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It was that sense of urging, the knowledge that the Song didn’t like Numair—or, at the very least, didn’t like her near Numair—that made her swing her leg over Kialla’s back and drop to the ground. Children stepped back as she came forward, as if they knew she wasn’t approachable in the same way Numair was. That, or it was Kialla snorting like a dragon that had them wary.
Numair turned to her but didn’t get a word out before the door of the house nearest them opened. A sturdy woman stepped out, her black hair falling over her shoulder in a thick braid. A smile tugged at her lips when she saw Numair. Then her gaze landed on Clare and the smile disappeared, the warmth in her expression replaced with ice.
Her voice whipped out, authoritative but not unkind, and a collective groan went up from the children. She hadn’t spoken in Common, but it wasn’t hard to guess she’d said some version of, “Leave Numair alone so the adults can talk.”
Tomlin volunteered to take the horses to the stable, but Clare found herself unable to unclench her fingers from the reins. Kialla wasn’t looking any more enthusiastic about leaving than her mistress was about letting her go. Numair—free of clinging children now—stepped up to her.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. His hand hovered over hers, waiting for permission. When she didn’t shake her head, he gently peeled her fingers off the reins. A whispered word to Kialla, born on a spark of his magic, had the mare condescending to allow Tomlin to lead her off.
Numair gave her a rueful grin. “In retrospect, surprising you might not have been wise.”
“I’ll survive.” She attempted to say the words with optimism, but they came out tight and forced, a rigid vow of endurance.
He winced. “Give it a chance. If you hate it, we can leave tonight.”
“Where are we?”
“This is where my mother was born. She used to bring me here, before…” Before she’d died. Before he’d become what he was now.
She tightened her fingers on his, a brief squeeze. “I’ll be fine,” she said, managing to sound more like she meant it this time. “It was just…unexpected. The children. There are a lot of them and they are…enthusiastic.”
“I take it you aren’t that fond of children?”
Better he think that than the truth—that she had no idea what to do with any of them. That she had never been that innocent and didn’t know anyone who had. That she had hated being a child because it had meant being smaller and weaker than everyone around her, and she didn’t know how to look at children and not remember feeling that way.
But he was waiting for a response so she said, “I’m not not fond them.”
“It’s okay if you aren’t. It isn’t a test.”
The woman who’d ordered the children off cleared her throat loudly, and Numair let Clare’s hand drop. “Come on,” he said. “She doesn’t like waiting.”
She followed him to where the woman waited outside her home. Her face was still set as if in stone, and it didn’t relax any as they approached. She looked Clare over, dismissed her, and spoke to Numair in her native tongue. It was a long, berating speech, which Numair attempted and failed to interrupt twice.
Clare snapped. He might be willing to let this woman talk over him, but she wasn’t. He was talked over and ignored enough at court, and she was sick of it. She couldn’t do anything about it there, but here she didn’t have to let it stand.
“He isn’t yours to talk to that way.” Those…were not quite the words she’d intended to say.
The woman leveled a cool gaze on her and replied in Common. “And I suppose you think he’s yours, to intercede on his behalf?”
Clare crossed her arms and returned the look. “I think I haven’t seen you anywhere near the capital in the time I’ve been there. He puts up with enough from the infernal courtiers. I was under the impression he comes here because he finds it relaxing, though given this welcome, I can’t imagine why.”
The woman’s eyebrows crept up a fraction. “I’m assuming you didn’t understand a word I said to him?”
“I understood the tone.”
“Am I allowed any voice in this conversation?” Numair asked lightly.
“No,” they replied in tandem.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Consider yourselves welcome to find me whenever you’re finished sorting this out.”
They watched him go, and only once the promised sounds of kitchen rummaging reached them did the woman turn back to Clare with a sigh. “I…think I might have mistaken you for something you’re not.”
“Such as?”
“One of his court women.”
“I am not one of them.”
