Luella had seen Emarelia many times now. She’d grown to admire the other female, as well as Merath. It was a shame that their reason for coming to the Isles had been for naught.
Emarelia said Tharen was just as suited to help Luella, considering his mastery of the four elements.
She curled her hand into a fist and stared at it. What of her powers of Solis and Luna? She felt no call to the moon or sun. Not as she did the four elements… All she felt was the earth, wind, air, and sometimes, the smallest niggling of roaring fire, welling every day.
"Why?"
"Emarelia doesn’t agree with a ball," Vale sighed. "She has been able to stay at the Isles for so long by being quiet and keeping to herself, but she doesn’t have the stakes that we do. She can kill anyone who comes for her; Merath can take care of herself." Vale met Luella’s eyes. "You cannot."
The words stung so deeply, she rubbed at her chest.
Vale’s gaze dipped to the glittering bracelet on her wrist. His hand flexed by his side, as if he wanted to reach for her—instead, he sat, beginning to unfurl his parchments. A pot of ink and a quill rested near. He dipped the tip of the quill into the ink and began writing. The scratch of the quill’s tip on the parchment was hushed.
Luella perched on the edge of one of the lounges, a chasm between them. "What have you been studying so intently?" She stared at the flex of his hands as he wrote.
He glanced up at her. "Covert correspondence from Serpentis. The rebuilding of the castle has begun. I’m needed to write off on some ledgers to account for… losses."
Her eyes widened as she stared at the parchment. From this angle, she saw letters and numbers that made little sense to her, but knowing now what it was, she could only imagine the numbers—made up of the dead.
Because of her.
Harsh wind swept through the room. The curtains rattled on their hooks.
Vale tensed. "They are going to rebuild the throne room entirely, as well as the West wing." He tapped a finger on the paper, rings glinting as he turned it so she could see. His strong fingers traced over the words. "These rooms have been lost to water," he added, as if to settle her, "and these to flooding. Since they are starting anew in this wing, I thought we could make use of it and cut down these walls here"—his finger swept over a part of the paper—"for you."
She looked up from the paper, her eyes blurry. "For me?"
His words had been soothing, yet looking at him, she saw his taut shoulders. "A room fit for a queen."
Her eyes grew more blurry. Tears threatened to fall.
Luella rubbed a hand over the backs of her eyes and stood roughly. "Well, since you are making all of these plans without me, I’ll leave you be."
Feeling powerless, she left, her feet taking her to Az. She fell into her demon’s arms with watery eyes and a quivering chin.
51
AT THE SNAP OF HER LITTLE FINGERS
THAREN
Emarelia stopped Tharen outside on the stone ledge, just before she left.
She waved a hand to Merath, urging her on. "Go ahead, love. I’ll be down to the boat in a moment." Her attention fell to Tharen. "I need to speak with the Prima."
The way she said his title lanced against his flesh.
They’d stopped by to visit Luella. Tharen wondered if the two lovers enjoyed Luella’s company more than anything. They sure as fuck weren’t here to see him. The females had taken a particular liking to Luella, especially Emarelia. It was strange to see his predecessor show such feelings for another. When she’d met Luella the very first time, she had revealed that Luella was a mirror image of her true mother—Liana.
Tharen hadn’t realized how close Emarelia had been to the Queen of Luna, but watching her with Luella was like watching a mother with a daughter, almost.
Tharen couldn’t help but notice how Luella would always stare at Emarelia with wonder as the female let vines curl from her fingertips and air rustle through the room like a gentle storm.
His lamb had barely asked about her mother and father during their time here, but that wasn’t because Emarelia didn’t bring it up. She tried. But Luella didn’t let those conversations last long; she always left.
Merath narrowed her eyes, her long dark curls blowing in the breeze. It had kicked up after their visit—after Emarelia had mentioned Luella’s mother, and Luella had swiftly changed the subject.
"You sure you don’t want me to stay?" Merath purred, placing a hand on Emarelia’s shoulder as she curled around her. The Ignis fae was taller than Emarelia, and glimmers of fire sparkled in the air around her in warning.
