“It’s exactly the point.”
“No,” she nearly growled at him. “An elderly familiar, well past her prime, who almost certainly won’t live a handful of years more, who will be only a mouth to feed and a consumer of expensive healing if you’re unwilling to let her suffer, which I’m sure you will be, and—”
“Of course she’ll have healing. We may be provincials here in Meresin, but we’re not monsters.”
“Andwho provides zero value in return,” Nic continued remorselessly, “is not worth any amount of coin, much less this absurd price. If anything, Iblis should pay you to take her off their hands.”
“We’re talking about a human being here,” he said tightly.
“Not in the eyes of the Convocation, we’re not,” she shot back, annoyed enough with his naïveté to abandon the circumspection she’d previously resolved upon. Which always seemed to happen in her interactions with Gabriel. “You want my opinion? Fine. To the Convocation, there are wizards, familiars, and nonmagical commoners.” She ticked off the points on her fingers. “The first have value. The second have value in respect to the first. The third are irrelevant. By demanding a price for Narlis that is beyond all reason, House Iblis is testing you. They’ve figured out who you are, which means they’re well aware you’re from a fallen house and were not trained at Convocation Academy. You revealed yourself as being weak by showing sympathy for a dried-up, worthless familiar to the point that you went to the trouble of exposing us by abducting her, which—as I told you at the time—is an act of war. Now they’re determining just how inexperienced you are by seeing if you’ll meet their absurd demands.”
Gabriel regarded her thoughtfully. “So, we have three options: pay the price, return Narlis—which, you are correct, I refuse to do—or refuse altogether.”
“Four options,” she corrected. “You could counteroffer.”
Though he remained apparently relaxed, his jaw tightened. “It doesn’t sit well with me to haggle over a human being.” When she opened her mouth, he shot a finger at her. “And don’t tell me a familiar isn’t a human being. I don’t care what Convocation law dictates. She is a person, as are you.”
“We’re not talking about me,” she replied, aware of the bitter edge to her voice. Hoping to sweeten it, she added honey to her tea.
“Nic,” Gabriel said, far more softly, and set his hand on the table, palm up. Always giving her the invitation rather than the demand that was his right. When she relented and laid her hand in his, he squeezed it gently. “I don’t believe either of us is capable of having a conversation about familiars and their second-class status in the Convocation without both of us being very aware that everything we say also applies to you.”
She sighed for the truth of that. Much as she’d rather have it otherwise, she’d been doomed to the life of a familiar long before Gabriel Phel applied to participate in her Betrothal Trials. None of it was his fault. So, she squeezed his hand in return. “Fine. Given that, I’m going to suggest that you’ll do better in dealing with other Convocation houses if you can set your emotions aside and view familiars—Narlis and me, both—the way they do. Otherwise they’ll discern your weakness and use it against you.”
Holding her hand, he rubbed his thumb over the back of it, the caress both soothing and arousing, as he gazed steadily at her with those wizard-black eyes. “I would argue,” he said softly, “that having feelings for the woman who is my lover, my wife, and the mother of my child is not a weakness.”
Her heart wriggled at the words, and the heat behind them, but she sternly told it to behave. “I’m your familiar first. In the eyes of the Convocation, I’monlyyour familiar, and I’m one who broke a number of laws. If you want to restore House Phel, you’ll have to deal with the Convocation, like it or not. They will be searching for ways to bring me—and you along with me—to heel. If you’re going to fight them, you’ll have to meet them on their terms.”
He gazed at her a moment longer. “And to think just yesterday afternoon you told me I wouldn’t have to become like them.”
He started to withdraw his hand, but she held on. “You won’t become like them. I don’t think it’s in you, frankly, though it would make this quest of yours far easier. But youwillhave to fake it at times.”
“What is the difference,” he mused, “between appearing to be a thing and becoming it? I suspect if I act the role long enough, the clothes will begin to fit so well that I’ll forget I was ever pretending.”
She just had to land herself with the one ethical wizard in all of existence. “Gabriel…” she replied helplessly. “Can we forgo philosophy until we at least survive the threats piled on our breakfast table?”
He followed her glance to the missives, then met her gaze again, turning their joined hands so their fingers interlaced. “Isn’t that how these things begin, though? You abandon a bit of integrity to survive the moment, exchange what’s right for another day, another hour of security, telling yourself you’ll make it up later, but by then you’re midway down a slippery slope, gaining momentum for the chasm below.”
With a groan of frustration, she pulled her hand away, seizing her eating utensil and stabbing it into a cold piece of fried poultry. No one would blame her if she imagined stabbing something else. “It’s a bit late to be worrying about that slippery slope. The time for that was before you applied to acquire me in the Betrothal Trials.” She pointed her utensil at him. “And cheated in order to win, I might add.”
That was the absolute wrong thing to say. His expression darkened, black eyes going broody as he gazed at her, jaw set. “Believe me, I’m well aware of my offenses against you.”
Good going, Nic.She mentally kicked herself. Putting down her utensil, she levered her elbows on the table—how Maman would cringe at the inelegant manners—and briefly buried her face in her hands, willing herself to think. When she met Gabriel’s gaze again, she caught the anguish in his eyes before he banished it.
“Lord Phel,” she said with deliberate formality, “you acted in the best interests of your house and the people of Meresin, who depend on you. More, what’s done is done. I’m yours, and you wanted me because I would be the best possible asset in the struggle ahead. Don’t throw away your best weapon because you’re squeamish about its provenance.”
“Squeamish,” he echoed, smiling without humor. “A benign word for a grave transgression.” But he held up a hand to stop her argument. “Still, I take your point. We’re bonded now, and we must move forward. A counteroffer, you suggest?”
“Yes.” She named a figure so low it had his dark brows rising. “It gives you room tohaggle,” she added with asperity, hoping to make him smile—to no avail. “No matter what, refuse to apologize. You are a high-ranking wizard and lord of your house. You took Narlis because it pleased you to do so. Now you’re willing to pay a pittance to resolve their petty claim, but it’s worth no more of your attention than that.”
He inclined his head, taking the missive from Iblis and setting it aside. “I’ll draft the reply after breakfast.”
“And send it via Ratsiel courier.”
With a slow blink, he assimilated that as if she’d suggested they fly to the moon. “No one was around to retain the Ratsiel couriers after they delivered the missives.”
She chewed another wedge of orange, slowly, to kill the urge to roll her eyes at him. “One doesn’t retain Ratsiel couriers,” she explained. “House Ratsiel wizards wield communication magic like you do your water and moon magic. Use your magic to notify Ratsiel of your need, and they will supply it.”
“For a price.”