On the morning of the Feast of the Good Father, the air is so frigid that it hurts to breathe, and the water pump in the kitchen is entirely iced up.

“No bathing today,” Nemeth says, breaking a drip of frozen water off the underside of the pump. “We have water in a pitcher upstairs to drink, at least, so we will not have to go without.”

“Oh no. And today is Feast Day.” I barely manage to avoid pouting. Barely. “I wanted to celebrate.”

“Feast Day?” he asks. “Feast for what?”

“The Feast of the Good Father?” I blink up at him. “Do you not celebrate it? I thought we could do a small grain-cake to mark the passing of time or something. It’s for good luck.”

He arches one of those heavy, stony eyebrows at me, leaning on the useless water pump. Now that it’s colder, he’s taken to wearing a heavy, enormous cloak over his wings, and I can tell it bothers him, because he’s constantly slapping it out of the way. Even now, he pushes it aside as he regards me. “No, we do not celebrate such a thing. Exactly who is this Good Father you celebrate?”

“Why, Mekaon Vestalin, of course. He was the king of Lios long ago, the great-grandson of the hero Ravendor Vestalin, back when the Vestalin family still held the throne. His daughters were stolen away by Fellian princes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the story.” When he indicates I should continue, I do. “Mekaon threw a wedding feast, pretending that he wanted to honor their marriages, but when the grooms arrived, they were slaughtered and the pieces sent back to Darkfell. His daughters were returned to him and the gods were so pleased that they blessed each Vestalin daughter with a child and a new, noble Liosian husband and the Vestalin line continued.” I purse my lips. “Okay, I’m starting to see why you don’t celebrate it.”

His lips twist in a wry smile. “Celebrate the willful slaughter of my kinsmen under the false truce? No, we do not celebrate it at all.”

“Fair enough, but the gods did bless them,” I point out. “All four of the Vestalin daughters had children and not one of them had the blood curse.”

“And did those children have wings? How did their knees bend?”

Rude. “Are you insulting my ancestors by saying that they bore the children of the men that raped them?”

“I am saying that perhaps the Vestalin daughters didn’t want to come back, and that perhaps they were happy with their Fellian husbands until their father decided he didn’t like it. I’m saying the gods had nothing to do with it, and there’s no reason to feast.”

I scowl at him. It’s a story I’ve heard all my life, and one that reminds all of Lios just how important the Vestalin bloodline is. I love the Feast of the Good Father. Why is he making me doubt the story? “It’s not like we can celebrate anyhow. Our water is frozen, we can’t cook because we shouldn’t spare anything, and it’s not as if we have a good deal of pepper anyhow. Or apples.”

He blinks at me. “Pepper? Apples?”

Grinning, I flounce to the root cellar in a swirl of skirts. “You don’t know the tradition? Okay, so after the Vestalin brides returned, a second feast was held, a betrothal feast. The brides wanted stalwart husbands, so each one took an apple and studded it with peppercorns. Each suitor would take a peppercorn and pull it free from the apple with his teeth, and bite down on it. If he sneezed or spat it out, he was eliminated from consideration.” I pause. “But I guess you don’t know much about the Feast traditions, right?”

“Yes, I stopped listening after the slaughter of my ancestors,” he says dryly.

I make a face at him. “Well, anyhow, the tradition is that those at court flirt by studding apples with peppercorns and handing them to a man they’re interested in. If he’s interested back, he takes a peppercorn from the apple with his teeth. It’s truly a lot of fun.” I sigh, eyeing our dwindling supplies in the root cellar. “No apples left, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry to disappoint, princess. If it makes you feel better, we have more stew to eat.”

More stew. I bite back a sigh. While I am thrilled with every bite of it, simply to have good, warm food, sometimes the monotony bothers me. “Stew is a celebration all its own,” I say cheerfully. “Especially when you’re cooking.”

Nemeth smiles at me.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

We head back upstairs and have a meal of leftover stew. The day is miserably cold, so I huddle under the blankets and nap while Nemeth pulls out one of his books and reads by the fire. It’s a lazy day, but it’s too cold to do much. I think of my sister back at Castle Lios and wonder if she’s enjoying the holiday, or if she misses me. Is she eating sweetcakes and drinking mulled wine? Is Balon eating peppercorns out of the apples of other ladies? Do I even care since he’s abandoned me? I didn’t expect him to wait seven years for me, but now that he’s the one that showed up to visit, I’m annoyed that he’s wandered away.

Seven years is a long time to miss out on celebrations and parties. Seven years in my prime, too. When I get out, I will be thirty-one, and will flirting and dancing seem frivolous and silly? Will everyone be expecting me to settle down? My thoughts take a depressing slant and so I fluff my pillow and go back to sleep.

A hand gently shakes me awake a short time later. “Candra.”

Nemeth. I inhale, stretching…and pause, because I smell onions? I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What is it?”

He holds an onion out to me, the source of the smell. Studded into the surface with bits of wood serving as toothpicks? Peppercorns. He’s made me a feast apple, but since we have no apples, it’s a feast onion.

I giggle at the sight of it, feeling perilously close to crying with joy. “You made me an apple.”

“You were so sad at missing the holiday, I figured we could have one of our own without assigning it to a particular historical figure. Nothing says we cannot celebrate the end of winter, just the two of us.” His hard face is impassive, but his eyes gleam with amusement. “I will not celebrate that man, but I will celebrate at your side.”

I clutch the peppercorn-studded onion to my chest, utterly touched. “Thank you, Nemeth.”

“What would you like to do for your holiday? Since there is no one to flirt with but me, you cannot play your regular games.” His cloak sways, as if his wings are twitching nervously underneath.

“I can’t flirt with you?” I tease, hugging the onion as if it’s made of gold. I’m just so happy. “You wouldn’t eat a peppercorn for me?”

His wings move again, a sure sign that he’s nervous. It’s his way of blushing, I think. “If you want me to, I will.”

I beam at him and wink, holding out the onion. He takes it from my hand, his fingertips brushing over mine, and then he studies it as if trying to decide which peppercorn he’ll eat. Nemeth finally lifts the onion to his lips and plucks one of the peppercorns off it with his tongue, chewing.

“You did it,” I crow, delighted. I clap my hands. “Now the rules say we have to be lovers.”

He coughs, choking on the pepper in surprise, and I burst into a fit of laughter. Nemeth laughs, too, and the room feels full of happiness even if there’s no feast to celebrate. We don’t need one after all. We have each other for company, and full bellies. It’s enough for me.

Nemeth’s cloak practically shivers, and he sits down on the bed next to me, handing back the onion. “What else do you do on this holiday?”

I stroke the stupid onion with my fingers, knowing that we’re not going to eat it. Ever. I’m going to keep this onion forever just because it will remind me of this moment. Nemeth doesn’t realize how touched I am that he’s done this for me. Other than my sister, people tend to only do things for me because they have to, or because they want something from me. Nemeth just did it to make me smile. I touch the tiny splinters of wood, the peppercorns he somehow glued to the end of each one with a substance that looks like honey. It must have been a lot of fiddly work, and to think he did it all so quietly as I slept. “Some people give gifts, but it’s mostly parties and food for the feast. Oh, and party games.”