A Brother's Price

married, like how to make sure your wives aren’t jealous of each other.”
    “How?” Cullen asked, his eyes bright with curiosity.
    “Well, you never tell any of them that they’re your favorite, even if they are. He said you should always try to act equally happy to be with any one of them, and to always stick to a service schedule, Eldest to youngest, without skipping anyone for any reason.”
    “Ugh. That doesn’t sound like fun. What if that night’s wife is sick?”
    “Wait a day and sleep alone,” Jerin said after a moment of recalling his father’s advice. “Father was a youngest child, and his elder sisters married a man who was obvious in which wives he liked the most. It caused all sorts of fighting between the sisters. One sister even left to join the Sisters of Hera.”
    “Sounds like Keifer, only Keifer kept changing his mind.”
    Jerin’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Ren’s dead husband. “What was he like?”
    “Keifer? Oh, I hated him. He used to lie to me and make me cry. I was only nine or ten at the time. He told me that my you-know-what would fall off because I ate too many cookies. Then one day he smacked me, I forget why—actually, I’m not sure there was even a reason why—but we didn’t come back to the palace again until after he was killed.”
    “Oh.” Jerin fiddled with a raspberry tart, saddened that Ren had had such a terrible marriage. At least she was out of it, able to marry someone better for her and Odelia and the others.
    Cullen chattered on. “I suppose, though, he wasn’t any older than we are now. You know, I don’t feel old enough to get married and father children.”
    “My father said you never feel old enough.”
    “Oh, rats.”
    The conversation drifted off onto other subjects. Neither one of them liked to sew, or had any interest in clothes. However, they shared a love of horses. Jerin made the mistake of complaining that his sister would let him ride only the older, gentler mares who rarely would do anything more than a easy canter.
    “They let you ride! Good gods, Jerin, I would kill to be able to ride! My family won’t let me near horses. I had some great-great-grandfart that got kicked in the head and died. Lylia will sneak me out to the stable, but even she won’t let me do more than pet them over the stable wall.”
    There was a bang at the door, followed by Eldest calling, “Jerin? Jerin? Come open the door!”
    Jerin jerked up in surprise, and then all the worry he felt earlier came flooding back, chased by guilt that he’d forgotten about his fears. He rushed the door, unbolted it, and flung it open without a thought about Cullen. His sisters stood waiting in the hall—Eldest and Corelle in strange ill-fitting clothes for some reason—safe and sound. With a cry of happiness, he hugged Eldest.
    “Where have you been?” he asked. “What happened to you?”
    “Nothing happened,” Eldest laughed, lifting him up in a bear hug and walking him back through the doors.
    “Then what happened to your clothes?”
    He had never seen Eldest blush before.
    “You’ve been pinched!” Summer grinned at Eldest, using the cant word for “discovered” or “apprehended.” Jerin wondered what he’d caught Eldest doing, and why it had been necessary for her and Corelle to change their clothes. Summer’s smile faded as she spotted the table set with four cups and a host of dirty plates. “Jerin, who did you have tea with?”
    Eldest came to attention, moving Jerin behind her as she put him down. “You’re not alone?”
    “Ummm.” Jerin peered over Eldest’s shoulder to discover the parlor was empty. “Cullen?”
    For a moment, he thought maybe Cullen had climbed back out the window. Then Cullen peeked around the doorway of Jerin’s bedroom. He had taken out the horse-blanket pin so his kilt fell to its proper length.
    “This is Cullen Moorland,” Jerin said.
    “My cousin Cullen, who shouldn’t be in guest quarters by himself,” a female voice behind Eldest clarified. The voice belonged to a girl in her mid-teens, with hair the color of a new copper coin and a rash of sun-darkened freckles. “And I’m Princess Lylia.” Lylia, the supplier of wine, cigars, and naughty pictures. She held out her hand to Eldest and they shook like equals. “I’m Cullen’s escort, when I can catch up with him. I was hoping to find him here.”
    “I’m a boy, not a baby.” Cullen pouted.
    Eldest ignored the comment. She introduced