Page 3 of Blessed

Silence fell and stayed. Mattin considered running but wasn’t sure his legs would carry him.

Finally, Mil grunted. “Never seen anyone post-fever look like you did when you walked in.”

“Blessed?” Arden asked, tone suspiciously light. “But Cael was surprised along with us when you were absent before. She wasworried.”

Cael of the Rossick, intimidating both for her family name and for her stern competence, had worried for Mattin. Mattin was going to die of embarrassment.

Arden carried on as if he didn’t see Mattin’s panic, although of course he did. “I know that though the timing differs for each of you Blessed, your fevers are every four months as long as you are of age and not with child. Which…” Arden’s tone slipped into something darker. “Which I do not believe you are.”

Mil made an unhappy sound. “Never heard a word of him with anyone, but I reckon mistakes can happen, even with friends and fever-partners.”

“I’m not—” Mattin glared across the table at Mil, caught himself glaring, then sank back down to drink some of his third cup of tea. “I’m not pregnant,” he hissed at last, horrified at the very idea though humiliatingly damp in his trousers to imagine getting that way. It didn’t help that when he thought of a fever-breeding, he thought of Mil and Arden between his legs.

He was more than damp now and shuddered violently before trying to hide behind his teacup. “And I don’t have a fever-partner or anyone else.Obviously.” He scrubbed one stinging cheek.

Arden reached for him without touching him. “Apologies, Keeper Arlylian. Truly. We were only concerned.”

Mattin released another weary sigh and put the cup down. “I know.”

He decided not to think about the look they exchanged then.

“So… there’s no one?” Mil pressed after a pause, sitting back when Arden narrowed his eyes at him. “I mean,” Mil turned to Mattin with innocence, real or false, “it’s just that I thought it was easier for you to have someone with you for it. That’s what they always said when they asked us to—”

He stopped far too abruptly.

Mattin felt a spike of something, not pain, not pleasure, not even envy.Something.

“You’ve helped Blesseds through their fevers before?” His voice held something unknown as well, which would never have happened if he’d been properly taken care of, or at least had remembered his fever coming and overfed himself in the days before it hit to make up for the toll it took on his body.

“Well, they asked.” Mil glanced to his husband. “He’s upset. I’ve upset him.” It was clearly a demand for Arden to do something about it, as though Mil was sometimes like a fae-blessed with his husband and expected to be taken care of.

Arden looked at Mattin. “It was our pleasure to help. Although we haven’t done so in some time. Not since before we ever returned to the palace. Mostly when we were younger. But it was an honor to do it.” He said it seriously, the way people were supposed to have said it in ancient, and probably still embarrassing, rituals. “And a joy.”

Mattin only barely kept himself from squirming in his seat. He was too close to his fever to handle learning this. He opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap and sat there until his stomach gurgled again.

“Shall I order food for you?” Arden suggested, almost tentative.Almost, but not quite, because he was Arden Canamorra. “A solid meal perhaps? The buns are not enough? You’re still pale, Mattin—Master Arlylian.”

“Did you do this for them too?” Mattin heard himself demand, and then, horrified with himself, jumped to his feet, nearly knocking into the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here today. Usually, I stay in my office so that I can work without seeing anyone and….” He shut his mouth again when Mil growled.

“Youworkafter your fevers? You’re supposed to rest.” Mil was still growling. It was making Mattin weak in entirely new ways. “Someone should make you rest if you won’t, you wee, stubborn thing.”

Someonemeant Arden, and Mattin got a little more wet at the idea of Arden commanding him to stay in bed, no matter how politely Arden would phrase it.

“I can return tomorrow. I’ll be better,” Mattin promised quickly. Then his chin came up as the rest of Mil’s words sank in. “Stubborn? I’m not… I’m not stubborn. You have to do this all on your own when you’re like me. You wouldn’t understand. But I’m fine. I just forget, sometimes. I’m working and I don’t think to feed myself more in the days beforehand. Then I come out of it and I’m,” weakened and exhausted, “more tired than I should be.”

“Like you?” Mil asked, echoing him in confusion.

Arden was gentler. “I thought there were signs to warn you. I thought there were cravings, and temperature changes, and slowly increasing desires. You get absorbed in your work, Mattin—Keeper Arlylian, but to the point of that?”

“There’s no one?” Mil asked again. “I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t.” Mattin crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s a Blessed problem.” Albeit one other Blesseds didn’t seem to have. “It doesn’t matter, really, except that I’m sorry I fell behind and failed you.”

Arden’s response was immediate. “You didn’t.”

“Sass,” Mil began. He was probably going to apologize for not realizing the extent of Mattin’s plainness.

“Really,” Mattin cut him off firmly, “it’s fine. Or it will be once I eat some more.”

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