Chapter Text
Scene: The Library, Spring Court Manor
The music room was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light Spring wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac. Bees murmured their way in and out of the assortment of blazing scarlet tulips and lemon-bright daffodils in the flowerbeds. The occasional butterfly settled on a sprig of fragrant lavender, patterned wings spread to bask in the warm beams of the sun.
But Eris Vanserra wasn’t interested in flowers or buzzing insects. He was interested in making as much noise as possible, and was currently sat at Tamlin’s grand piano playing Chopin’s Polonaise in A Flat major. It had become one of his favourite pieces of late, having discovered that the refrain was rousing enough for him to release plenty of pent up aggression (useful after meetings with his father), and the twinkling trills kept his fingers limber (useful in a number of far more pleasant situations). Playing the piano was one of the few times Eris allowed himself to be truly lost. To be lost, under any other circumstances, was to be powerless: a state he made best endeavours never to find himself in.
The piece he was playing was considered a little old fashioned by modern standards, but the majority of the latest music hall tunes were rather unrefined for his tastes, and the operettas required a singing accompaniment that he was resolutely not willing to provide. He was conscious, however, of Tamlin setting up afternoon tea in the library behind him – and the thought of making him sing a song amused him immensely. Besides, he was bored again.
He stepped through to the library, and leaned against the threshold.
“Tamlin!”
He’d said it just sharply enough for the High Lord of Spring to startle and upend a teacup. Eris smirked as he watched him righting the crockery. The frilly little housemaid’s apron was a particularly delightful touch. He mentally congratulated his past self for thinking of it.
“Don’t know any Gilbert and Sullivan, do you?”
“Not off the top of my head, sir…” mumbled Tamlin.
Sir. He still got a wicked thrill when the High Lord of Spring addressed him like that, not that Tamlin currently had much of an option.
“Shame,” said Eris. He hummed contentedly to himself and slipped languorously into an armchair upholstered with green brocade. “Honestly Tamlin, you seem so sullen these days. Anyone would think you were ungrateful to my family for bailing Spring Court out of its dire financial situation.”
“I am very grateful, sir,” was the morose response.
Tamlin hated this. Gods, it was delightful…
“Splendid,” said Eris. He reached for a cucumber sandwich. Tamlin really had got rather good at making them. “And I hope you realise it’s only thanks to me that your whole blessed Court hasn’t been annexed. Although we both know how easily that could happen…”
He pushed the sandwich into his mouth, and made an exaggerated sound of satisfaction. Soft, white buttered bread, finely sliced crisp cucumber… made all the more delicious by the worried twitching of Tamlin’s eyebrows.
Reaching for another, he turned his attention to the pile of letters that hadn’t felt quite able to tackle that morning. Spring Court might be provincial, but it did have a large number of marvellous taverns, and needless to say it had ended up being rather a late night.
Bills, bills, bills… and hello... an intriguing black envelope embossed with the Night Court insignia.
He looked at Tamlin and gestured lazily towards the remaining sandwiches.
“Make some more of these, would you?” he said. “It’s Sunday afternoon and my youngest brother will be here shortly for tea.”
Tamlin seemed to relax slightly at that, he always looked forward to Lucien’s visits. Eris tried not to take it personally.
“Very well, sir,” said Tamlin, turning to leave. “But –”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind having a word with Martha, the new maid, sir? She keeps smashing my vases.”
“Smashing vases?”
“Yes, sir. It seems she has a particular disdain for them. Some of them were very valuable…”
“How clumsy of her!” Eris grinned. “I certainly will.”
“Thank you, sir,” and he left through the library door, grumbling to himself.
Eris waited until the High Lord was out of sight, then he tore open the envelope, read the letter, and groaned.
I can’t keep the secret any longer. It’s becoming harmful for all parties involved.
You have until the week after Starfall to tell him, at which point I will tell him myself.
And a particularly unnecessary postscript:
I’m sure Beron would be interested to know what you’ve really been up to in Spring Court.
Unsigned, of course. He laughed bitterly at the onyx-coloured envelope. Trust the Night Court to send him something that was quite literally blackmail…
He knew exactly the secret to which they referred, it was the one about his youngest brother’s true parentage. Though having been under wraps for almost three centuries, he couldn’t see how it could possibly be ‘harmful’ at this particular moment in time. And the person they had completely failed to consider as part of ‘all parties’ was his mother, who would be in immense danger were the secret to be revealed. Though of course, why should anybody in the Night Court consider that? It was of no particular benefit to them…
The letter wasn’t from Rhysand himself; the rushed handwriting and clumsy attempt at blackmail was evidence enough of that. But the use of the official Night Court stationery, and the fact they had access to information about his activities in Spring, suggested it was certainly one of his Inner Circle, and that – as he’d suspected – there were Night Court spies in Spring.
He wondered if they’d crossed paths with the Autumn Court spies he was sure his father had stationed around the place… though he wasn’t worried about Beron discovering anything meaningful about what he got up to. The numerous scandals he’d caused in the local villages should be more than enough of a distraction to cover up the plan he’d concocted with Martha. Although if they found out about him smuggling her into Spring Court for afternoon walks through the gardens, it would put them both in immeasurable danger.
He doubted the letter was from Morrigan, though she might certainly be bitter enough to attempt blackmail. It was odd, given that the breaking of their engagement had very much been a mutual decision. Loveless marriages are horrible, he was all too aware of that from witnessing interactions between his own parents. Nevertheless it appeared to be enough reason for her to treat him with disdain whenever their paths happened to cross, and he vehemently returned the favour. Anyway, if she decided to cause chaos for him, he doubted she’d be polite enough send him a written warning first.
The wording of the letter was far too unsubtle for it to have been written by Azriel, the beautiful Illyrian male who spied for Rhysand. He quite often found himself searching shadowy corners in hopes of catching him, but to no avail. That just left General Cassian, though he rarely did anything without Rhys’ permission, so the letter was unlikely to be from him. Which meant the only people left on his list of Night Court suspects were the Archeron sisters.
Eris found them to be a fascinating trio. Three sisters, all born human, Made fae... the whole thing would have seemed entirely improbable, had Hybern not thrown Elain and Nesta into the Cauldron for the very reason that they were Feyre's relations. And all of that untapped power...
Clever Rhysand had gone in first, nabbed Feyre almost before anybody else could discover her. Well, everyone except Tamlin of course, though he’d been far too much of a dolt to even attempt harnessing those powers. The middle sister was Lucien’s mate, whose beauty was well-renowned though her powers remained uncertain. He’d have thought his youngest brother to be the luckiest male in the world to have that fall into his lap – although her reluctance to fall into his lap seemed to currently be causing the wretch unparalleled pain.
Then there was Nesta. The eldest sister, and to Eris’ mind by far the most interesting. She was all disdain, striking angles and pure, cold flame. One could sense her power from the other side of the room. He’d proposed the night he met her. The rejection still hurt.
But yes, the letter had to be from one of them. They were the only three people within that Inner Circle who could possibly lack the knowledge of Court politics, not fully understand the need for secrecy in this instance… If only he knew how to get to Velaris, he could try to reason with them in person, explain the situation it would put his mother in. He’d surmised, from the scraps of information he’d gathered, that they were, by and large, empathetic. It was their biggest weakness. But one that, in this case, could absolutely work in his favour.
He heard footsteps in the hallway, and quickly stuffed the letter into his breast pocket.
Martha came happily into the room, silvery wings fluttering behind her. He had to admit, the glamour was impressive. She was brandishing a feather duster that he knew for a fact she never used, but it was a helpful prop in maintaining the ruse.
“You wanted to see me Eri- sir?” she said, peering quickly over her shoulder to check there was nobody in earshot.
“Yes,” said Eris, sitting back in his chair and taking another sandwich. “Tamlin says you’ve been smashing his vases again.”
“Oh,” she gave him a rather shifty smile, comfortingly familiar to him despite the disguise. “Well, I might have knocked over a couple. By accident. While I was dusting.”
“Come now. We both know you don’t do any dusting.” He ran a fingertip along the base of a nearby table lamp, and held it up to show how perfectly grey it was. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with those old love letters, would it?”
“Most certainly not,” she said, in a tone rather too haughty for a maid. “Though I must admit the vases aren’t to my taste. I find them rather… ugly.”
“Oh dear,” Eris tutted. “Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. Not corrupt are you, Martha?”
Martha smiled slyly at him. “Well that very much depends on who you ask.”
“Indeed,” he said, returning the smile. “You’ll be pleased to know Lucien is due to visit any moment now.”
Her face lit up. Of course it did. Everybody loved Lucien. Well, except his mate of course, a fact Eris couldn’t help but find delightfully ironic…
“Oh that’s wonderful,” she clapped her hands together, and spluttered a little when the duster tickled her nose. Such a sweet soul. “Are you going to tell him about me?”
“Probably best to keep it between us for now, don’t you think?”
She looked a little sad, but nodded nevertheless.
There was a knock at the door, and the sound of voices in the hallway. He glimpsed Lucien’s top hat being placed on the ornate wooden stand near the door.
“Make yourself scarce for the time being, would you?” he said. “I want to speak to him alone first.”
“About the rumours?” she asked, a slight melancholy to her tone.
He nodded sombrely, although he really had no intention of bringing any of that up. Martha gave him a tight smile in response, and obligingly left through the door to the music room.
Lucien entered the library looking effortlessly stylish as he always did, in a tailored jacket over a burgundy waistcoat with a loose shirt and open collar. Eris had tried time and time again to get him to wear a cravat, but Lucien always said he felt stifled in them. Must be that little hint of Day Court in his blood – though of course Lucien was entirely in the dark about that. Just as he was in the dark about the troubling incident with the handbag…
Behind him sloped Tamlin, and Eris couldn’t help but laugh. Every time he saw that muscular frame in that little lacy apron it was like seeing it for the first time.
“Lord Lucien Vanserra, sir,” Tamlin announced, then looked at the plate and winced. Eris had consumed all but three of the sandwiches, and only left those because he hadn’t had a chance to eat them yet. “I’ll go and get those sandwiches.”
“Very good, Tamlin.”
He grumbled to himself as he trudged through the doorway, leaving the brothers alone. Lucien watched him leave, then gave Eris a particularly disapproving look as he sat down.
“The frilly apron, Eris. Really?”
“Lovely touch, isn’t it?”
“No it isn’t!”
Not even the hint of a smile! He must be in a serious mood…
“You mustn’t abuse your position here,” Lucien continued. “Beron made you temporary steward of Tamlin’s Court, not his master. He’s a downed male as it is.”
“Oh, it’s all in the name of fun,” he responded dismissively. “I think it rather suits him. And I don’t know why you’re defending him, didn’t he beat you black and blue not long ago?”
Lucien huffed. “I seem to recall many times when you’ve beaten me black and blue, I don’t make you dress like a house maid.”
“But that’s different. You’re my brother. Brothers are allowed to do that sort of thing. Besides,” he raised an eyebrow, “I rarely came away unscathed.”
They’d often fought when they were younger, he and all six of his brothers. Not just in the typical way siblings fight: Beron had them all coached, and pitted them against each other in the boxing ring as entertainment for his wealthy friends. A way of toughening them up, he claimed, after all the dance and music lessons his mother had insisted they take as a way of becoming accomplished young gentlemen. Eris himself never took to boxing. It seemed to him a brutish sport, and even when they were allowed to wear gloves it kept him from the piano for a day or so. But Lucien, with his naturally strong frame and apparent inability to let anything go, could have been a champion had he felt so inclined. Father had certainly made an awful lot of money betting on him.
“You must remember, that was never my choice,” said Lucien. “Beron –”
Eris silenced him with a gesture. “You must be careful what you say about father, here,” he said quietly. “I am quite certain he has spies in this Court. Maintaining the appearance of cruelty is part of the reason I torment Tamlin so.”
“Part of the reason?”
“Yes.” Eris took the opportunity to treat his brother to a particularly devilish grin. “The rest of the reason is that I enjoy it.”
That, at least, earned him a smile. Gods, it really was pure sunshine. The bitter, unwanted thought flew through into his mind and perched there like a carrion crow: Mother’s golden boy. Despite being the one to stick it out in Autumn, to tolerate and obey every one of Beron’s vindictive whims, Eris still felt he was living in the shadow of his good natured, valiant younger brother. He took a sandwich to console himself, and relaxed back in his chair.
“What’s the latest from Autumn Court?” asked Lucien.
“Oh, nothing new. Father’s still spending most of his time marauding the villages, trying to quash various rebellions. I’m glad to be out of it.”
“Hmm. And Mother’s well?”
“She’s very well, at present. Anyway, let’s not talk politics.” He took a bite of his sandwich to end that line of questioning.
“But you love all that, don’t you? You’re always attending those political parties.”
“I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don’t talk politics. And when it comes to Autumn Court, I really think the less said the better for the time being. I really only go back nowadays to visit the hounds.”
He loved those dogs. They were always happy to see him, didn’t expect anything from him, and most importantly gave him an unconditional love that he was sorely lacking in other areas of his life.
“You can’t bring them here?”
“They would love it, I’m sure,” Eris said, just about managing to stifle a sigh. He’d tried several times to convince his father of the fact, and found himself using his words as he replied. “But we have to maintain the delicate balance of nature here to ensure good agricultural yields, and you know how Tuppy loves to hunt game.”
“Shame,” said Lucien, and he took a sip of tea. “Other than that though, you’re enjoying Spring Court?”
“Immensely,” Eris smirked.
And he was. The anonymity was bliss.
In Autumn, where he was renowned for being the malicious eldest son of an unpopular High Lord, people tended to give him a wide berth. But barely anyone in this provincial little Court knew who he was. It had given him license to do as he pleased, and he was taking full advantage of it. He’d traded tentative political dalliances with cold heiresses for romps with rosy-cheeked milkmaids, widowed bar wenches and the odd strapping farmhand. Yes, Spring was where one could truly live their best life.
Lucien must have taken his meaning, because he returned the smile rather knowingly. He had lived here, of course, when father turfed him out of the family home after the appalling Jesminda debacle. It had caused quite the scandal in Autumn, particularly following her sudden disappearance, along with two of his brothers…
“And Velaris?” asked Eris. “I gather you’ve been spending some time there.”
Lucien’s face twisted into an expression that was frustratingly indecipherable. “I was, until – well, yes. I was. But I rather miss Spring,” he said. “It feels that when one is in Spring one amuses oneself. When one is in Velaris, one amuses other people. It is excessively boring.”
“I take it your mate isn’t providing you with much ‘amusement’, then?”
Lucien looked suddenly pained, and lowered his head into his hand. “Gods, Eris,” he said softly. “It’s not just about the mating bond anymore. I’m completely and utterly in love with Elain.”
With his other hand he pulled a small frame out of his pocket. A piece of paper slipped out of it and onto the floor – Eris had neither the energy nor the inclination to tell him, and Lucien was too preoccupied with whatever was in the frame to notice. He stared longingly at it, and gave a sigh of such desperate hopelessness that Eris had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“A miniature of your mate, I presume?”
“Yes,” said Lucien, gazing sadly at it. “This portrait is all I have left now. Feyre gifted it to me, after –”
Eris unceremoniously snatched it from his hands. It was Lucien’s own fault, he never gripped anything tightly enough. Ignoring the stammers of protest, Eris moved towards the patio doors to get a proper look at it: a fine painting, delicate strokes made by a deft hand, depicting a doe-eyed beauty with cherry lips and golden curls. This artwork couldn’t possibly be by the author of the note, with its straggling inexpert handwriting, could it? The painting looked almost alive… a porcelain face with exquisite sorrow etched on its fine features…
“This is Elain?” he said, a little surprised. “I didn’t realise she was quite this lovely.”
“You only saw her a couple of months ago, you know,” Lucien said crossly. “At Lord Keir’s Solstice Ball.”
“She must have entirely slipped from my memory.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Lucien gave a laugh that Eris found rather infuriating. “From what I heard, your attentions were very much elsewhere that night. With her elder sister, no less.”
“Yes… Lady Nesta Archeron.”
Just to remember that night was pure torture and bliss. Nesta had lit up that gloomy ballroom like a thousand silver flames, moving as though she was part of the music, twirling in a state of pure abandon Eris had only ever dreamed of experiencing. He’d been intoxicated by her, the giddiness of a confined beast set free. Nesta was a dance partner who allowed one to simply be. Whenever he found himself feeling lonely – an emotion he’d got rather good at avoiding these days – he found himself thinking about how she’d looked in those moments. The expression of a female in complete control, giving in to the rapture of the music.
Part of him had known, of course, that it was a deception. Typical Night Court smoke and mirrors. But he’d go along with it all again just for another chance to dance with her…
“Apparently you seemed to get along rather well,” Lucien’s self-satisfied tone broke Eris from his reverie.
“Well, I thought so,” he responded. He put the portrait of Elain down on the mahogany side table, finding himself feeling rather sullen. “But then, I must have been mistaken. She refused my proposal.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t read too much into that,” Lucien crossed one leg over the other, looking, in Eris’ opinion, rather too comfortable now. “Nesta Archeron is always refusing proposals. She has at least three a week in Velaris. General Cassian is her latest victim. He’s most persistent, completely in love with her.”
“Love,” Eris scoffed.
“Don’t try to be cynical. It’s perfectly easy to be cynical,” said Lucien.
“Equally easy to be a sentimentalist,” said Eris, draping himself over the opposite chair and taking another sandwich. “Though given all your despondent sighing, I surmise it hasn’t done any favours for you where Elain is concerned.”
“Actually,” said Lucien, “we were courting for a while.”
“You must have enjoyed that.”
“Oh, I did,” he sighed again; Eris was surprised he had any air left to expel. “Promenading along the Sidra, lazy afternoons in the little tea lounges of Velaris... Although of course Nesta was there as chaperone the whole time.”
He spoke those last words reluctantly, as though she could have been anything less than the best part of the experience. Nesta as chaperone? What Eris wouldn’t give to have witnessed that! Lucien wasn’t frightened of many people, but he was terrified of Nesta. It was one of the many things Eris liked about her.
“But just when I’d finally mustered the courage to make a proposal, Elain –” he cut himself off with a look of desperate sadness, and lowered his head into his hand.
“Elain what, Lucien? Put her elbows on the table? Laughed like a pig? Had an unsightly birthmark on her–”
“Eris!”
“Well, honestly! You can’t just leave the story there.”
Another sigh! At this rate if he did it again he was at risk of withering like a deflated balloon.
“Elain was perfect,” lamented Lucien. “It was me who turned out to be the problem. She had a vision.”
“A vision.” Part of the ‘Seer’ power she was purported to have, he presumed.
“Yes, a vision!” Lucien sounded defensive. “A vision in which she’d foreseen her future with… a mysterious Day Court male.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Nor does she. That’s why he’s mysterious. But the vision was such that she was convinced she’d seen her future husband. Consequently she felt the kindest thing she could do was… end things with me.”
“And she’s absolutely immovable on that? Even though you’re her mate?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
And with that Lucien gave one final sigh, and slumped so far into his chair he looked as though he might sink through it.
Eris’ mind worked quickly as he made the connection to the letter… This all explained why the matter of Lucien’s paternity had suddenly become more pressing. Someone in the Night Court knew about Elain’s uncompromisable fixation with Day Court and Lucien’s true heritage, and had clearly – and probably accurately – surmised that revealing the secret would bring them together.
Did this rule out Elain as the blackmailer? Perhaps it was her attempt to have everything out in the open before considering a commitment to his brother, though either Feyre or Nesta still seemed more probable. All of this in mind, he was almost tempted to clear the matter up himself, then and there – but he knew if he did, the whole thing would get back to his father. Until he could guarantee his mother’s safety, he had to keep everything under wraps.
“Did she get a good look at who it was?”
“No,” Lucien said sullenly. “I asked her all this myself, Eris. Her visions aren’t always… well, visual. She just had the sense that he was most emphatically Day Court. Which is why,” said Lucien, then he stood up and adopted a pose that was sickeningly heroic. “I have resolved to become a Day Court citizen.”
It was a most inopportune time for Eris to have taken a mouthful of tea. A significant amount of it spluttered onto the carpet.
“What?”
“Oh, don’t be so surprised,” said Lucien. “I’ve never felt all that attached to Autumn anyway, especially after everything that happened with Jesminda – and there’s something noble about Day Court, don’t you think?” Those did not sound like his words. “Besides, all I have to do is take a little test. I’m good at tests. And…” he trailed off, his final words inaudible.
“And what?”
“And join the Day Court army.” The words tumbled quickly from him, as though he knew Eris wouldn’t approve.
“Join the– Lucien, you can’t be in earnest!”
“Oh, I am quite earnest. After Starfall, I am heading straight to Day Court to enlist. It is the only chance I have of regaining Elain’s affections.” He stood, and crossed to the window, gazing out over the rolling green fields. “She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. I love her, and I must make her love me.”
Eris found himself rubbing his temples, trying to process the insanity of the last five minutes. The sighing, the moping, the melodramatic brooding… His brother, usually a male of dignity and dependability, had taken complete leave of his senses. The mating bond clearly did send males mad. And how on earth would he explain Lucien joining the Day Court army to Beron? To his mother?
But then his thoughts landed on Starfall. It was his second time since breakfast he’d encountered that word…
“What happens at Starfall?”
Lucien looked warily towards him; he clearly hadn’t intended to mention it at all. “Hmm?”
“I mean,” Eris said, lacing his words with innocent curiosity, “if you’re waiting until afterwards, it must be a significant occasion?”
“Right. Yes.” Lucien licked his lips nervously. “It’s Nynsar, but… Night Court. Less about plants and more to celebrate a meteorological phenomenon that occurs only in Velaris, whereby the stars appear to, well, fall from the sky.” He ignored the roll of Eris’ eyes. “The High Lord and Lady are having a ball. I’m going to tell Elain of my intentions there.”
“A ball?” Interesting. “And the Archerons will be there…”
“All Velaris High Society will,” said Lucien. “Although that’s immaterial to you. You haven’t been invited.”
Eris tilted his head expectantly. When no invitation was forthcoming, he said “I’ve never let that stop me before.”
Though he knew the threat he’d implied was empty on this occasion. He’d never been to Velaris and, despite having done his utmost to prove himself Rhys’ ally, had never been told where it actually was. He imagined somewhere North of the Hewn City, though the Night Court was notoriously mountainous and winnowing somewhere like that without a precise location would be fraught with hazards.
“No Eris,” Lucien sat up in a panic. “You really mustn’t.”
“Oh, dear Lucien. You’ve forbidden me, now, which makes it a temptation. You know I can resist everything except temptation. Besides, I’d rather like to meet the beauty in the portrait.”
“Eris, I have absolutely no intention of introducing you to Elain! She is so pure, so perfectly good – you’d corrupt her in an instant!”
“Hmm. You make the whole thing sound like a wonderful challenge…”
Lucien was about to protest when Tamlin re-entered with a tray of sandwiches. He placed them delicately on the table, removing the empty plate, and turned to Eris.
“Reverend O’Neil is here to see you, sir.”
Eris groaned, and ran his hand over his face.
Lucien’s face lit up with delighted incredulity. “You have visits from a Reverend?”
“Frequent ones. I can’t seem to shake him. He’s on some fruitless crusade to make me a reformed character.” He turned towards Tamlin, and waved a dismissive hand. “You may as well show him through. Perhaps the two of you can catch up in the music room while I get this over with…”
“Certainly, sir,” said Tamlin, a little smile gracing his mouth.
“Oh no, I’m not hiding away in the music room!” grinned Lucien. “I am so looking forward to seeing this.”
“Well you can’t see it,” said Eris, trying to disguise his panic as annoyance as he bundled Lucien towards the music room door. “You can’t be in here at all.”
“Why on earth not?”
He looked into his brother’s face – a face as handsome as his own, annoyingly more so in many ways, and remarkably similar if you didn’t know what to look for. But Lucien had that wonderful golden colouring about him that meant he never burned in the sun the way Eris did. Features that were defined, without being sharp as his own. Lips that were fuller, almost feminine in shape, and the savage scar that still, despite himself, broke Eris’ heart just a little. Mother’s golden boy…
“Because he thinks I’m you.”
Lucien just about managed a wide-eyed “Wha-” before the door closed unceremoniously in his face.