Page 172 of Griffin Food

“What do you know of the winter solstice?” Darrion asks, his eyes on me even as he replies to Lark.

“Got a tip from the local tavern proprietor, Jim,” Lark says, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.

I snort, not believing his nonsense for a moment.

The celebration has been the talk of the eyrie for weeks. Once the dust settled after the war and we came to terms with being at peace again, life began to shift. While not all wounds can heal, the sharpest edges of grief have softened enough to allow something else to take root. The people of these lands are survivors. They celebrate those who fall and give praise to the Goddess for those who yet live. They do not linger on loss, not when they believe they will meet again in time. This is not a celebration of mourning. It is one of joy and remembrance, yes, but also of life.

I have struggled with this myself; learning to let go is an incremental undertaking, one that follows its own timeline and is not linear. It undulates, taking you forward, but also back. Learning to forgive yourself for failings, perceived or otherwise, has been the hardest step for me. And learning that I am not alone, that I have strong mates I can lean into, who draw me out of my introspection and back into the present and all the wonder, beauty, and hope—and love and joy—that is yet to be lived, is the most powerful healing of all.

Of course, the realization that one such new life grows inside me gives everything new meaning. Atlas is a surprisingly tenacious male when he has breeding on his mind, and we did not leave the nest for several days after the cushion incident, as it later became known.

I regret nothing.

If the smug expressions on my mates’ faces every time their eyes alight upon me are any indication, they regret nothing, too.

I am ready. Ready for the new babe, for the future, and for the simple joy of the celebration bearing down upon us.

We flew over Acton Trussell only last week, and already lanterns were being strung across the village square, stalls going up along every street. The children of the eyrie have been making costumes, and I have been helping as best I can. My sewing skills remain barely adequate, but they don’t seem to mind my poor stitching. If anything, it is a badge of honor to have the new Pride Queen involved.

To think I once hated needlework and now I am embracing it with a smile upon my face.

“I cannot imagine anything truly nefarious,” I say. “I’ve been helping the children with costumes all week. It seems entirely charming to me.”

“It is mostly charming,” Darrion agrees, pressing a kiss to the side of my throat where he knows I’m sensitive. Heat blooms low in my belly. “But as the evening presses on…”

“No.” I cut him off. “Do not spoil a perfectly innocent celebration.”

The door swings open before anyone can respond, and Atlas strides inside with Fenix and Rafe at his back, the three of them bringing the cold air of the corridor with them.

Atlas surveys the room. “Sundown is in one hour.” He looks at Darrion. “Time to get our Queen ready.”

Darrion rises in one smooth movement and takes me with him before I can protest. My book slips from my lap to land softly against a cushion.

Not content with simply pulling me to my feet, he shifts his grip and swings me into his arms.

“Darrion!”

He is already striding toward my room, and my extensive wardrobe, which he sees as his sacred duty to fill and takes the greatest pleasure in dressing me from.

“Hush,” he says. “I have some new underthings your other mates will delight in peeling you out of later.”

Little lanterns hang like constellations brought down to earth, strung between rooftops and across the narrow streets. Craft stalls and food stalls line the high street, their owners calling out to passersby. There are game stalls for the children, and even as the sun sets they are still scampering around, getting up to mischief, shrieking with laughter and delight.

As we walk down the high street, people call out greetings to us, tipping their hats, bowing their heads. Some even press small gifts into our hands… and especially into mine, with a reverence that makes me remember, as if I could ever forget, that I am a Griffin Queen now.

Atlas glances down at me, an indulgent smile curving his lips. He leans close, his voice low at my ear. “Take them. It makes them happy.”

And then, just as quickly, he passes the gifts from my hands off to Darrion, who rolls his eyes and carries them with exaggerated suffering.

“Mayhap I’ll get myself a pint of Pilkington,” Lark says with a grin as we pass the tavern where we stayed when we first arrived.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Rafe adds, clapping him on the shoulder. “Be rude not to.”

“There’s somewhere I wouldn’t mind showing Violet,” Fenix says softly, his fingers sliding into mine.

“So long as it doesn’t involve yet more gifts,” Darrion mutters drolly.

Fenix tugs me one way.