Page 55 of Prince of Night and Storm
Even I need rest on occasion. I’ll be better in a day, or two.
Go inside,Darkan says, an edge to his even tone.Stay out of this storm.
Why?
Do as I say, Aerinne.
Why my alter-ego manifested as an autocraticmale. . .I almost lash out at him but he’s going to stonewall me, so I go back in and hold my questions.
Dressed down to loose pants and tunic, I join the survivors gathered in Faronne's dining war room almost sixteen hours after the battle began, scanning the room for Juliette, Lela, and my aunts before I can relax—feeling a pang at the absence of Juliette’s older sister, lost to us for now. Our guests include a pale Manuelle Wyvenne, and Louvenia Ramonne. We’ve been working nonstop, and this is the first break.
I haven't forgotten I owe my former ally, Sivenne, a friendly visit. Perhaps I should wring concessions out of them at the negotiating table first and then proceed with the chop off their head part. Baba would agree with the negotiating, and Maman would agree with the executing. I really am the daughter of both my parents. But one problem at a time.
Baba rises and comes to me immediately, his hug tight enough to take my breath.
“I need to breathe, Baba,” I wheeze. His hug strangles me like I’d strangled?—
He leads me to the chair at his right directly across from Manuelle, Louvenia on my left, and begins to pile a plate withfood. He won’t be able to speak until he’s certain I’m alive, and not a ghost.
I eye the table. This is a full meal, almost a banquet, and many of our favorite Kikuyu dishes. The kind that take hours to prepare. Either she’s been stress cooking, or she deluded herself into believing we would win. Probably both.
“I appreciate your optimism, Tata Fatma.”
“Hush, you,” she says from Baba’s left. “Eat everything on that plate. Give her more irio, father of Nyawira, you’re not feeding a warbler.”
My father dutifully piles the mash onto my plate as I scoop up garlic and cumin rich githeri using a thin chapati.
Baba eats enough of his sister’s mukimo to avoid her wrath since Tata Fatma sits at his right, watching his plate as well as mine. As if I would disobey anaunt.
Manuelle heaps a local grilled fish alongside stewed greens over a bed of rice in his bowl, mashing it all together. He ignores Louvenia, who stares at him, and accepts the chapati Lela offers—giving my cousin a long, simmering once over I’m almost tempted to intercept with a glove on the ground, but the whole point of today was we’re not supposed to behave like that anymore.
Louvenia eats exactly what I eat—serving herself portions from the places I take my own. I’m not insulted; it’s probably a habit, and I approve the survival instincts of a sister-predator. But I wonder who tried to poison her before, how many times, and if they were allies. Or family.
We dine in relative silence, a comfortable one, allowing the adrenaline of battle to fade. No one cares that it’s closer to breakfast time, though the sun hasn’t quite started to rise.
But then, unlike most mortals, Fae have little sweet tooth other than for fruit and chocolate, tending to eat savory morning meals.
Which pleases Tata Fatma, who heats up dinner leftovers and lets everyone serve themselves as we go to and arrive from early morning tasks. It helps stretch the budget too, or it would, if Fae didn’t eat twice a day with elephant sized stomachs. Not that Lela or Murungaru eat much less.
The feast is a statement. A subtle, savvy, pointed political statement which proves the fierce pride of the human half of House Faronne. She tells the Houses that Faronne’s victory was never in doubt. Our victoryandour social position—as poor and young as we are—as second only to Montague. We gather here, after all, not in Ramonne or Wyvenne House.
Faronne is alive. Not unscathed, but we are alive and well enough that I can think such idle thoughts. The juxtaposition between food and politics.
“This looks like a wedding feast.” I tease Tata Fatma to give myself something to focus on so my relief doesn't turn into grown female’s tears. It will set the males off; they're all still too close to the edge. “Are you getting married, mother of Murungaru? No one came to ask my permission.”
She sniffs. “It is not me with an eager groom, girl.” Lela chokes and we share a hunted look of solidarity as sisters with the same male problems. “Now mind your own and eat.”
“But but, mother of Murungaru, wait. What do you mean by that?”
Tata Fatma ignores me.
Silence shatters. Faronne doesn't do quiet well anyway. A few of my other cousins pick up on the conversation and dividetheir ribald teasing between us before Murungaru comes to our defense.
I wasn't completely joking, though. With her witch blood, Tata Fatma has the same near ageless beauty of a Fae female, and a number of my maternal cousins would marry her as a way into the House inner circle. If she was stupid, that is. No one sane is going to try and wed me.
“That,” Louvenia drawls amidst the din of cursing, laughter, and third helpings, “was a successful failure. We lived.” She sips on water.
Tereille, lips flat with weariness for once, only now enters and drops into the empty chair next to his mate, rousing enough to make a face as if Louvenia’s comment is too much positivity even for him.
