew through all weathers and tinkled in the wind like glass bells. There was a portrait of the ever-elegant Galit and one of Orhan from the toy-shop and he was amazed by her skill in capturing their natures – warmth and calm seemed to radiate from Galit while Orhan came off as gruff and slightly unapproachable but kind. He could see she had struggled several times to capture the intangible nature of the Zephyrn sprite they had seen in the toy-shop, but she had captured the flaming Embryne sprite with ease, down to her lascivious smile and miniature curvy body. Nesta had written down recipes and notes, and a list of the meals she believed Antares seemed to enjoy more than the others based on the magnificence of the flower he left her after each meal. She had painted each of the blossoms with an annotation of which meal had earned her the flower. He turned a page, smiling to himself; Antares had no idea just how much Nesta treasured the flowers he brought her.

On the next page, he discovered pressed flowers, which was rare; Nesta never went out into the gardens to pick flowers for herself. The only flowers in the palace were the ones Antares brought her. Nesta left the flowers to thrive where they were meant to. The vivid meadow orchids and tiny elderflowers pressed between the pages had also been painted with meticulous detail. Nesta had been experimenting with colour; how to make the paints accurate in their vibrancy, mimicking the silky sheen of the sun on the petals, but also how to capture the different hues of light and shadow on white petals depending on the light-source. It wasn't a journal exclusively to document Nesta's memories but a working document in which she explored and enhanced her skill with paints. Tamlin examined each painting in detail, amazed by the combination of Nesta's natural talent with colour and her developing skills with sketching and painting both landscapes and her stunning portraits.

Another of those portraits came up as he turned the page again: Torell, one of Tamlin's gardeners. He was unmistakable. Tamlin smiled not only because he was very fond of Torell but because Nesta had managed to do the faerie justice. Torell was born of a race of faeries that closely resembled small tree-stumps overgrown with mushrooms, warm chestnut eyes glowing from his bark-like face. Torell belonged to a fungal faerie race that ate exclusively woodland detritus: Torell and his extended family were integral to the care and keeping of the Gardens. Torell was also one of the most knowledgeable faeries in Prythian about horticulture. He exuded patience and gentleness at all times. As Tamlin went through the pages of Nesta's journal, he realised that Torell had started to share some of his knowledge with Nesta; the pages were scattered with random memories and observations but a focus became the everyday garden faeries that went overlooked despite being essential to the sacred cycle of life within the Spring Court. The faeries that were akin to honeybees in terms of pollinating the Court; the weedwyrms that crept among the borders and ate weeds; the Arachnis faerie that feasted on aphids and other bugs and insects that threatened healthy gardens and spun threads stronger than silk that had been proven to have antiseptic properties.

She had painted certain flowering plants that, though beautiful, were the death-knell of any flowerbed, oozing toxic sap into the earth as it sucked up all the goodness from the plants around it, and the toad-like faerie that should be set loose into the flowerbeds, able to kill the plant with its own poisonous secretions as well as sniffing out any tubers in the earth, on which it loved to feast. Nesta had painted the bizarre patterns a mooncalf made during their full-moon mating dances and described in detail how mooncalf dung made for the most excellent manure for ornamental plants, prized by competitive horticulturalists, who paid quadruple their weight in gold for even just a kilo of the stuff.

He had been absent from the Gardens for days on end; the journal showed just how busy Nesta had made herself, exploring the Gardens.

"Nesta, what's all this?" he asked eventually, when she had finished reading her letter and, after a long bout of frowning thoughtfully into the fire, unfolded from the daybed to make a fresh pot of tea.

"All what?" Nesta grumbled distractedly. Tamlin showed her the paintings. She didn't seem embarrassed in the slightest about him rifling the pages through her paint journal. "Oh… I thought I'd make notes to keep track of all I'm learning from Torell and it developed into something else… When I went to meet with Lucien, I noticed chidbils in the parterres."

"The common faeries will be the first to spread into the human lands; there is no stopping nature," Tamlin said, and Nesta nodded.

"I couldn't help but think of the panic that might arise from even such benign faeries starting to appear in people's flowerbeds," Nesta said quietly. "They'll see it as the beginnings of an invasion."

"It reminds me of our conversation a few weeks ago," Tamlin said, "about educating our neighbours. You could publish these, Nesta."

"They're incomplete," Nesta said, a whisper of a blush high on her cheeks. Tamlin smiled.

"Even so, I can't think of anything like your drawings and annotations on the shelves of this library."

"Well, you don't maintain your library."

"Thesan's, then," Tamlin said, rolling his eyes. "I am sure Thesan would agree; there is a dearth of texts focusing on the everyday faeries most of us overlook, though they are integral to our world."

Nesta sighed. "It is one thing to make annotations and finish paintings based on my observations and turn them into a book and quite another to disseminate it throughout Prythian. No-one will want to read a book written by one of the High Fae on how to not kill faeries, even if it is to their advantage to let them thrive."

"Then don't publish it as one of the High Fae," Tamlin shrugged.

"You mean publish anonymously, or using a pseudonym?" she frowned. "I dislike the idea of it; the backlash of being found out could have disastrous side-effects."

"Are humans so distrustful of the Fae that they cannot distinguish between a threat and someone who clearly wishes to aid them?" Tamlin frowned.

"The problem is that with your reputation for duplicity, no human would ever believe High Fae capable of altruism," Nesta said quietly. Her eyes had softened with a wistful kind of sadness.

"I still believe it worth any potential backlash to inform our neighbours of the changes to their ecology," Tamlin said. "If only to prevent the spread of terror of a potential invasion, as you said. I'm sure there are ways and means to spread this information to those who will need it."

Nesta sighed. "As much as I respect the Trust, it can take the Offices an absolute age to get anything done – unless pressured by a significant force…"

"Like world war," Tamlin said, and Nesta nodded.

"Indeed," she sighed. "Contacting the Office for Agriculture would be the proper course of action."

"But?"

"They'd render the information obsolete while they argued over its reliability," Nesta said. "By the time they let the farmers know of the risks to their crops, the farmers will already have lost their farms."

"What alternatives are there?" Tamlin asked.

"Do you remember the societies I told you that I belonged to?" Nesta asked. Since she had written to have her Prythian post redirected to the architect's manor, Lucien had been very good about dropping off her post weekly, though he tended to give it to Tamlin rather than Nesta herself, somehow managing to arrive at the Gardens during those brief occasions when Nesta was out riding. The first delivery of post had been satchels' worth of letters, packages and parcels, magazines and books: the Prythian Post Office had held all her post when it could not be delivered to the manor that had been burned out during the war. Curious, Tamlin had picked up some of the publications issued monthly by the Societies of History, Philosophy, Psychology and Literature as well as the many scientific societies that she belonged to. "There are societies for farmers, botanists and horticulturalists. If but one of those societies could be convinced to include something in their monthly publication, it would go a long way."

"Lucien could post your submissions," Tamlin suggested. "He's due in a few days."

Nesta nodded. Lucien's visits had been brief and rather awkward. Tamlin wasn't stupid; he knew Lucien was avoiding another tongue-lashing from Nesta.

"Invite him to dinner next time he's here. I promise I shall be on my best behaviour. I shall cook; I can thank him for hand-delivering my post," Nesta said, and Tamlin tried to hide his smirk. "Perhaps it might help to sweeten things between us."

"Sweeten Lucien? Chance would be a fine thing!" Tamlin scoffed, grinning. "He likely enjoyed every barb you hurled at him." He chuckled; Lucien loved verbal sparring but Nesta had touched a nerve. From discussions with Nesta, Tamlin understood just why Lucien had been so awkward recently. Feeling guilty about taking advantage of him. He sighed softly and said, "He loves anything with apples." Nesta nodded thoughtfully. Tamlin raised Nesta's journal and smiled. "It is a good thing to know you do not sit here pining for me in my absence. I'm glad you've found ways to keep yourself busy."

"I am busy," Nesta said quietly. Her smile was gentle and earnest when she added, "And I do miss you when you're gone."

"Perhaps you should get a pet," Tamlin teased.

"The idea that you could be replaced by a pet…" Nesta shook her head as if amazed. She pulled a thoughtful face. "A Golden Retriever, perhaps." She laughed when he reached out to grip her knee, tickling her. "Oh."

"What is it?" Tamlin asked, as Nesta's eyes widened with sudden realisation.

"Lady Endrew is hesitant to meet with us, which surprises me," she said.

"Why?"

"Lord Velarion is ambitious and though she is ancient, Lady Endrew is even more so. She'll do whatever it takes to secure her family's future. And she loves to give powerful men a prick in the balls to remind them just how susceptible they truly are," Nesta said, and Tamlin blinked rapidly. He rarely heard Nesta speak crassly, and she never swore: she had a highly developed vocabulary to articulate her feelings. "But her daughter Lady Nerissa is passionate about dogs; she breeds Golden Retrievers and I believe rescues abused ones too."

Tamlin smiled softly and murmured, "There's always a way in."

"I shall be relentless in my kindness and courtesy toward Lady Nerissa for as long as it takes to sit down with Lady Endrew," Nesta said, determination gleaming in her eyes. Her features softened, though, and wistfulness seemed to settle in her grey eyes.

"Why do you seem so sad?"

"When I was little, we had a Golden Retriever bred by Lady Endrew's daughter…" She sighed. "I still remember going to choose the puppy with my mother. That was before…"

Nesta never spoke about her parents. Mention of her father brought out a visceral reaction and memories of her mother made her recede into herself, sad and tired.

Tamlin observed her, saying quietly, "I can't imagine you with a pet."

"I had many pets when I was little. Dogs, cats, sugar-gliders, a pygmy hedgehog, goats, all manner of exotic birds my father –" She sniffed sharply and shook her head as if dazed. "I had my own pony. Mother always made sure I mucked out the stable and brushed her down after every ride and checked her hooves. She made sure I looked after my animals, never the servants; they were my responsibility."

"She made sure you knew the value of hard work."

"It came in handier than she could ever have known," Nesta murmured in a faraway tone. "I took it to an extreme."

"Nesta…" He sighed heavily and fiddled with the spine of her paint journal. "There are some things conspicuous in their absence from this journal." Her pretty eyebrows drew together over eyes stormy with emotion. "Your sisters are nowhere in here."

After a moment, she murmured, "That doesn't mean they are not in my thoughts."

"Are they?"

"I love them still. And I grieve for their loss but I do not care to dwell on what could have been," Nesta said calmly. "I wish them well but I will not break pieces of myself to fit into the only space they've made available for me in their lives. There is no going back."

Tamlin asked what he had wondered for months: "Do you regret leaving?"

"Never." There was no hesitation in her answer; that made him sadder.

"I hope there never comes a time when you do," he said earnestly. He sighed and set the journal down. "What do the other letters say?"

"Barely half a dozen have intimated they will be open to meeting, provided the right circumstances," Nesta said.

"More than we expected."

"Lord Highmore aside, they are all exceptional people devoted to Prythian," Nesta said. "What about your letters? Anything of interest there?"

"Concern more than interest; Yvaine, one of the Triumvar on the south-east coast, has reported sightings of three small Ormerahn merchant ships," Tamlin frowned. Yvaine's note had been sent not by post but by magic for expedience. While Nesta read, he had penned a quick response to Yvaine and returned it.

"Despite the war that cannot be unusual," Nesta frowned.

"It wouldn't be remarkable, but for the fact that they carry no cargo and linger in international waters near the Lariat," Tamlin sighed, already feeling tired at the vague threat of conflict.

"What's that?"

"It's a string of islands in the waters between the Spring Court and Veltheon – a fledgling queendom established from Ormerahn lands after the Slaves' War, similar to how Prythian was made from Spring lands," Tamlin explained. Though most of the borders above the Wall had not changed since the Revolt, some had; but Nesta still knew more about the Fae nations than he did the human realms. "Veltheon is the southernmost nation on the Continent, its borders stretching from the coast to the foot of the Mountains of the Moon."

"Why does it concern you that Ormerahn ships have been seen near the Lariat?" Nesta asked.

"Ormerah was dealt a brutal hand in the treaties after the Slaves' War, for their part in fighting against the humans: their lands were carved up and given over to southern Fae. A little over a century ago there was a short, ruthless war between Ormerah and Veltheon – the entire continent was shocked by how viciously Veltheon defended its borders," Tamlin said, pride soaring inside him at the thought of his old friend's triumph. "Ormerah tucked tail and retreated from Veltheon but they have been aggressing the river-border they share with Vollanar to the north. If Ormerah is sending Fae to assess the Lariat…"

"They could avoid the Mountains of the Moon and instead launch an attack from the south – through the mortal lands," Nesta realised, and Tamlin nodded.

"Ormerah would reclaim not only its own lands but those of the humans, whom they would enslave in a heartbeat."

"What is Veltheon's position on human slavery?"

"Well, there's a reason Princess Valaena and her people were given the lands closest to the Wall: they fought fiercely beside the humans," Tamlin said.

"You said Veltheon was a fledgling queendom," Nesta said. "Is Valaena not queen?"

"Yes and no."

"She either is queen or she isn't."

"Technically she is queen of her people," Tamlin said, sighing heavily. "But the magic of the crown that passes down through her family line and decides every successor is tied to their ancestral lands."

"Oh," Nesta said, her eyes widening. "And they were forced to leave those lands."

"Yes. Val says it matters more to her that she was named queen by her people than being given power by 'an unwieldy inanimate object'," he said, a smile playing on his lips. "Her enemies use it against her though; they sneer and call her the Queen Who Never Was."

"I can imagine how much she cares what they say," Nesta said tartly, and Tamlin grinned; she and Val were of a similar nature. "How are relations between Spring and Veltheon?"

"Distracted as I have been of late, I have not nurtured my friendship with Val," Tamlin admitted, and Nesta nodded her head as if this was fair. "To make up for it, I thought I would make a gift of sunken ships and the treasure of accumulated intelligence to Val. She's never been one for jewels."

"Val?"

"We were both young rulers rebuilding from the foundations," Tamlin shrugged. "It bonded us."

At Tamlin's sudden deep frown, Nesta asked, "What's wrong?"

"I had hoped to hear back from Tarquin by now."

"Ah. Speaking of young, inexperienced rulers," Nesta said quietly. She frowned discerningly at him. "You worry."

"I do. I sent a letter to Tarquin several months ago; I believe someone in Summer has intercepted it."

"Prince Varian has taken Amren as his lover," Nesta said slowly. "Or rather – she took him as a pet, before…"

She trailed off, as if the memory of past loyalty silenced her voice.

"I'd heard," Tamlin said.

"Prince Varian cannot be trusted not to pass information to the Night Court," Nesta frowned. "And if he would betray Tarquin so easily to Rhysand, there's nothing stopping him or others from colluding with others with whom they are more intimately connected."

"That is what I dread – their loyalty is not to Tarquin," Tamlin frowned.

"It would suit Amren to set Varian up as High Lord now that she has lost –"

"I am aware of what Amren sacrificed," Tamlin said, when Nesta once again fell silent. She sighed impatiently. "When someone gives all of themselves for the sake of others, including you, it creates…confusion. Pressure to repay a debt, even an imagined one."

"Reciprocity."

"Exactly," Tamlin said. "Varian will not forget what Amren did for Prythian and nor will Rhysand."

"They'll convince themselves that usurping Tarquin's throne is for the greater good and justify a coup by reminding everyone what Amren sacrificed for them," Nesta sneered.

"Conflict shall come to Summer, I believe, though not with the Night Court," Tamlin said regretfully. Ormerah to the east, Summer to the north. Conflict would come; it was just a matter of which was triggered first. "Not yet, at least."

"Why?"

"During the Occupation, many from Summer sought refuge here… They have returned only to be reminded what home truly was like. Lesser Fae were forced to take the place of human slaves; there is strict segregation. Lesser Fae are to be neither seen nor heard as they wait upon the High Fae," Tamlin said darkly. "But with the High Fae confined Under the Mountain, and enough of the others seeking refuge here, word has spread. A vision of the world as it should be for them."

"Does it feel like before?"

"You're asking the wrong person. I was a child during the Slaves' Revolt. I knew only that it was a word that made my mother and her companions whisper with dread; that the humans I adored disappeared and the nobles began to fear those who remained…" Tamlin sighed, shaking his head. To him, the war had been blissful; what came after had been a hell designed especially for him to suffer through. "Mostly, though, the courtiers who remained here were content to imagine the war couldn't affect them, cloistered in the gardens."

"Did it? Affect them, I mean?" Nesta asked curiously.

"After a fashion. My father blamed them for his defeat, claiming that if they had been on the battlefield fighting beside him, the Fae would never have lost the war. He decorated the dining-room with their severed heads, new ones every day for weeks. My brothers laughed whenever I vomited; they came to dinner drenched in the blood of those my father had allowed them to torture and execute," Tamlin said. Nesta's expression did not change but her eyes stopped shining silvery; they reminded him of cold ash. He swallowed the taste of copper in his mouth. "I had forgotten the memory of my mother's hand shaking as she ate… She dined amongst the severed heads of her friends, dressed in diamonds my father gifted her."

After a long time, and a deep sigh, Nesta observed, "Of all those who die in war, it always astounds me that people like your father are usually the ones to survive against all odds." She caught his eye and said sincerely, "If you're worried about Tarquin, go and visit him. Don't send word and give anyone notice; pay attention to how they all react."

"He's in a precarious situation. He was not the first choice for High Lord after Nostrus," Tamlin said, shaking his head. "I might make things more dangerous still."

"Or you'll reveal just how dangerous a position he's already in," Nesta countered. "I can't imagine he doesn't know how much danger he is in; he's yearning for calm waters and kind winds." Tamlin smiled but it soon faded.

"Hand me my diary," he said, and Nesta reached for the leather-bound appointment book on the table. He used the ribbon to open it to the current week.

"I'm impressed Endom organised you so quickly," Nesta said, as he flicked through the next few pages, sighing over his many appointments and meetings. No-one had ever warned him that the majority of his life as High Lord would be reduced to sitting around tables being bored stiff while people argued around him.

"He's nothing if not efficient," Tamlin said. His secretary had returned less than a month ago and yet already Endom had organised all of Tamlin's outstanding correspondence and arranged meetings and official High Lord visits on his behalf.

"What are you looking for?" Nesta asked.

"A few free days," Tamlin frowned.

"You don't have so many appointments, surely?"

"More than I'd like," Tamlin grunted. "The cost of neglecting my duties for so long."

Nesta frowned, "You didn't –"

"We'll agree to disagree on that matter," Tamlin cut her off. He sighed and flicked back to the current week in his diary. Reluctantly, he turned to Nesta and said, "I know I promised you a ride through the other Warrens this week… Would you mind terribly if I asked to postpone?"

"No. Go. See Tarquin," Nesta said gently. "Put your mind at ease."

"And what will you do?"

"I keep myself busy, remember," Nesta said, smiling softly, but he could see the glint of disappointment in her eyes. She was becoming less and less guarded in her emotions around him.

"Will you do something for me while I am away?"

"What is it?"

"The way you were treated by the couturier has had me thinking… Designers have had a stranglehold on the Atelier for generations," Tamlin said. "You said you would prefer to find new talent on the riverfront…that is what I'd like you to do."

"What, go wandering along the water's edge hoping someone will fling couture garments at me?" Nesta asked tartly. He rolled his eyes.

"No. You have a creative mind for problem-solving. I wish to reinvigorate the fashion industry and help new designers flourish," he said. "I know little of fashion and less about design but I wish to create opportunities. I wish to be in a position to spread word about those opportunities at the Tithe."

Nesta gazed at him, considering. "I'll give it some thought."

Shadows pressed against the windows as the night crept in. Nesta hummed and pottered about the kitchen, the scent of pumpkin roasting with rosemary and whole bulbs of garlic flirting with her nose. Beside sheets of fresh pasta she was about to shape, the great worktable was spread with her paintings. Together with the gentle Torell's help and guidance, Nesta was learning more and more every time she ventured out into the kitchen-gardens. Just how much she had learned and how many informal lessons she had had while helping Torell maintain the kitchen-gardens was evident in the sheer number of annotated studies arranged on the table. Not yet enough for a book but plenty to provide entries to publications of the Horticulture, Botany and Farming Societies. Tamlin had taught her how to duplicate the annotated paintings using magic so she could send them to each of the societies and another set to the Office for Agriculture.

She had little hope about the Office but relied upon the passion of horticulturalists all over Prythian desperate for any information that would help them best defend their precious crops.

Wiping her hands, Nesta hummed contentedly and decluttered the table and countertops, waving her hand negligently to set the pots and pans to washing themselves in the sink, steam drifting up from the scalding water in coaxing coils. She smiled at the sound of the water gently sloshing and the crackle and hiss of fresh bread cooling from the oven, the sluggish bubbling of blood-orange marmalade boiling on the hob. Reaching for her paintbrush, she added a few final flourishes to the miniature paintings she had been completing to accompany different recipes penned neatly in the pages of her journal; she had set herself the task of trying to replicate as many of the dishes from her mother's dining-table as she could remember, building the recipes up from her own memories. Glancing around the kitchen, she assessed the status of the various things she was cooking.

"You might as well come out," she said sharply, her eyes piercing through the shadows lurking in the mudroom.

As if scolded, the shadows fled, leaving the mudroom far brighter than it had been a moment before.

Azriel stepped with seeming reluctance out of the darkness of the mudroom and into the warm glow of the kitchen.

A.N.: Mwahahahaha! Couldn't resist. Also, the chapter would've been over twenty pages long if I hadn't split it!