A.N.: There's a big reason why Rhysand's account to Feyre of his childhood and of his father doesn't match up to what we've just learned, but I'm not going go to tell you what it is! So begins the great mystery!
While I appreciate the idea of the Valkyries, SJM's execution was awful. I do appreciate that she tried to give Nesta friends outside of the IC. In the context of this story, Nesta will start to develop her own friendships independent of Tamlin – it's hugely important that she has friends who are not firstly loyal to Tamlin (the way the IC is always loyal first and always to Rhysand). So in the following chapters we'll see Nesta starting to reach out to other people and characters, building up friendships for herself. And I think it's important to show Nesta establishing influence and authority amongst the people of the Spring Court through her actions on her own merit and tenacity rather than because she was given a position by Tamlin; she does almost everything through her own initiative.
A House of Flame and Flower
16
Connections
The kittens were the excuse, Nesta knew: Antares had come to the kitchen asking, without asking, for help. Not just for the kittens but for himself. It had grown too cold in the stables. And he trusted her enough to approach her.
That was a tremendous victory: Nesta held onto it for a very long time. It helped to think of the fact that Antares had trusted her enough to ask for help rather than dwell on his blue lips and ice-bitten toes and just how desperately young he was, barely six or seven years old. From what little Tamlin had hinted of Antares' past, Nesta grew cold at the thought of what he had endured.
There's always someone who has it worse, she thought. Tragic though many events in her life had been, Nesta did not consider her life itself a tragedy, nor herself a tragic victim. Parts of her life had been wonderful. From what little she knew of Antares' life, she would say that his life up to this point had indeed been tragic.
She was awed by his courage. It was no easy thing to ask for help, even as an adult, but especially for a small child. It took a great deal of trust and so far Antares had only ever experienced the violation of that trust. He had not been cared for; he had been orphaned, enslaved and horrifically abused. But he had confronted his fear because he knew the alternative meant something far worse. He had come to Nesta because the alternative was death. The orphaned kittens had given him the excuse to do what was best for him even though he was terrified. His compassion for others had given him courage. And Nesta's immediate and diligent care for the kittens had given him reassurance that she could be trusted to care.
Gradually, over several days, she coaxed Antares into the palace. Needing to care for the kittens every two hours and ensure they were always warm, while allowing herself to rest in between the night-feeds, Nesta had managed to get Antares into the library. At first, he was agitated and frightened, his breaths coming quick and shallow and his wings flaring erratically. Gradually, as Nesta cared for the kittens, he relaxed in the warmth of the library. He let her tuck him up in blankets. She had worried he wouldn't like his wings to be pinned but his eyes started to slowly drift closed as if he couldn't help it. And while he slept, Nesta alternated between dozing, caring for the kittens and crocheting. She had sacrificed some of the pale verdigris yarn she had bought in Fioren-Daara, the yarn that was exponentially warmer than its weight, and crocheted a pair of small socks for Antares. While she had the yarn out, she started working on a shawl for herself using dainty, airy stitches like lacework to make it a dreamy, flowy garment.
Antares loved his new socks. He had given them straight to the kittens to sleep in. When she caught him tucking the kittens inside the socks, Tamlin laughed richly. Antares turned huge dark eyes on her, cringing remorsefully.
"I made those for you," she said gently.
"They need them more," Antares answered. He had a lowly soft, low voice that did not match his young face. As Nesta rolled her eyes exasperatedly, Tamlin chuckled to himself and continued to stir the contents of a pot on the hob. He dished up and set breakfast on the table for them; cinnamon amaranth porridge with stewed apples, figs, spiced pecans and a dollop of thick yogurt.
"Come on, to the table, Antares," Tamlin said gently, and the fledgling checked on the kittens one last time before approaching the table. It had taken some doing to get him to sit at the table with them and he still didn't speak during mealtimes but watched them both with wide eyes. He was listening; Nesta knew he was learning. As Nesta poured their tea, Tamlin passed Antares some toast and asked Nesta, "So what time will you be home?"
"Uncertain," Nesta said. "I'm to meet Pooja at the orphanage this morning. She needs as many adults as possible to walk with the children to the toyshop. After much discussion, I've been given my orders: Pooja has decided she will put her most…testing children with me."
"Woe betide any child who tries it on with you," Tamlin smirked. Nesta glared at him and he snickered as if she had proven his point.
"I also thought I'd… I'd see about attending one of Galit's exercise workshops," Nesta said hesitantly. She had checked the pamphlets she had gathered during her first visit to Fioren-Daara and, by happy chance, there was an exercise workshop being held this evening. "You may have to fend for yourselves for dinner. Can you handle the kittens?"
Nesta had been unable to resist the urge to paint Tamlin, cross-legged on the hearth with his tongue sticking out in concentration as he syringe-fed the kittens the way she had taught him and Antares. It was absolutely absurd, really, to see the hulking warrior hunched over with a tiny tuft of fur nestled in his palm. But it was that gentleness and compassion that made Tamlin who he was; a person who cared, who led by example, who made it impossible for others to make excuses. It reinforced to Nesta the philosophy that Tamlin had; that above all things, he was firstly responsible for the care of all of the creatures that lived in his lands.
"We'll keep them fed and warm," Tamlin vowed.
"Most importantly warm," Nesta said, eyeing the windows. The sky glowed a soft white, threatening snow. "Do you need anything in Fioren-Daara?"
"Yes – remember what we discussed last night?" Tamlin said, his eyes sliding covertly to Antares, and Nesta nodded. He needed new clothes and she had insisted he needed a decent pair of boots if he insisted on going out to tend to the horses. "Do you want me to winnow you to the city?"
"I'm going to attempt to get there under my own steam," Nesta said, pulling a face, "or rather, flame." She didn't know how to winnow the way Tamlin did, nor did she move through the shadows the way Azriel could but she could use her fire to transport her. She didn't know how, just that she did. It made her curious what else she could do with that silver fire but she was too hesitant about it to play with it. She saw no problem with taking tiny steps to explore her power.
"Remind Pooja she still hasn't told me what the orphanage needs," Tamlin said, and Nesta nodded. Pooja, a priestess who ran one of the orphanages in Fioren-Daara, had been a childhood companion of Tamlin's and remained reluctant to use that connection even to the advantage of her children. Tamlin was eager to ensure the orphanages across Fioren-Daara had all they needed to ensure the children had the best start possible; he acknowledged that when times were difficult, as they had been, people tended to focus their energies – and their finances – on themselves first. Charities such as the orphanages, patronised by High Fae nobility, were the first to suffer.
"I'll ask," Nesta said.
"Get it out of her, otherwise I'll ask the Caretakers," Tamlin sighed. The Caretakers, Nesta had learned, were synonymous with what she would call Governors: they oversaw the running of the orphanage and ensured the staff were doing their best for the children in their care.
"The best people to ask would be the children," Nesta said. "They know best what they need."
"But can they articulate it?" Tamlin asked, his eyes flitting to Antares.
"From what I've experienced of the children in Pooja's care, they have absolutely no problem articulating themselves," Nesta scoffed, smirking. After lots of correspondence with the various orphanages in Fioren-Daara, Nesta had taken the time to visit each of them, to meet the people who worked at them and most importantly the children in their care. Organising their visits to Orhan's toyshop, Nesta had become acquainted with quite a few of the Caretakers and had learned a lot about what children in the Spring Court were taught. She had let slip that she had been a teacher to the children in her village. That was how she had become friendly with Pooja; they discussed teaching methods and Pooja showed an interest in human culture and its new significance now that the Wall was down. She wondered whether it would be advantageous to teach a new generation of Fae to treat the humans as they would any other species of faerie, with their own unique cultures, habits and histories. She had asked if Nesta would think about coming to teach the children about human culture; Nesta had committed to volunteering an afternoon every week but wanted to get to know the children first.
Besides, as she had told Pooja, she had limited access to the resources she would have liked to share with the children – storybooks and toys, music and games.
"Oh," Nesta blurted, "and Jurian may show up."
"Jurian?"
"Yes. I sent a note asking for his help on something," Nesta said. "Pooja has asked me to teach the children about human culture so I am in need of resources – books and games and the like. Otherwise it's just too abstract."
"And if he shows up before you return? And why is he coming here?"
"Because he's probably the most capable human in the world to deal with any faeries that will come across his path," Nesta said, shrugging. "If he does show up, find a way to put him to good use." Tamlin smirked to himself. "What?"
"I have already done so," Tamlin said. "Jurian played his part well. I had wondered how he became a General in the human armies, surviving for so long – targeted so viciously by Amarantha. Now I know; he is excellent."
"You know it was Jurian who told us you were spying on Hybern's behalf," Nesta said, frowning. Tamlin smirked triumphantly.
"As I said, there's a reason he survived so long," Tamlin said. "He has brilliant instincts and trusts them completely; he knows how to choose his allies – and how to manipulate his enemies. He's probably one of the cleverest people I've ever met – well, he's politically savvy, at least. He moves people as he would command armies, always thinking ten steps ahead."
Nesta stared at him, slowly realising, "He diverted Hybern's forces away from the Spring Court long enough that the High Lords could unite and stop him."
"Jurian was very careful what information to share with the King," Tamlin said quietly. "It was always for a purpose. The attack on Adriata – Hybern could have landed in Spring and marched his forces to the Wall unimpeded but he chose to send his armies to Summer. Jurian convinced the King that Summer was ripe for conquest and would be an easy victory to secure a foothold in Prythian as security should anything happen in Spring; he could retreat to Summer rather than having to pull his forces back entirely to Hybern."
"They were defeated," Nesta said quietly.
"They were defeated," Tamlin nodded. "Tarquin reaffirmed his position as High Lord. The Courts rallied."
"And Velaris?"
"Jurian knew Rhysand's people had the power to eradicate some of Hybern's cruellest lieutenants with no more effort than swatting flies," Tamlin said. "The King chose Velaris as a personal attack on Rhysand for being an annoyance – like spanking a naughty child. Jurian ensured the King unleashed his very worst upon the City of Starlight, knowing the fate that would befall them."
"Everything he did weakened Hybern," Nesta mused, and Tamlin nodded. She frowned at Tamlin. "And strengthened your position with the King."
"We knew we could use the Night Court's distrust of me to our advantage," Tamlin shrugged."
"We?"
"Me, Thesan, Kallias, Helion," Tamlin shrugged. "The longer I stayed close to the King, the more we learned and the better prepared we were."
"Is Summer ripe for conflict?" she asked. Tamlin had returned from Summer lightly sunburned, the sun having bleached his hair several shades lighter so that it glimmered like corn-silk. He and Tarquin had gone fishing. Just the two of them in a little boat off the coast, fishing and talking. Tamlin had returned from Summer with a gloriously lime-green twenty-two kilo mahi-mahi, a crate of ripe mangoes and another of citrus fruits and coconuts, all gifts from Tarquin to Nesta; apparently Tamlin had told him how much Nesta liked to cook. He had even sent a rainbow chilli plant in a terracotta pot for the kitchen and an orchid that Tarquin said reminded him of Nesta's eyes when she had scolded them all in Thesan's palace. The orchid was exquisite, with chandeliers of flowers the size of her thumbnail, petals as pale and sharp a blue as a cold spring morning sky with a delicate silvery sheen – a defence mechanism to deflect the intense Summer sunlight from scorching its delicate petals – and darker, frilled lilac-blue lips touched with dark silver. According to Tamlin, Tarquin had wanted to send aquamarines; Nesta preferred the orchid. Tamlin had smiled, as if he'd known it.
The mahi-mahi, simply grilled and served with a mango-lime sauce and coconut rice, had provided a burst of bright, zingy flavour that uplifted Nesta's spirits: they had had many damp, cold, dreary days recently but the luxurious mango, the tart lime and the sweet coconut combined with the fresh fish had been a welcome escape from the relentless chill. It had been an invigorating and delightful meal.
Tamlin hadn't told her in detail what he and Tarquin had discussed – that was their private business, the business of two High Lords – but it was fair to say Tamlin had made the most of having the young High Lord's undivided attention; and Tarquin had appreciated being able to vent to one of the few people who understood him absolutely.
"Oh, yes," Tamlin sighed. "The Lesser Fae are making noise, as is their right, and Tarquin wants to improve things for them; but in doing so he's upsetting the High Fae, who prefer things as they are."
"They benefit from the way things are," Nesta said, rolling her eyes. She frowned. "Do you think there will be a civil war?"
"One must always hope that war will not come but Tarquin would be a fool not to see the writing on the wall," Tamlin sighed, "and Tarquin is no fool."
"Did you track down your letter?"
"Mm… Apparently Prince Varian has concerns about the influence I could possibly have on his cousin," Tamlin said, and Nesta pulled a face.
"I'd suggest to Tarquin that his people learn how to ward their minds against Daemati," she sniffed icily. "Or at the very least be more discerning in their choice of bed-mates."
"Tarquin's aware of his cousin's association with the Night Court," Tamlin sighed, "and he's aware that Varian's loyalties are compromised."
"So does he keep Varian close to maintain that link to the Night Court?" Nesta asked.
"It's likely a combination of loyalty to his cousin, not wishing to interfere with his happiness, and wanting to be able to use that connection to his advantage," Tamlin said. "Varian alerted the Night Court to an invasion; Tarquin's counting on reciprocity – the promise of aid if he needs it."
"I wouldn't," Nesta said coldly. "Rhysand and his favourites talk often and loudly about the inequalities – the many cruelties – within the Night Court and how they yearn to make improvements for the benefit of others but they always seem to be far too busy to actually do anything. If the Night Court did come to Summer's aid, it would likely be on conditions set by Lord Keir or the Illyrian warlords – and they wouldn't be helping the Lesser Fae. They'd be going in to re-establish the true order."
"Would not the Illyrians sympathise with the Lesser Fae?"
"They don't sympathise. They have no respect for those too weak to fight for themselves," Nesta sniffed. "They think that physical weakness, lack of mental toughness, shows a lack of self-respect."
"You've learned more about the Illyrian culture in months than I have in centuries."
"I'm female," Nesta said coolly. "You learn the worst of a culture much more quickly than males do." Tamlin pulled a thoughtful face. "The Illyrians hate three things: weakness and women."
"You said three things," Tamlin frowned. "What's the third?"
"The worst of all; an empowered woman," Nesta said.
"They must have loved you," Tamlin said sarcastically.
"The Illyrians do love a challenge, I will admit," Nesta mused. "Rhysand wanted me exiled to the Steppes. I imagine he thought they would break me, as they break all their women."
Tamlin frowned. "He wanted you exiled among people who abuse their females?"
"If I'm remembering correctly through the haze of rage, my options were to be forcibly confined to the House of Wind in Velaris, freed only to train at Windhaven amongst Illyrian warriors who wished to break me completely and to perform tedious custodial tasks in Velaris' library – or to find myself cast out into the mortal realms to meet the fate they believed I deserved," Nesta said. "Needless to say, I rejected those options."
"I'm glad," Tamlin smiled tightly, a harsh gleam in his emerald eyes.
"As am I," Nesta assured him, smiling. The fact that she could smile even while thinking of that hated memory that still made her bristle, made her blood boil, was incredible. She wondered what her life would have been – what Tamlin's life, or Antares', if she hadn't come here. Would Tamlin still be roaming around the Spring Court in his bestial form?
Her smile deepened, because he wasn't. He was engaged; and she was getting healthier. She had put enough weight on that she had had to let out her kirtle, to her delight; she was starting to feel like herself again. She anticipated that by the summer solstice she would be back to her regular weight, the figure she was at her most comfortable. She was also happier; she still had bad turns and often woke from nightmares but not nearly as often, and she wasn't nearly as embedded in those nightmares as before. She could pull herself out of them and knew how to calm herself when she did: walking, aromatherapy – from the many perfumed gardens – and the special oil Galit had gifted her, which had guided her and taught her. Bringing herself to orgasm helped gentle her anxiety, relieved the tension in her muscles and coaxed her to sleep more peacefully. Slowly but surely, Nesta was healing. She was treating herself with compassion.
"When you return from the city, will you tell me about your visitor?" Tamlin asked: they had been so distracted by the kittens, and Nesta so eager to learn about Tamlin's visit with Tarquin, that they hadn't discussed Azriel. Tamlin had scented him, though. Nesta was getting better at the veiling spell that concealed whatever she wished from all senses; Tamlin knew she could have hidden Azriel's scent if she'd wished. She hadn't. Azriel hadn't asked her to keep his visit secret; and she didn't want to, anyway.
Even without the curious scent tainting Azriel's body that hinted at something more going on in the Night Court, Nesta didn't want to leave herself vulnerable to Azriel or anyone by keeping their meeting a secret from Tamlin. If she kept it a secret, she left herself open to danger. It was that simple. Better to tell Tamlin as insurance.
"I will," she said softly. She had to figure out exactly what to tell Tamlin, though; she didn't think Azriel would appreciate her spilling his secrets to Tamlin. Yet…yet if she refused to hide the truth from Tamlin as insurance then did it not also stand to reason that Azriel would benefit from someone else knowing the truth – especially a powerful and influential someone like Tamlin? Tamlin was one of six people in Prythian capable of protecting Azriel – of doing something about Rhysand if it came to it.
It put things into perspective, though. Knowing what Rhysand had done to his own brother made it easy to understand how Rhysand could justify murdering Nesta to himself. She and Azriel were both threats – Azriel to his position, Nesta to his power.
Tamlin glanced at the carriage-clock they had reclaimed from a spare bedchamber that now stood on the mantelpiece over the tremendous hearth and sighed. "You'd better go," he said softly. "They'll be expecting you at the orphanage soon." Nesta smiled; she had started to look forward to her time in the Seedlings Room. Pooja's orphanage was entirely themed around trees and growing things; children were separated by age, with the babies, known as Acorns, in the nursery, over-fours in the Seedlings Room and over-tens in the Saplings Room. There were exceptions, what with the varying age-expectancies of some faeries and a slow maturation-rate, and Nesta had been stunned to meet some of the orphaned Seedlings that had been at the orphanage for fifty years already. The orphanage, founded by Tamlin's grandmother Lady Kaderin, was one of the few establishments on the forest-floor with a private garden. The little ones spent most of their time outside, gradually coming indoors to learn new skills at their own pace. And those little ones, the Seedlings, always greeted her with such enthusiasm, genuinely delighted to see her; their joy shone from their faces, their enthusiasm to share their discoveries so deeply authentic.
Pooja had told her last time she visited that the children knew who they wanted; they kept asking when Nesta would visit again, asking Pooja to keep safe the artwork they wanted to share with Nesta, wanting to read to her or show off their counting skills or hear her read to them during snack-time. Nesta couldn't wait to see those tiny faces and hear their news; it gave her something to look forward to. Remembering their shining, eager faces took the worst of the edge off her bad days. It didn't cure her but it provided a salve, relief from the grinding pressure, no matter how fleeting.
"Oh, where's my letter?" Nesta asked, glancing around the kitchen. Tamlin produced it for her and Nesta smiled. Given why she had contacted Jurian, Nesta had realised that she needed to talk to Toret at the bank about her finances – her human finances.
"You're making an appointment with Toret?" Tamlin asked, and Nesta nodded.
"I still have access to my Prythian accounts," Nesta said. She had made absolutely certain that when her family regained wealth, she had set herself up private bank accounts and invested carefully. "I need to talk to someone far more well-versed in banking and economics than myself about the practicalities of transferring my money out of my Prythian accounts – and the morality of leaving it where it is."
"Is there such thing as morality when it comes to money?" Tamlin asked.
"I could leave my wealth in the bank for my lifetime – that could be centuries. There could come a point where my money is the foundation on which the bank is built. If I was to withdraw my money, it would devastate the bank and have a ruinous effect on the economy," Nesta said, sighing. "I never want to be able to have that sort of power over an entire nation."
"You're right; Toret's the person to talk to about that," Tamlin grunted, and Nesta smiled. Tamlin frowned thoughtfully. "Is it wise to transfer all your wealth to the Spring Court?"
"I don't think I'd transfer it all," Nesta mused, "if only because it benefits me to be able to spend Prythian gold in Prythian. Especially if the exchange-rate is horrendous."
"I'd think the rate would be horrific to exchange into Spring Court currency," Tamlin frowned.
"That's my thought, too," Nesta sighed. "Still, I'd rather talk it through with Toret and see what can be done." She reached up to pinch her forehead.
"Do you know, Nesta, if you planted a seed for every one of your worries, the entirety of the Spring Court would be carpeted with flowers," Tamlin said, watching her. She smiled slightly.
"I do worry a lot," she acknowledged, sighing heavily. "It shows I'm paying attention." Elain never worried about anything. Feyre worried about the wrong things. Nesta drove herself to distraction worrying about that as much as she worried about everything else. But if her sisters were not now worrying about the situation they found themselves in, she no longer had the energy or the inclination to fret for them.
The toyshop was as she remembered it, though it was missing the group of raucous gamers at the octagonal table by all of the model-making kits and figurines. Closed to the public while Orhan restocked his shelves, he had arranged with Nesta to invite children from the different orphanages every week to come and visit and choose their own toys. This was the first day. The children were elated; shy at first, gazing at Orhan with wide eyes and slack jaws, they were coaxed to explore by the Zephyrn sprite, who animated the dolls and toys for their enjoyment. Soon a puppet-show had the little ones screaming with laughter while the older children muttered conspiratorially over by the board-games and the adult chaperones coaxed some of the younger ones about the wisdom of their choices – to make them worthwhile. Nesta was touched when one of the little ones shied away from making their choice because they were concerned about the cost.
"These are gifts," Nesta assured her, smiling gently. "You don't have to worry about the cost. Choose whatever you like." The little faerie eventually edged toward the display of dolls along an entire wall; while the little one examined the dolls, Nesta peered at their clothing.
"You said that you make all of the toys," Nesta said to Orhan, who was watching the children darting around his shop with dark eyes gleaming with appreciation. He grunted in response. "Do you make all of the dolls' clothes?"
"No," he said. "I retain a dressmaker."
"The clothes are so immaculate," Nesta said. She had already found a half-dozen she would have loved to wear herself. "Are they… Is there a correct way to ask this? Is your dressmaker small? The stitching is so exquisite."
Orhan snorted. "Dyani's a head taller than me," he grunted. "She's a Halfling."
"I don't know what that is."
"When faeries of different species produce offspring, they're known as halflings," Orhan shrugged. "Nature balances out their physiology but they're unique."
"And your dressmaker Dyani is a Halfling?" Nesta said, and Orhan nodded. "The amount of detail in those outfits she's made for the dolls, she must truly love it."
"It's not what she really wants to do, but I pay her well," Orhan said. "She wants to have her own shop in the Atelier."
"From what I've seen of her designs, she's more adventurous and daring than the majority of the couturiers I saw in the Atelier," Nesta said. "Do you give her guidelines or does she dream up all the designs herself?"
"The more affordable dolls, we keep to a simple set of designs," Orhan said, "but the others… Dyani has free reign."
"Does she create gowns for Fae clients?" Nesta asked curiously.
Orhan shook his head. "No. She couldn't afford the cost of the fabric, not to mention the hours and assistants it would take to make the clothes she designs." Nesta sighed. It infuriated her that the untold potential of genius often languished in poverty while the unimaginative elite frittered away their wealth. So how to equalise things? Tamlin had asked her to come up with creative ideas to rejuvenate the textile industry and simultaneously loosen the stranglehold couturiers in the Atelier had on Spring Court fashion.
"Orhan… If there was an opportunity to create the clothes she wanted, what would stop Dyani from seizing it?" Nesta asked.
"You'd have to ask her," Orhan shrugged.
"I'd love to," Nesta said earnestly. "Would she mind you sharing her contact details?"
"Don't need to; she'll be at Gal's," Orhan grunted softly, shrugging. "Come by and introduce yourself."
"I had thought of attending Galit's workshop this evening," Nesta admitted. Orhan just nodded.
"Why do you smell like cat?" he asked suddenly and Nesta blinked.
"Two newborn kittens were orphaned in the stables," Nesta said. "We've been caring for them." Orhan nodded slowly. She sighed and glanced over at the children, checking on them; they were immersed in the toys. Glancing back at Orhan, he had resumed his place at his workstation behind the counter. Working diligently, invisible to the naked eye, the Zephyrn sprite was working hard on the pins and tumbles for a wooden puzzle. It was fascinating to watch her; she levitated the pieces of wood and used her innate power to spin it in place, using yet more of her power to act as an abrasive force to erode the wood. Her work was meticulous, precise and miniscule. Nesta didn't realise she was staring, actively peering closer, until the sprite glanced up. Her hair was flowing gently around her pretty face as she worked away calmly and she smiled at Nesta as the puzzle-pieces she was working on turned in mid-air.
Nesta cleared her throat, embarrassed. "I apologise – I didn't mean to stare."
The Zephyrn stared back. She whispered to herself, "You can see me?"
Nesta glanced at Orhan, who glanced from the spinning wood to Nesta. She realised then that Orhan possibly couldn't see the sprite.
"Don't blame people for not bothering to look at you; there's nothing worth seeing." The Embryne, the fire-sprite that had flirted with Tamlin the first time he had brought Nesta to the toyshop, sniffed and dusted off her hands; she had been helping Orhan weld something. The metal in his gloved hands glowed fiery red and amber, cooling quickly. Made entirely of flame, Nesta would have thought it would be difficult to discern the sprite's expressions; but she saw the mean squint to the Embryne's eyes and the stiff set of her shoulders, spoiling for a fight. She looked spiteful and it occurred to Nesta that every time she had seen the Emberyne, she had been bullying the other sprite.
"Riah," Orhan grunted warningly, frowning at the Embryne as the Zephyrn sprite's hair started to whirl around her head as if in a rising gale, her translucent silver eyes fixed on the fire-sprite. Orhan muttered to the fire-sprite, "Get back to work."
Shooting a nasty look at the Zephyrn, Riah sauntered across the worktop then leapt across the toyshop in a flash of fire. Her dollhouse glowed with sudden warmth and Orhan sighed heavily, glaring. Meanwhile, the Zephyrn stared at him as if yearning for him to do something she had been longing for him to do for a very long time. Whatever it was, it didn't happen: Orhan abandoned his work to pick up another project. The Zephyrn bristled, then her tiny shoulders drooped; Nesta saw the brief flicker of devastation on her face, undisguised – perhaps because she knew no-one would ever see her expressions.
"What sort of work do you do here?" Nesta asked her. Startled by being addressed directly, the sprite gaped at her. Then she shook herself.
"I make all of the puzzles," she said, in a soft, whispery voice. "I keep the shop temperature-controlled and make sure no moisture can ruin things. And I stop anyone from trying to break in."
"A barrier of wind?" Nesta asked, nodding to herself. "That would be far safer for Orhan's stock than a wall of fire – and harder to get through." The Zephyrn blinked at her.
"That's what I said," she said softly. She blinked those translucent silver eyes at Nesta, her glow soft and mesmerising. Her hair started to settle around her slim shoulders. "People always underestimate the power of wind."
"I've seen storms fell centuries-old trees," Nesta said grimly. She appreciated the destructive force of wind. A few days ago, an ancient oak had come down in one of the gardens; Torell had wept. One of Nesta's errands today was to commission a furniture-maker to design and make something out of the wood. "And I know the gentlest breeze can pollinate entire rainforests."
"People always think of fire as powerful because it's flashy," the Zephyrn said, her whispery voice subdued. "And we are overlooked."
"Orhan is lucky to have you here," Nesta said. She got into a lively conversation with Tzephira about the puzzles she made; she could not only shape the wood and stone used for the puzzles but she could piece things together where Orhan couldn't reach. She was integral to his design process because she could see and assess where things worked and why they didn't. She could become intangible at will and get into the tiniest spaces or create a solid wall of wind more powerful than any force in the natural world if she chose. For those reasons she was uniquely qualified to be both assistant and security in Orhan's shop. Nesta wondered why she had chosen to work in Orhan's shop and not elsewhere, especially as she seemed to have such a fractious relationship with the fire-sprite. But then, Nesta had been forced to remain in the cottage out of a lack of other options. And she and Feyre had been vicious to each other out of a lack of understanding or appreciation for the other and their own frustration at their circumstances.
Hours later, after Nesta had successfully escorted the children back to the orphanage, clutching their new toys – hastily retracing their steps to find a dropped doll – and spent an hour helping to serve lunch in the dining-room, Nesta completed her chores, mindful of the time. She posted several letters and visited a clothing shop Pooja had suggested for clothes tailored to a fledgling, purchasing several garments – including tops that accommodated for wings – and a strong pair of leather boots for Antares. She visited the yarn emporium and chatted with Rachniz about the patterns she was testing. She could not get on with one particular pattern at all and needed to know how to contact the designer rather than wait until the deadline to say the pattern didn't work; she'd rather collaborate to find a solution, because the design already promised to be beautiful. She purchased some more of the verdigris yarn to complete her shawl, picked up several hanks of sock wool to make some new socks for Antares and some more yarn to make a stuffed toy for the kittens to snuggle with, filled with hot rice. She purchased a beautiful silver oak yarn swift winder after the experience of hand-winding her yarn into a cake while Tamlin stood with the hank looped over his hands. It hadn't taken long but there had been too many tangles. She justified the winder as necessary, especially with the quantity she was now crocheting thanks to testing patterns.
She arrived at Galit's shop a half-hour before the start of the scheduled exercise workshop and found the elegant shopkeeper attending to several customers when she walked in. Dressed in dainty shell-pink, Galit glanced over her shoulder and beamed warmly.
"I'll be with you in just a moment," she said softly, and Nesta nodded, examining the contents of the shelves. The first time she had been inside this shop, Nesta had overlooked several of the displays devoted to wellness and relaxation; the shelves were beautifully arranged with bottles of nourishing oils and bubble-bath, baskets of soaps, candles and face-masks, cleansers and gel eye-masks, lotions, bath fizzers, salts and pearlescent foaming elixirs. As she examined a small bamboo-cotton pouch that could be filled with any assortment of exfoliants and sweet-smelling things and used to exfoliate the face and a display of toners and face oils, Nesta heard the gentle swish of fabric and scented Galit's approach. "Welcome back."
"Thank you," Nesta said politely. "I'm early – I thought I might join your workshop this evening." Galit's eyes lit up as she smiled.
"You're very welcome to join us," she said warmly.
"I – " Nesta glanced at Galit, raising her chin. "I'm afraid I do not have any clothing suited to exercise."
"I have some spare garments," Galit said, "if you don't mind second-hand clothing."
"I don't mind," Nesta said, "as long as they're clean." Galit chuckled softly.
"Come. We'll get you properly outfitted," she said, gesturing to Nesta to follow her. "If you wouldn't mind, you can help me set up the studio."
A half-hour later, Nesta sat rather self-consciously in a set of beige linen overalls that Galit had found her. They fit her well, giving her room to move comfortably, but they were distinctly less than what Nesta was used to wearing. She felt almost vulnerable in them but as faeries started to arrive for their workshop, not one of them seemed to care what she wore – and many of them wore far less.
The atmosphere in the studio was wonderfully warm and calm; soft music played from somewhere and Nesta could smell candles and incense in the air that coaxed her to relax her muscles. She could have easily drifted off to sleep while she waited, a pleasant hum of hushed conversation in the background as people caught up with each other. They all seemed to know each other and the atmosphere of warmth and welcome grew. Orhan had arrived and was speaking quietly to Galit when another faerie arrived.
She was incredibly tall with a long sheet of straight purple-black hair that fell past her waist, her skin naturally deep, warm copper and tattooed in several places. Her hair only just hid the elegantly-pointed tips of her ears. She was long and lean and very beautiful; even her oval face was long. She had hooded dark eyes marked by tiny tattoos, pretty, neatly-groomed eyebrows, high cheekbones, an intricate nose-piercing and beautiful plump lips. Her chin bore what looked like three lines tattooed on it; as the soft faelights illuminated her face, Nesta noticed that the three irregular but parallel lines were made up of the tiniest runes. Nesta couldn't help wonder what they meant. For some reason, when the faerie moved Nesta was reminded of Tzephira; despite her great height, she was all lightness and fluid movement. She reminded Nesta of a ballet dancer – their etherealness concealing lean muscle and trained precision. A head taller than most in the room, Nesta knew this had to be Orhan's dressmaker Dyani.
"I believe we're all here," Galit said gently, after chiming a little bell that brought a hush to the studio. "We'll begin with some nice warming exercises…"
The workshop was at once hard-work, invigorating and relaxing. Nesta didn't know the poses but tried her best; Galit asked her permission to help Nesta get into the proper positions. Galit's voice was so soft, her calm attitude so soothing and encouraging, that in the quiet moments while they held poses – straining as they were to Nesta's untrained body – Nesta found herself doing as Galit coaxed and emptied her mind of all care and worry, focusing only on the strength of her body. In the moments when they rested between poses, Nesta engaged in the breathing exercises.
Her body ached but her mind was tranquil.
Covered in sweat, she was in danger of falling asleep on the mat Galit had laid out for her.
All too soon, Galit announced their cooling exercises; when they had rolled up their mats she invited them to hydrate from the jugs of drinks she had set out, and reminded them that the steam-room and saunas were open to anyone who wanted to use them. The atmosphere, which had been so warm and so calm during the workshop now picked up as the faelights glowed a little brighter and people were invigorated by their exercise.
"Are you hurting?" Orhan asked, a glint in his eye, as Nesta hissed softly and clambered laboriously off the floor.
"Ow!" she retorted, scowling. She had wanted the workshop atmosphere to last forever. Orhan laughed; it was a handsome sound.
"Thought you wanted to meet Dyani," he said, and gestured over the tall, slender Fae with the facial tattoos.
"I'm desperate for a steam," Dyani announced. "Are you coming?"
"No; I've got to get back to the shop," Orhan told her, and the Fae clicked her tongue, pouting. "Dyani, this is Nesta."
Her dark eyes rested on Nesta and she grinned, showing beautiful straight white teeth. Lines fanned from the corners of her eyes and Nesta thought they seemed to ground her, somehow. "You liked my dresses," she said, and Nesta nodded. "Come on, let's go to the steam-room. We can talk. You can tell me all about how you love my designs."
"Actually, I wanted to talk about what's stopping you from designing for people," Nesta said, and Dyani raised an eyebrow. She gave Nesta an assessing look.
Looping her arm through Nesta's, the faerie said, "I suffer from a condition – not rare but inconvenient. Poverty."
"I'm familiar with its symptoms," Nesta said grimly. She let Dyani guide her through Galit's back rooms, following a trail of other faeries, through the tiled changing room where Nesta had folded her kirtle and undergarments, to a dimly-lit antechamber covered in hooks and jugs of drinks on side-tables. There was a soft breeze but the overwhelming sensation of heat and moisture enveloped her as someone opened one of the doors leading off the chamber, the pleasant sound of rushing water pricking her ears. Nesta blinked furiously as the other faeries, including Dyani, stripped to their bare skin, hanging their clothing on the hooks.
"Let's go to the females-only chamber," Dyani mused, sweeping her eyes over Nesta. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of complete unconcern as everyone stripped down to their bare skin but Nesta followed suit, hanging up the sweat-soaked overalls, fighting the urge to cover herself. Dyani sauntered carelessly through a doorway into a small chamber that immediately confused Nesta, thinking she was in some subterranean tunnel; rocks covered in moss and flowers tumbled from ceiling to floor and sluicing over them was a miniature waterfall. The air felt humid and lightly perfumed by the flowers. Angling her head away from the water, Dyani ducked under the waterfall, rinsing away the sweat from their exercise session; Nesta followed suit, amazed and suddenly yearning to have such a thing for herself. She still could not submerge herself in a bath; washing herself from the sink and trying to wash her hair was a laborious task.
At the other end of the small chamber was a dark archway through which coils of steam coaxed them closer. Beside the door were baskets filled with fluffy towels – one side neatly folded, the other crumpled, as if people had disposed of them after use. Dyani picked up a folded towel and handed one to Nesta; wrapping themselves up, Dyani led the way through the archway. Hot and intensely humid, the darkness and the steam relaxed Nesta as she sat own on a wooden bench and let the towel fall away from her torso, pooling around her hips. Dyani had braided her hair back during the exercise workshop and now coiled the braid on top of her head, pinning it in place, before shedding her towel unabashedly and folding it up as a cushion to sit on. All around them, faeries from Galit's class sat around talking quietly or relaxing.
Dyani sat beside Nesta and asked, "So, you like my designs."
"I do. And I wanted to know your thoughts on something," Nesta explained. The steam felt luxurious; there was some delicious scent in it, too, something at once cleansing and soothing.
"Orhan mentioned an opportunity," Dyani frowned.
"I don't know what it is yet. I've been tasked with coming up with something creative to invigorate the textiles industry and release the chokehold the Atelier couturiers have on fashion," Nesta said.
Dyani snorted. "Good luck."
"I'd like to know what the obstacles are – besides your terrible affliction," Nesta said, and Dyani's eyes twinkled in the dark. "I want to know how you think things could be equalised."
"Money," Dyani shrugged, sighing heavily. "The couturiers dominate because they have the resources – and the influence. They're patronised by the nobility. It's all politics. I used to work in one of the Ateliers; they tried to steal my designs – said they owned them because I worked for them. I'm not the only one. If you're interested in fashion, you try and work in the Atelier couturiers – but you'll only ever be a bottom-level seamstress or pattern-cutter if the designers realise you have talent – and can threaten to steal their clientele. Then there's the fact that you're so poorly paid; you can't afford to work anywhere else."
Nesta nodded thoughtfully. "You say you're not the only one – does that mean there are others working in the Atelier desperate to strike out on their own?"
"If you work in the couturiers, you're there because you have talent, a desire to learn from the best and ambition to one day succeed them," Dyani sighed, looking sad. "The Atelier's packed with people who have endless talent and no opportunity to use it."
"If the politics was to be removed, what then?" Nesta asked.
"Money; doesn't it always come down to money? Access to materials but also to the skilled craftspeople that collaborate with designers," Dyani said. "The couturiers viciously guard their collaborators – and like I said, it's the politics of the thing; if the designers found out you'd contacted their collaborators, you'd not only be out of a job but they'd mention it to their patrons. You'd never get a job in the Atelier again."
"So if there was an occasion where the nobles were forbidden from interfering and money was of no question, and the best resources in the Spring Court were made available to you – including craftspeople – what else would stop you?" Nesta pried.
Dyani smiled wistfully. "Nothing."
"What about clients?" Nesta asked. "Do you want to design for the nobility?"
"I want to design for anyone who appreciates my ideas," Dyani said, shrugging. "My designs give me joy, they excite me; I want to pass that on to others."
Nesta sat with Dyani in the steam, talking fashion and politics. When Nesta mentioned the human fashion Houses, she was intrigued; and she seemed curious and excited by what Nesta was asking her, even though Nesta admitted to her that she had only a vague idea for an opportunity to help beleaguered designers such as herself get out from under the heel of the Atelier couturiers.
An hour later, Nesta smiled as she stepped lightly into the warm library, her ears twitching at the sound of soft breathing. Antares slept before the hearth, his wings folded in tight under his blankets. His hair shimmering pale silver-gold in the firelight, Tamlin dozed on the daybed, draped with blankets; clamped to his chest was a blanket roll in which the two tiny kittens lay contentedly. One of them was squirming and squeaking daintily while the other nuzzled Tamlin's chest. Nesta smiled and sat down on the edge of the daybed, careful not to jostle Tamlin; she set a little pastry box down on the table and reached out to stroke the back of her finger across Tamlin's cheek.
He frowned and his gilded eyelashes fluttered open. He grumbled, "Nesta?"
"You fell asleep," she whispered, not wishing to wake Antares. Tamlin squinted at her then carefully sat, peering down at the kittens. He used his thumb to stroke their heads as they mewled. They were already so much stronger than they had been the night Antares brought them to Nesta but they were still so tiny, so vulnerable.
"They were telling me about their day," Tamlin smiled tiredly. Nesta smiled. "Antares did most of the feedings."
"You were catching up," she smiled fondly. The black kitten started to purr deeply as Tamlin stroked its head. The ginger squeaked as if it knew it was missing out; Tamlin reached up and gently stroked its head with a finger. "I brought you an apricot tart."
"An apricot tart?" Tamlin perked up, and Nesta smiled. It wasn't late but they had all been exhausted from caring for the kittens. The shorter days didn't help; it was dark by four p.m. now.
"You can eat it while I feed the kittens," Nesta said. "Tell me about your day."
"Paperwork," Tamlin grumbled, yawning widely. "Not much to tell. I'm more interested in your visitor." Nesta moved to the hearth and began the kittens' care routine. In hushed undertones, Nesta started to tell Tamlin about Azriel's visit.
"What was Lord Drago like?" she asked curiously and Tamlin's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"I haven't heard that name in a long time," he said. "Drago was…the wonder and terror of his age. The Night Court has produced both great men and monsters… Lord Drago was both. There was never a male so admired, so beloved, and so reviled in all of Prythian. My mother used to say he was made of moonlight and shadow."
"What did you think of him?" Nesta asked.
"What I remember most vividly about Lord Drago was wishing he was my father," Tamlin said, sighing heavily. "He was charming and impulsive; he fought for moral reasons; he knew how to make his enemies shudder with dread but treated the vulnerable in his territories with absolute respect. He was glib and loved to provoke his enemies but he was fiercely loyal to his family. I remember him being the absolute picture of courtesy one moment then beheading a nobleman who had insulted his paramour the next."
Nesta frowned at him. "You remember…a paramour?"
"Mm… Stunningly beautiful – she was an Illyrian, I believe," Tamlin said. "I remember the wings."
"How do you remember her?"
"Well – he used to bring her to intercourt functions," Tamlin shrugged.
"Not his wife?"
"From what I heard, they only tolerated each other's company to ensure offspring," Tamlin said. Nesta finished feeding the ginger kitten – it was the smaller of the two – and gave it kisses, stroking and fussing over it before wrapping it up in the blanket again, and reaching for the black kitten.
"From the way Rhysand spoke of his parents, I knew their relationship was not ideal," Nesta said, frowning, "but he never mentioned his father had an official mistress."
"Oh, she wasn't a mistress," Tamlin said. "He married his mate, yes, but acknowledged the other female as his consort."
"You're saying he wed them both?" Nesta raised her eyebrows. Tamlin shrugged.
"He was mated to one but chose the other," Tamlin said.
"Is polygamy normal?"
"Normal? No, I wouldn't say so – but it's not unusual," Tamlin told her. "In Rask, the king takes as many wives as he wishes. It's tradition that the king encourages his many sons to kill each other off before he dies, to ensure there's only one possible heir and prevent wars over succession."
"Why bother having so many children only to watch them kill each other off?" Nesta asked, appalled.
"I asked my father that once; he told me that the idea was that only the strongest, the most cunning of all the sons survived, which means that the crown passes to the most worthy," Tamlin said. Nesta frowned.
"So murder makes you worthy?"
"I suppose murdering your own siblings shows you're willing to do whatever necessary for the throne," Tamlin mused. Nesta thought of Rhysand and Azriel.
"Lord Drago's consort bore him a child," she said quietly. Tamlin raised an eyebrow at her, mildly curious. So she told him everything. And the more she told him, the more intense Tamlin's expression became, both appalled and intrigued at the same time. His emerald eyes glittered intensely.
"We never knew of a second son," Tamlin said quietly.
"Technically Azriel was the first," Nesta said. "Drago met Rhysand's mother in the Steppes when he came to free Azriel from his grandfather's castle."
"So the Shadow-Singer and Rhysand share blood?" Tamlin murmured to himself. "It's no wonder…"
"No wonder what?"
"Do you remember the story of High King Fionn?" Tamlin asked, and Nesta nodded. "Legend says that his queen, Theia, danced in starlight. Some say it's pure allegory – that her life was doomed to darkness – but there is evidence in our histories that there was once an eighth court, a land of endless misty twilight where the Fae wandered among the stars. A Dusk Court."
"What happened to it?"
"Dusk fell to Night," Tamlin said simply, sighing. "Some histories claim that a short, brutal war was ended by a forced marriage between the heir of Dusk and the Lord of Night's son, uniting their bloodlines to ensure their offspring would rule over both Dusk and Night. Some accounts claim that the Lord of Night and his son were both assassinated before the Lady of Dusk gave birth to her first child. The Lady of Dusk seized control of the Night Court; to punish the nobility, she banished them to their sacred mountain and cursed them, never to know peace."
Nesta stared at Tamlin, her lips parting. Morrigan. She knew that Morrigan's family had once ruled the Night Court; Lord Keir was steward of the Hewn City, an inherited position created to placate – or perhaps punish – the former rulers of the Night Court.
"Is that story widely known?" Nesta asked.
"Not at all. I only know it because I was so obsessed with Fionn as a boy," Tamlin said. "It was the only thing my father ever indulged me; I think he believed I had ambitions to conquer all of Prythian. So he had Fae all over Prythian scour the libraries for any mention of Fionn and Theia. From there I learned about Theia's bloodline – her family ruled over the Dusk Court, if the legends are true."
"What happened to the Dusk Court?" Nesta mused.
"It disappeared from all records," Tamlin said, and Nesta stared at her. A laugh tumbled from her lips.
"An entire territory just vanished? All knowledge of it, gone?" she smirked. She shook her head. "It was hidden. Until a few years ago when Morrigan revealed it to the Queens and Jurian sent Hybern's forces to destroy it."
Tamlin scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The City of Starlight."
"It sounds more likely that the City of Starlight once belonged to a Dusk Court, doesn't it?" Nesta mused. "I wonder where the capital of the Night Court was before the Hewn City was established… What does it mean for Azriel?"
"Shadow-Singers are rare," Tamlin said slowly, "but if the legends are true then they were not always so. If indeed Azriel was sired by Drago, he may bear the blood of the High Lady of Dusk. If he's curious about where his powers come from, he may find answers in the histories."
"That's quite sad," Nesta said. "The closest contact he can have to someone like him is in history-books."
"More interesting is the fact that if our assumptions are correct, Azriel is living proof of an eighth court," Tamlin said, gentle wonder in his voice. "And a connection to Queen Theia being a very real person."
"And King Fionn by extension," Nesta smiled. Tamlin smiled back. She knew he admired the legendary king. "Remind me what happened to them."
"After he defeated the Daglan and peace was established in Prythian, Fionn was betrayed by his general, a close friend," Tamlin said, "and Theia fled. Some claim she disappeared into the mists of her own lands but other accounts say she fled through a tear in the fabric of the world… More than likely, she hid until she died, fearing she would be targeted – and her children with her."
"Why did the general betray Fionn?"
"No-one knows. Some say ambition – Fionn had united Prythian; the general wanted to seize the throne for himself," Tamlin shrugged. He rolled his eyes and added, "Others say he was infatuated with Theia and murdered Fionn so he could claim her. But I wonder whether the Daglans' influence lingered in Prythian, corrupting where it could find a foothold…"
"What are the Daglan?" Nesta asked.
"Before the High Fae, the Daglan ruled these lands," Tamlin said. "Some say they even created them. They drank the magic of the land like wine, enslaving Fae and humans to their will. Their enduring legacy in Prythian is the Wild Hunt – something Beron honours. Whenever he has the whim, or suspects the Lesser Fae are becoming emboldened enough to rebel, he gives the most merciless warriors among his nobility free rein to plunder, rape and slaughter as they please."
Nesta gaped and Tamlin nodded grimly.
"It's a wonder he's held onto power for so long," Nesta said softly.
"Beron ensures his people remain downtrodden and terrified," Tamlin sighed, "for he knows the only thing stronger than fear is hope."
"It reminds me of the Illyrians," Nesta muttered, "and how they treat their women. They're so broken they believe they deserve the abuse."
"I don't know much about the Illyrians except that they are a martial culture," Tamlin said.
"Yes. They breed battle-fodder," Nesta sniffed. "They believe strength is purely physical – and solely masculine. They're so obsessed with physical perfection and breeding power that they neglect their minds. They're soldiers, not leaders… They're fools. And they enslave their women." Tamlin frowned at her. She elaborated, "They treat their females as less than servants, restricted to the home, isolated from others. They are wed and bred as soon as they have their first blood, when their wings are clipped so they cannot escape. Worse than all that is that they have convinced the females they deserve it – that it's their only use in life to be vessels that produce more warriors."
Tamlin frowned. Nesta sighed and said thoughtfully, "Feyre once told me that Cassian is desperate to be accepted by the Illyrians but Azriel despises them."
Cassian, the rough-and-ready, charismatic bear of a male who would always choose Rhysand over her no matter what he felt for her, no matter what she was to him, and Azriel, the cold, cruel Shadow-Singer torturer who had always shown her such compassion.
It said a lot that Azriel despised and rejected the culture that abused, violated and ritually mutilated and enslaved its females while Cassian yearned to be accepted and celebrated by them. It spoke to their psychology – and to how they treated Nesta. Cassian not only allowed but encouraged the continued abuse of Nesta by his superior; Azriel defied Rhysand to keep her safe.
There was a lot Nesta did not know about Azriel's life but his actions told her all she needed to know about him.
Reflecting on that, she realised that so did Cassian's. It was oddly freeing to appreciate that no matter what, she would always have been lesser in his mind. She would always have been an afterthought. Because of his actions, whatever had been or whatever might have been between them had no hold over her. She thought she might have been more hurt by the thought of letting go of Cassian but truthfully, what had they had between them? Intimidation and vulgarity.
Tamlin watched her carefully. He often did that when she grew quiet: she thought of it as him listening. He paid attention to her expressions, her body-language, probably even her scent. Assessing her emotions for some clue what was going on inside her head.
"Are you alright?" he asked gently.
Nesta smiled and said honestly, "Perfectly."
A.N.: SJM does an excellent job of telling us one thing but showing us a completely contradictory thing with her characters' actions. Whether it's intentional is up for intense debate! But I loved the idea of showing the true natures of Tamlin, Azriel and Cassian by their actions – how Azriel treats Elain and even Nesta in the previous chapter, how Tamlin cares for the kittens and the fact that Cassian always treated Nesta as less than anyone else in his life (which is canon!)