Page 77 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
“You and Drusilla will do just fine without me.”
Thane’s expression didn’t waver, his stoic mask firmly in place. But there—a brief hesitation, a fracture in his composure just wide enough to reveal the faintest hint of vulnerability.
“We need you.”
The words hit Lochlan harder than he wanted to admit. We need you. It was all he’d ever wanted from his family, wasn’t it? To feel needed, wanted, to be seen as more than an outlier, more than the spare heir they had no use for. He’d spent years convincing himself he didn’t care and that their approval meant nothing to him.
But it did.
No matter how cold his mother’s gaze was, or how cruel Drusilla had been, some foolish part of Lochlan had always wanted to belong and be accepted—even loved—by the people who should have been his family, whose love he should never have had to hope for or earn. And now, after years of silence, Thane had come.
And Lochlan knew his brother meant it: he really believed they needed Lochlan.
That was the worst part. This wasn’t a formality or a rehearsed diplomatic plea. Thane had chosen to come here, to say it himself, to ask for Lochlan’s help.
“No.” His tone was flat, final. “I owe you nothing.”
Thane didn’t argue. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of brown cloth. He unfolded it carefully to reveal a small pot.
Lochlan’s breath caught. Sage-green leaves, speckled with tiny stars, peeked out from the soil. The plant looked fragile, impossibly delicate, but the magic radiating from it was unmistakable. Lochlan couldn’t look away.
Thane glanced at him. “Do you recognize it?”
Of course he did.
It was from the greenhouse. The one built around an ancient sequoia tree, its magic older than the royal family or even the kingdom itself. A vanilla orchid had once thrived there, its purple petals and star-speckled leaves born of a wayward spell, producing vanilla with a rare chocolate undertone.
Drusilla had started with the orchids, ripping them from the tree before setting the greenhouse itself ablaze. Lochlan had tried to save what he could, but the fire consumed everything. He’d nearly burned with it—and would have, if Thane hadn’t pulled him out.
“No,” Lochlan said, his voice disbelieving. “It burned. All of it did.”
“The tree survived,” Thane said evenly. “And this isn’t the only plant that made it.”
“More things for our sister to burn,” Lochlan said, bitterness in every word.
“I’ve kept them hidden from her,” Thane replied, “and constructed a secret entry for the herbalists. We walled off the original entrance.”
Memories of his father flickered through Lochlan’s mind—himself as a boy, chasing after a man whose broad hands worked with steady grace. His father had been soft-spoken, with a quiet brilliance that drew people in without ever demanding their attention. When he wasn’t overseeing the castle’s herbalists, he’d take Lochlan everywhere. To the countryside, where wild herbs tangled at their feet. Across distant towns to study flora in temple gardens and roadside ditches alike. They’d wandered through museums, old estates, forgotten groves. Always learning.
Always together.
After his father’s early death, the other herbalists had tried to fill the void, but it had never been the same.
“Things will be different now,” Thane said.
Lochlan let out a humorless laugh. “You may be a brilliant spy and our esteemed soon-to-be king, but you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Is our mother still cold and cruel? Is Drusilla still psychotic and spoiled?”
“Our mother has asked about you,” Thane said, softer. “She’s worried. About this… marriage. It isn’t right. You should be with us. Not with that witch.”
“I’m a witch!” Lochlan’s voice thundered as his fist slammed against the counter.
He pushed away the small, unwelcome desire to believe his mother’s concern was real. It wasn’t care—not for him, anyway—and it certainly wasn’t love that had her asking questions. Lochlan knew better. He wasn’t the same young man who’d once desperately wanted to belong to the family he’d only ever watched from a distance.
He knew now how much of that life was only artifice: fake, constructed, and hollow.
Thane studied him for a long moment, as though trying to reconcile the brother he remembered with the man standing before him. Finally, he nodded once and placed a black card on the counter. “I’ll be in the area for a bit longer. If you need me, or…”
He trailed off, but Lochlan could still hear the words: If you change your mind.
