Chapter Text
An adolescence of poverty meant that Nesta found nothing odd in a missed cycle. By the second month of its absence, she found her hand drawn to her abdomen in abject fear. The thought of a child there – his child – repulsed her. On the third month, there was no denying the fact that she was with child although Nesta did in fact deny it. She deluded herself every morning as she dressed that if she did not think about it then it would not grow roots. It was the monster the corner of her vision that she refused to look at.
With Feyre’s brief return, the house was in chaos. Father’s insistence to throw a ball meant Nesta had frequent excuses to go into town to try and find an apothecary that might remove her problem. Asking for such a thing was impossible though when they lived in such a small place. Word would travel. And if Nesta claimed it was not for her then who else? Elain? Both of their reputations would be in tatters. She couldn't do that to her sister.
When her youngest sister returned to the land of faeries, Nesta could disguise her unwelcomed morning sickness as nerves for her wayward sibling’s wellbeing. And when her gowns grew tight around her stomach, she borrowed Elain’s floatier ones despite the ghastly colours, claiming the summer heat was stifling.
By September, Nesta could no longer hide her changing body from her family. The servants kept silent, likely due to a hefty purse from Father. He, of course, made no secret of his displeasure. She had removed herself from the trading table and due to her silence, she could not be hurriedly married off with a poor, unsuspecting man to raise the child as his own. How dare she ruin her value. Elain had fears for her engagement to Graysen – as though Nesta’s scandal would rub off on her. Plans were made to hurry their marriage despite the protests from his mother that Elain was a pretty girl but not good enough for her only son.
Books, which had always been a steadfast companion in her life, became her only comfort. It was claimed that Nesta had gone to visit a lost relative over the autumn and winter to give a reason for her absence from society. She remained indoors, haunting the top floor of the home like a ghost. The winter was bitter enough to not miss the outside air, but Nesta missed her sister. Elain withdrew from her, scared that a baby might grow in her own womb from contact with Nesta. So, books were her only company day by day.
Father had made arrangements. A healer who lived almost four hours away had been brought to the home in preparation for the birth. In his village, there was a couple who were unable to have their own children. She was glad for it. Nesta was not the mothering sort. Her own mother and grandmother had proved that the Archerons were not maternal. It would be a condemnation for both of them to remain together. The baby would return with the healer and Nesta could rejoin society in the spring with her dignity still intact. The pool for marriage would be somewhat diminished, but what did Nesta care? She never wanted a man to touch her again. If she spent her life as an old spinster, it would not be a life wasted.
But when that bitterly cold night in January came and Nesta heard the boy cry for the first time, her heart shattered. She demanded the healer place her son in her arms. When Nesta brought him to her chest and his crying ebbed, she wept. He was perfect. From the crop of dark hair on his head to his ten tiny toes, he was perfect.
He was hers.
Only hers.
Father had been furious. Elain had wept too – not for the boy, but for what it could mean for her engagement to Graysen.
Nesta did not care an ounce. Not when her son was the most precious gift the world could give her.
***
The manor house was grand – as grand as mortal architecture could be. A navy roof swallowed the last of the weak light as the sun set early on the cold March evening. The curtains in the home were drawn with only thin cracks of light seeping out from the edges of the window panes. It paled in comparison to the spiralling towers of the Dawn Court or the homes of the Summer Court that looked as if they were carved from a shell. Not that Cassian would know anymore. After three centuries, there was still a public declaration in the Summer Court that he was a banned entity. It had been a mark of pride that he was the first to earn that title; now, however, it stung.
‘Stop tapping,’ Azriel murmured.
Cassian refrained from rolling his eyes. He was nervous. Rhys was nervous. Feyre was nervous. Azriel was calm and collected, as always. Even being beyond the wall, shielded amongst a thin copse of trees, couldn’t rock Azriel’s steady disposition.
Feyre had insisted that her sister would be able to chase away their household staff, claiming that Elain could convince anyone to do anything. Certainly, Feyre spoke of her middle sister with fondness. She spoke of her sweetness, her gentleness despite their hard upbringing. Indeed, a handful of them had left early, but it was still a waiting game.
‘I hate the mortal lands,’ grumbled Rhys.
‘You needed a place to meet the queens,’ Feyre reminded him. ‘This is the best place.’
‘I’m not entirely sure I want to meet your eldest sister.’
Nesta.
The selfish princess who’d sat idly by while Feyre hunted for them. The sister who’d been prepared to sit at home and preen while Feyre risked her life day after day. If Rhys managed to leash his rage then he’d be impressed. It would likely become a battle ground. When it came to Feyre, they all loved her, all wished they could change the life she’d been given – but for Rhys, it was more. It was difficult not to feel jealous over their mating bond. Although Feyre didn’t realise it yet, she would accept. Why wouldn’t she? He was lucky to call Rhys a brother. Feyre and him would share a beautiful life.
One of the curtains was pulled back and a face peered out as the last of the staff dribbled out of the front door. That was their cue then.
The two sisters welcomed them in a lounge. Welcomed being a generous word. Elain, with her darker hair and pale pink gown, tried to hide her trembling legs and agog eyes. The elder, Nesta, stood ramrod straight as though carved from ice. Her eyes darted frequently towards another doorway as though wanting to bolt, but she remained standing there. There were shadows beneath her eyes, but Cassian doubted she lost any sleep over Feyre.
‘These are my sisters, Nesta and Elain,’ Feyre introduced. ‘This is Rhysand, the high lord of the Night Court.’ Rhys gave a curt bow of the head. ‘And these two are Cassian and Azriel, Illyrians and part of the Night Court.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality and generosity,’ said Rhysand. He tried to smile but there was a strain to it. Elain tried to return it, but also failed.
‘The cook left dinner on the table. We should eat before it goes cold,’ said Nesta. Without waiting for any of them to agree, she strode off through the door behind them towards a cherry wood table where she stood at the head. A claim on her dominance, he supposed. This was her house, her den. Well, if she wanted to play, Cassian would meet her.
Elain took the seat to her sister’s left and trembled like a lamb in it. Feyre took the one on Nesta’s right so they filed in around the sides. The chairs weren’t built for wings. It was a struggle to fold them and try to fit so Cassian ended up perching on an inch of chair while his wings took up the majority of the space.
A spread had been put on, with poached salmon and dill and lemon, whipped potatoes, roast chicken with beets and turnips, a casserole with egg, game mate, and leeks. The three males dug in, used to slop in Illyria. The human food wasn’t bad – but it wasn’t good either. It was dry and lacking the flavours that magic brought with it. Feyre struggled to contain her displeasure.
‘Is there something wrong with our food?’ Nesta’s flat voice cut through the silence.
Feyre forced another mouthful down, gulping loudly. ‘No.’
‘So you can’t eat normal food anymore – or are you too good for it?’
A question and a challenge.
Rhys lay his fork down, ready to spring to Feyre’s defence.
‘I can eat, drink, fuck, and fight just as well as I did before. Better, even.’
Nesta gave a low laugh then stabbed her fork through a potato. Azriel was shifting in his seat, weighing up the opposition. Cassian was trying to hold back his laughter.
Rhys leaned forwards in his seat. ‘If you ever come to Prythian, you will discover why your food tastes so different.’
And this mortal – this insignificant mortal – looked down her nose at a damn high lord. ‘I have little interest in ever setting foot in your land, so I’ll have to take your word on it.’
‘Nesta, please,’ murmured Elain.
Who the fuck did she think she was? Rhys was the most powerful high lord in history. Feyre had saved all of their asses Under the Mountain and paid for it with her life.
He couldn’t stop himself from sneering at her. He knew the type. She thought herself better than all of them because she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.
Her attention shifted to him. Steely grey eyes pinned him. ‘What are you looking at?’
Brows raised in disbelief, he said, ‘Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while she did nothing. Someone who let a fourteen-year-old child go out into that forest, so close to the wall.’ He shook his head with disgust. ‘Your sister died – died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don’t expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make – and insult my people in the process.’
The sister didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied him then she turned away, dismissing him entirely because he’d always be a bottom-rung Illyrian bastard to people like her.
Elain swallowed as she looked to him. ‘It… It is very hard, you understand, to accept it.’ The ring on her finger was made of iron. It was a declaration that their kind was not welcome. ‘We are raised this way. We hear stories-’
Her words were cut off by the sudden cry of a baby.
Nesta turned bone white.
Cassian could feel the sudden drumming of her heart, the race of it – the fear.
For a few drawn-out seconds, nobody moved an inch as the baby’s cry rang out throughout the house. Then, with a clatter, Nesta’s chair hit the floor and she rushed from the room.
Her steps hurried up the stairs while they remained in a terse silence.
Elain had turned the colour of a beetroot.
‘A baby,’ Feyre whispered, looking accusingly at her sister.
‘I… I… We don’t speak of him really,’ she stammered out.
‘A baby,’ repeated Feyre. ‘Nesta’s? How old?’
He could feel the heat radiating from Elain’s cheeks.
‘Seven weeks. It’s a… It’s a disaster, Feyre. Father arranged for a healer all the way from Esterin to deliver the boy and there was a couple who would raise him. Nobody would know. Well, you know how Nesta can be. She refused. The moment he was born, she cancelled all plans, said he was her son and she would not give him away.’ Elain shook her head. ‘Father was furious. You know what it could mean for my engagement – for our whole family.’
Feyre sat back in her chair, eyes wide. ‘Nesta is a mother.’
The baby’s cries were slowing. Cassian could only imagine the misery a child would endure at the hands of that iron woman.
‘Father and her haven’t spoken since.’
‘Has he at least held the child? That’s his grandson.’
Elain seemed to shrink.
‘Have you?’
She stuttered again. ‘If Graysen’s family find out, my engagement will be ruined. The best thing I can do is plead ignorance.’
‘But the whole village must be whispering about her.’
Elain shook her head. ‘Father forbade her from leaving the house since the end of summer. We’ve said she’s away visiting family – and well, now she won’t give up the child, Father doesn’t know what to do with her. We had to remove half off the staff whose loyalties weren’t tested.’
‘Nesta hasn’t left the house since summer?’
‘She’s walked the grounds – but it’s too cold now anyway.’
Feyre’s eyebrows pinched together. ‘And she will just stay here? Her and the boy won’t ever leave the house like prisoners?’
Their food was abandoned. Elain still clutched her knife and fork as though needing a weapon against them still. The males knew to remain silent for this conversation.
‘She was pregnant when I came here,’ Feyre said slowly. ‘And the father?’
‘She didn’t speak a word of the baby until he couldn’t be denied. Do you truly think Nesta has uttered one word about the father?’
Feyre exhaled loudly as she slumped further down in the chair. ‘She didn’t speak to any boys in the village except Tomas Mandray.’ She gave a laugh. ‘Nesta wouldn’t sully herself with someone like Tomas.’
The laughter died on her face as she caught Elain’s eye.
‘She came home one day soaked from the rain with a torn dress and hiding her tears. You know what she is like, Feyre. She will not speak unless she wants to. There’s nobody as stubborn.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Elain made a choking noise. ‘You had gone. We didn’t know where. What was I to do?’
The sounds of Nesta’s steps echoing down the stairs hurried them into silence. They all pointedly avoided looking at Nesta as she entered. Her son was cradled with one arm against her chest. She was clever enough to know that she had been the topic of conversation, but she picked her chair up and settled back in her seat then resumed eating her cold dinner as if nothing had changed.
Cassian couldn’t help wondering how many meals she had eaten this way – a shameful secret bundled in her arms who she clearly loved. The boy was small, legs tucked up and face buried against her neck. Nesta could have had her problem taken away, her reputation could have been salvaged. But she had kept the boy despite the scorn. Despite his father. She kissed him between mouthfuls of food or nuzzled her nose against his dark hair.
‘Write your letter to the queens tonight. Tomorrow, Elain will go to the village to dispatch it. If the queens do come here,’ she said, casting a frozen glare at Cassian, ‘I’d suggest bracing yourselves for prejudices far deeper than ours. And contemplating how you plan to get us all out of this mess should things go sour.’
***
The desire to run wended through Nesta’s veins as their uncomfortable dinner came to an end. Faeries in her home. Near her son. She wanted to run with Oliver as far as her legs would take her to a place far away, where it was safe.
Elain, the wretch, offered tea to their guests though she didn’t know how to light the hob, so it was up to Nesta to boil a kettle with her son balancing against her chest. Those first couple of weeks had been terrifying. He was so small. And she had been so alone. He was still small, but less fragile than she first thought. Nesta wasn’t alone anymore either; she had all she needed. One day, her son would tire of her kisses, but now she could not resist kissing and touching him at every chance.
Her sister appeared in the doorway. Her ears were still a shock. More than that, all of Feyre was different. There was a sharpness to her face; an otherworldly sort of appearance that made Nesta want to look away.
‘Let me take that.’
She remained in the kitchen while Feyre carried the tray of tea, having no desire to be amongst them any longer than necessary. Once, she’d have kept a vigil at Elain’s side as her staunchest protector. Not anymore. Oliver was her priority. It was Oliver that she’d walk through the fires of hell for.
Silent and unnoticed, Feyre returned, making her jump.
‘Sorry.’ She took a step closer. ‘Can I hold him?’
Nesta’s back hit the wall. Her eyes went to Feyre’s ears, long and pointing. ‘You are a faerie.’
‘I’m your sister.’
‘And if you steal my son? Turn him into a changeling?’
Feyre’s face fell. ‘Elain said that she and father haven’t held him.’
‘And what? I was the topic of conversation for dinner?’
The frost grew between them. They had never been close, but last summer there had been a glimpse of what could have been between sisters. A life of misery had stolen it from them.
‘You don’t have to do this alone, Nesta,’ said Feyre softly. ‘I am your sister and I want to help. Maybe – after all of this is done – you could come to Velaris.’ At the curl of Nesta’s top lip, she continued, ‘I have money. Rhys pays me well. I could buy a home for you both somewhere here. You can spin a lie that his father died. That you were married.’
‘I need charity now, do I?’
Feyre retreated a step, hurt flashing across her face.
It was difficult to know which hands were truly reaching out to help. Which hands Nesta could hold onto or which she should slap away.
‘Sit down.’
Feyre regarded the chair for a long moment.
‘He’s fidgety. Sit down.’
Oliver fussed at first. He had never been in another pair of arms except her own – well, and the healer who’d guided him into the world and promptly handed him over before Nesta throttled him.
‘He’s so small,’ whispered Feyre.
‘He did not feel small on the way out of me.’
Her whole body felt like it would break in two. She’d never known a pain like it. And, thankfully, would not again.
When the high lord arrived in the doorway, Nesta took her son upstairs and locked the door. Elain could see them to bedrooms. He would need feeding before sleep. Their routine was coming together and Nesta would rather stick to it than make painful small talk with overgrown faeries while Elain pretended her nephew did not exist.
She thought of Feyre’s words. Not of Velaris, but a place she could call her own where nobody would see her as a scandal-hit unmarried woman. Instead, Nesta would be a tragic young woman whose husband had departed the world too soon. Their lives would be built on lies, but wouldn’t that be better for Oliver rather than condemning the boy for the sin of his mother?
‘You are the most beautiful thing in the world,’ Nesta said as she lay him on her bed. He raised his arms in the air, forming two little fists as he stretched. ‘But if you wake Mama three times again tonight, she’s going to be grumpy in the morning.’
Nesta couldn’t be Mother. She wanted to limit the associations to her own. It was too cold, too formal. She wanted her son to love her, to know that Nesta would always fight for him. She kissed each one of his tiny fingers.
She lay him in the bassinette which was gifted by one of their servants who had passed it around their family for many years. It showed tell-tale signs of wear, but Nesta was grateful for the gift. Everything that Oliver had was donated by their loyal staff who felt sorry for the boy. Father wouldn’t let her spend a penny otherwise to protect Elain’s reputation.
‘If Graysen hasn’t married her yet, he won’t,’ she said aloud.
His mother remained dragging her feet, nitpicking the arrangements and offering more reasons to delay. If Graysen was the kind man that Elain proclaimed him to be then he would marry her without his mother’s whisperings dissuading him.
‘I will never be so overbearing, I promise,’ Nesta murmured to Oliver.
***
Being beyond the wall for such a length of time had succeeded in making Cassian jittery. He could only imagine how on edge Rhys was in the next room – or maybe not since he’d be sharing with Feyre. From Azriel’s stillness, his brother wasn’t asleep either. Cassian had counted the cracks in the ceiling paint – of which there were few – and began making plans for the snowball fight that would come in nine months since he was still reeling from the defeat in December.
The first time that the baby cried, Cassian lay alert. He counted the cries until Nesta’s feet landed on the floorboards. Five. The bedroom was above his. In the roof.
His opinion of her had shifted radically. To be unmarried with a son was a death sentence in Illyria. Perhaps it was less severe in the mortal lands, but Nesta was now a pariah to society. Feyre had been out of sorts as they wrote the letter to the queens, her mind with the sister prepared to face a lifetime of scorn to raise her son. It would have been easy for her to give away the child and resume a comfortable life. There was something admirable in it.
And as Cassian lay there in the dark, he could not help but think of his own mother, likely as scared and alone as Nesta was. Had she wanted to keep him? Was she relieved when they took him from her – until her own death came? Cassian would never have the chance to know. He didn’t even know her name. Didn’t know if his hazel eyes were shared with her or the unruliness of his hair came from hers.
It was still dark when the boy cried again.
He glanced across the room at Azriel who slept on his side, body rising and falling in a rhythm.
Madness seized Cassian as he padded silently from the room and up the stairs.
His knuckles grazed the door.
The sight that unfolded rendered him frozen.
Nesta’s hair was unbound, falling in a golden ribbon past her waist. Sleep still pinched at her face, making her eyes softer. She wore a cream nightgown with a blue, silken dressing gown over it. A single candle had been lit to cast the room in its glow. The boy was red in the face and held against her.
‘Oh. I thought you’d be Feyre.’
‘Just as beautiful,’ he replied.
She stared at him – and not with any sort of warmth.
With the danger of the door being slammed imminent, Cassian blurted, ‘Do you need help?’
She eyed him then asked, ‘Do you have a pair of breasts he can latch on to? If not, then no.’
The door was closed, but Cassian was faster. His foot jammed it from closing. That didn’t stop Nesta from ramming it at his bare foot a second time, making him wince.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We need nothing.’
Pride was difficult to overcome. He’d seen it enough in Illyria. People who’d rather starve than accept help.
‘What about a warm drink? It’s cold in here,’ he said, noticing that the attic was not particularly welcoming either. Although it was clean, with floral wallpaper adorning the walls, there were few possessions to be seen. There was a chill to the air too from the cold night. ‘Or I can light the fire downstairs and you can sit by it.’
‘There is a reading room at the back of the house.’
Cassian practically ran down the stairs to light the fire then, when the flames were taking to a larger log, he hurried to the stove and lit that too. He found the kettle they’d used yesterday and filled it with enough water for the both of them. He couldn’t say exactly why he was desperate to offer his help – but Cassian had ideas. He had a soft heart when it came to single mothers and bastard boys. She was Feyre’s sister too. And beautiful. In the same way that a venomous snake was beautiful.
They took their tea in silence as the first offerings of dawn slipped into the sky.
‘Why do you sleep in the attic? It’s hardly a place for a baby.’
Nesta cradled her son’s head against her body as she sipped at her tea. ‘When Oliver was born, he would not stop crying. It was colic. Very little sleep. For either of us. It’s quieter for the rest of the house if we’re up there. We’re down to two wake ups during the night. I can only dream of an uninterrupted sleep.’
His anger at Nesta for not doing more for Feyre was shifting to anger against Elain and the Archerons’ father for treating a new mother like a secret.
‘Come to Velaris,’ he said, meaning his words. ‘You will be safe. You’ll have a better life. Both of you.’
Her top lip curled into a sneer. ‘Mortals have never fared well in the lands of the fae. You will take my son. Turn him into something unnatural.’
He’d have laughed if her expression wasn’t so serious.
‘Something unnatural. Something like me, you mean?’
‘You have wings.’
‘True,’ he acknowledged, ‘but this is natural for my people.’
Nesta laughed, but it was bitter. 'You will sweep in and save us? Let us not pretend that a few hours ago you were ready to run me through with a sword to defend by sister's honour.'
Shame burnt through him.
'And now that you know I am a mother to be pitied, you can swallow your anger.'
He averted his eyes when the boy began fussing for a feed. He couldn’t imagine the haughty female he’d met at dinner bearing any skin, but a tired new mother who needed to feed her son did not care if Cassian was perturbed by her bare breast.
‘It is the same every morning,’ she said. ‘He wakes early. Wants to be held for an hour or so then decides he’s hungry and will sleep after.’
‘You don’t have to do it alone,’ he said, tracing the rim of his cup with a finger. ‘You would have Feyre in Velaris. Financial support too. A life without scorn.’
‘Again, we are mortal.’
The silence stretched on as the sky grew lighter. When Oliver was full, she cradled him against herself and rose from the chair.
‘Thank you for the tea.’
‘Nesta, war is coming. I wish we could avoid it, but it is coming. There is no place safer than Velaris.’
‘For you, maybe. Not for someone like me.’