Cassian laughed again. “How can we guess when you’ve got her bundled in that shield?”
“Moody bastard, remember?”
Cassian grinned, and said to Azriel, “We’re going to be uncles.”
Feyre groaned. “Mother help this child.”
Azriel’s own grin bloomed at that, but Feyre’s gaze slid to Nesta.
Nesta said quietly to her sister, “Congratulations.”
For she’d said nothing, had only been able to stand and watch them all, their joy and closeness, as if she were looking in through a window.
But Feyre offered her a tentative smile. “Thank you. You’ll be an aunt, you know.”
“Gods help this child indeed,” Cassian muttered, and Nesta glared at him.
She turned to Rhys and Feyre and found the former watching her carefully, the epitome of ease with his arm around his mate’s shoulders—the gleam in his eye one of pure threat.
Nesta let him see it then. That she bore no ill will toward Feyre or the babe. Some primal part of her understood that Rhys was not only male, but a Fae male, and he would eliminate any threats to his mate and child. That he’d do it slowly and painfully and then walk away from her shredded corpse without an ounce of regret.
It was self-preservation, perhaps some new Fae instinct of her own, that had Nesta bowing her chin slightly, letting him see she meant no harm, would never hurt them.
Rhys’s own chin dipped, and that was that.
Nesta said to Feyre, “Did you tell Elain?”
Before Feyre could reply, Azriel said, “What about Mor?”
Feyre smiled. “Elain was the only one who guessed. She caught me vomiting two mornings in a row.” She nodded toward Azriel. “I think she’s got you beat for secret-keeping.”
“I’ll tell Mor when she returns from Vallahan,” Rhys said. “Given your reaction, Cass, I don’t trust that she can keep her excitement to herself if I tell her while she’s there, even if she doesn’t say anything to them. And I don’t want a potential enemy knowing. Not yet.”
“Varian?” Amren asked. Nesta had never learned the story of how the female and the Summer Court’s Prince of Adriata had become entwined. She supposed now she never would.
“Not yet,” Rhys repeated, shaking his head. “Not until Feyre’s farther along.”
Nesta angled her head at her sister. “So you can’t do magic while pregnant?”
Feyre winced. “I can, but given my unusual set of gifts, I’m not sure how it might impact the baby. Winnowing is fine, but some other powers, when we’re still so early in the pregnancy, could strain my body dangerously.” Rhys’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “It’s a pain in the ass.” Feyre flicked at the hand gripping her arm. “As much of a pain in the ass as he’s become.”
Rhys winked at her. Feyre rolled her eyes. But then she said to Nesta, “Elain will need time to dust off her powers to try to See the Trove. But you, Nesta … You could scry again.”
Rhys added, “As swiftly as possible. Time is not our ally.”
Nesta asked Amren, “You’re not Made?”
“Not as you were,” Amren said. She gave Nesta a wicked grin. “Afraid?”
Nesta ignored the taunt. Even Cassian’s bright happiness had faded.
“What choice do I have?” Nesta asked.
If it was between her and Elain, there was no choice at all. She would always go first if it meant keeping Elain from harm. Even if she’d just hurt her sister more than she could stomach.
“You do have a choice,” Rhys said firmly. “You will always have a choice here.”
Nesta threw him a cool look. “I’ll search for it.” She glanced at her sister’s stomach, the hand idly resting atop it. “Of course I’ll search for it.”
Cassian wanted to have a word with Rhys about the Illyrian legions, so Nesta found herself walking to the front entry of the river house alone.
She’d made it halfway down the hall when Feyre called her name, and Nesta paused, right in front of the painting of Ramiel.
Feyre’s smile was tentative. “I’ll wait with you until he’s done.”
Don’t bother, Nesta almost said, but reined it in. They walked in silence to the main entry, all those paintings and portraits of everyone but her and their mother watching them.
The quiet tightened, becoming nearly unbearable as they halted in the sprawling foyer. Nesta could think of nothing to say, nothing to do with herself.