Page 84 of The Hidden Fae Prince
“When?” Nevander asks.
“Midsummer,” Lysandra answers. “When the realm’s power is at its height.”
Nevander exhales. He’ll have to adjust everything. The current strategy—securing Seren’s throne through authority, not power—will have to last eleven more months.
Fae may live for centuries, but too much can still happen in eleven months.
“Is there any way to accelerate that?” Seren asks.
Lysandra regards him carefully. Nevander wonders what she sees. Shades of Haelwen, or something new. Lysandra knew Haelwen for a very long time. She isn’t used to meeting strangers.
“Finding the stolen shards would help,” Lysandra says. “I will set myself to that task, with your permission.”
“Gladly granted.” Seren closes the box of false shards. “I last saw the real shards ten days ago. They must have been taken after that.”
“That will help,” Lysandra says.
Ten days ago was when Seren found the injured squirrel. Another memory crosses Nevander like a shadow—the night Seren claimed to see Midnight in the tower greenhouse. To reach that greenhouse, one would pass the office where the crown was kept.
Lysandra doesn’t need to hear about that; if Seren was having visions, Nevander would rather keep that private. But Nevander will ask the royal guard to consider that night in their own investigations.
“The palace is hosting a banquet for the threshold,” Seren is saying. “I would value your attendance.”
Lysandra considers, then smiles. A nice, friendly smile that fills Nevander with dread. “I shall rearrange my travels.” She bows, ominously polite. “I have one question before I take my leave. Are you two sleeping together?”
Seren chokes.
Spirits take her. Nevander’s hand instinctively flexes for his sword. “I’m not having this conversation.”
“If so, I approve.” Lysandra addresses Seren as if Nevander weren’t there. “My son needs someone to lighten him up.”
Seren’s blank stare breaks into a gasp.
“See you at the banquet,” Lysandra says, before swanning from the garden.
When they’re alone, Seren whirls around. “Were you going to mention that Lysandra was your mother?”
Nevander winces. “I’ve been distracted.”
Seren laughs, a release of nerves. “You didn’t act like mother and son at all. Are you quarreling? If you’re quarreling, I can uninvite her from the festival.”
Relief eases Nevander’s guilt. At least Seren is taking this in stride. “We aren’t close, but we aren’t quarreling. I moved out from her roof a hundred years ago. Our lives rarely intersect.”
Seren nods, clearly processing that, and Nevander feels a pang of sympathy. Seren is still adjusting to the timescale they were both born to. And hearing about Nevander’s blithely distant relationship with Lysandra must be difficult. Seren’s mother died before he met her. The woman who raised him didn’t love him.
Perhaps Nevander should visit Lysandra more often.
Seren shakes off the moment. “If I’d known, I would have changed clothes.”
His clothes aren’t dirty—the blood and dirt were easy to charm away—but that’s the same silk shirt Nevander shoved up Seren’s stomach last night. The same linen trousers Nevander unlaced to reach Seren’s cock.
Now, Seren’s gaze falters, as if he recalls the same moments. “Gods’ twisted humor. How could she tell?”
How could she not, when Nevander bends toward Seren like a blossom toward the sun?
“She’s perceptive,” Nevander says. “As well as abrasive.”
“You’re not wrong.” Seren’s smile is surprising—and spellbinding. “But I think I like her. Who is your father, anyway? Have I met him already?”
