Feyre smiled again. “Thank you.”
And that was that. Nesta ignored the collective sense of relief that filled the room and pivoted, finding herself peering up at Lucien, who greeted her with a wary dip of his chin. Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get. Azriel remained in the doorway. “How’s the Spring Court?” Nesta asked. The fire crackled merrily to her right, and she let the sound ripple through and past her. Acknowledged the crack and what it did to her, and released it. Even as she concentrated on the male she’d addressed.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “How you’d expect.”
Tension rippled through the room, confirmation that Tamlin had heard the news of Feyre’s pregnancy. From Lucien’s grim face, she knew he hadn’t reacted well. Nesta said, “And Jurian and Vassa?”
“At each other’s throats, as they like to be,” he said, a tad sharply. She wondered what that was about—and for the life of her couldn’t read it. Lucien asked, sipping his tea, “How’s the training?”
She gave him a smile—a true one. “Good. We’re learning how to disembowel a male.”
Lucien choked on his drink, nearly spewing it onto her head. Cassian appeared, a cup of tea steaming in his hands, and passed it to her before he declared proudly to Lucien, “As you’d expect, Nes excels at it.”
Mor lifted her glass in a mockery of a toast. “My favorite part of training.”
Nesta frowned. “We haven’t cut the ribbon yet, though.”
Mor’s brows bunched. “So you really are learning Valkyrie techniques.”
Nesta nodded. They’d been so busy during their dancing lessons that the details of training hadn’t come up.
Mor grinned. “You mind if I start joining you once this business with Vallahan is over? I never got to train with the Valkyries before the first War, and after it, they were all gone.”
“I think the priestesses would like to see you,” Nesta said, and glanced to Cassian to make sure he didn’t mind. He waved a hand.
Mor’s grin turned fiendish. “Good. I also want to make sure Cassian actually wears his present to practice.”
“Gods spare me,” Cassian groaned, and Nesta’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t bought them anything—hadn’t bought him anything. She’d said as much before he’d flown her down here, and he hadn’t cared, but … she cared.
She cradled her tea, and the conversation wended around her. But she managed to tuck that dread away, at least for now. Managed to participate.
Azriel lingered near the door, quiet enough that when Feyre and Mor began talking about some of her paintings, Nesta went over to him.
“Why don’t you sit?” She leaned against the doorway beside the shadowsinger.
“My shadows don’t like the flames so much.” A pretty lie. She’d seen Azriel before the fire plenty. But she looked at who sat close to it and knew the answer.
“Why did you come if it torments you so much?”
“Because Rhys wants me here. It’d hurt him if I didn’t come.”
“Well, I think holidays are stupid.”
“I don’t.”
She arched a brow. He explained, “They pull people together. And bring them joy. They are a time to pause and reflect and gather, and those are never bad things.” Shadows darkened his eyes, full of enough pain that she couldn’t stop herself from touching his shoulder. Letting him see that she understood why he stood in the doorway, why he wouldn’t go near the fire.
His secret to tell, never hers.
Azriel’s face remained neutral.
So Nesta gave him a small nod and walked back into the fray, taking a seat on the rolled arm of the nearest couch.
An hour passed before Mor began grousing about opening presents. Rhys snapped his fingers and a heap of them appeared.
Cassian braced himself for whatever awful gift Mor had gotten him—and glanced to Nesta. He’d kept her present in his pocket, saving it to give to her in private later. He’d done the same last year, and the damn thing had ended up at the bottom of the Sidra. Probably swept out to sea.
He’d spent months tracking down the book, so tiny it would fit in a doll’s hands, but so precious it had cost him an indecent amount of money. A miniature illuminated manuscript, crafted by the skilled hands of the smallest of the lesser Fae—one of the first printed books in existence. It hadn’t been meant for reading—but he’d figured that someone who adored books as much as Nesta would savor this piece of history. Even if she resented all things Fae. He’d regretted throwing it into the river the moment it had vanished under the ice, but … he’d been foolish that night.