So Nesta sucked in a breath as she stepped into the gloom.
Little tea lights wended into a familiar darkness. She and Feyre had once ventured down here—had faced horrors here. No evidence remained of that day. Only the firelit dimness, the candles leading her to the lowest levels of the library.
To the pit itself.
Nesta followed them, spiraling to the bottom of the pit, where one small lantern glowed, faintly illuminating the rows of books veiled in permanent shadow around it.
Heart racing, Nesta lifted the lantern in one hand and gazed at the darkness, untouched by the light from the library high, high above. The heart of the world, of existence. Of self.
The heart of the House.
“This …” Her fingers tightened on the lantern. “This darkness is your heart.”
As if in answer, the House laid a little evergreen sprig at her feet.
“A Winter Solstice present. For me.”
She could have sworn a warm hand brushed her neck in answer. “But your darkness …” Wonder softened her voice. “You were trying to show me. Show others. Who you are, down deep. What haunts you. You were trying to show them all those dark, broken pieces because the priestesses, and Emerie, and I … We’re the same as you.”
Her throat constricted at what the House had gifted her. This knowledge.
She lifted the lantern higher and blew out its flame.
Let the darkness sweep in. Embraced it.
“I’m not afraid,” she whispered into it. “You are my friend, and my home. Thank you for sharing this with me.”
Again, Nesta could have sworn that phantom touch caressed her neck, her cheek, her brow.
“Happy Solstice,” she said into the beautiful, fractured darkness.
CHAPTER
57
Cassian normally looked forward to Winter Solstice for a host of reasons, starting with the usual three days of drinking with his family and ending with the riotous fun of his annual snowball fight with his brothers. Followed by a steam in the birchin and more drinking, usually until all three of them passed out in variously stupid positions. One year, he’d awoken wearing a blond wig and nothing but an evergreen garland around his groin like a loincloth. It had itched and scratched awfully—though it was nothing compared to his pounding hangover.
He supposed, at its root, he loved the Winter Solstice because it was uninterrupted time with the people he treasured most.
This year, just as it had last year, it filled him with nothing but churning acid.
The Court of Nightmares was decorated as it usually was, adorned for the celebration that lasted three whole days surrounding the longest night of the year. Each night held a different ball, and at the first of them, Nesta would dance with Eris.
Tonight. In a matter of moments.
He’d had a month to prepare for this. A month of being in Nesta’s bed—or at least fucking her in it. The Cauldron knew she hadn’t ever asked him to stay after he pulled out of her.
He stood at the foot of the black dais, staring out at the glittering throng with a face that promised death. Az stood on the other side of the dais, wearing a similar expression.
Each and every one of the people here could fucking burn in hell.
Starting with Keir, at the head of the gathered crowd. Ending with Eris, standing proud and tall—wearing Night Court black—beside him.
Mor stood by Feyre’s and Rhysand’s thrones, representing them until they arrived.
The entire throne room was bedecked in black candles, evergreen wreaths and garlands, and holly berries. The twin banquet tables flanking either side of the massive space overflowed with food, but it was forbidden to all until Feyre and Rhys allowed it.
He’d lightened some of his Night Triumphant demeanor with the people of the Hewn City lately, but not by much. Cassian didn’t envy Rhys his juggling act. They couldn’t isolate Keir, not if they were to need his Darkbringers again. Hence the nicer tone. But they couldn’t let him forget the ass-kicking he’d receive if he stepped out of line. Hence the only slightly nicer tone.
They’d heard nothing of the Crown, nothing from Briallyn. She had not come for the Trove. Cassian wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was over. None of them were.
The towering doors to the throne room at last yawned open.
Dark power rumbled through the mountain, warning of their approach. The mountain sang with it. Everyone turned as the High Lord and High Lady appeared, crowned and garbed in black.
Rhys looked his usual handsome self, but Feyre …
The room gasped.
Tonight also served another purpose: to tell the world of Feyre’s pregnancy.