Daughter of the Blood

growled.
    "If I were older, would you tell me?" Jaenelle persisted.
    There might be a way out of this yet. "Yes, if you were older."
    "How old?"
    "What?"
    "How old would I have to be?"
    "Nineteen," he said quickly, beginning to relax. Who knew what sort of questions she might have in seven years, but at least he wouldn't have to answer this one.
    "Nineteen?"
    Daemon's stomach fluttered. He walked a little faster. The pleased way she said that made him distinctly uncomfortable.
    "The Priest said he wouldn't tell me until I was twenty-five," Jaenelle said happily, "but you'll tell me six years sooner."
    Daemon skidded to a stop. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the happy, upturned face and clear sapphire eyes. "You asked the Priest?"
    Jaenelle looked a little uncomfortable, which made him feel a little better. "Well . . . yes."
    Daemon imagined Saetan trying to deal with the same question and fought the urge to laugh. He cleared his throat and tried to look stern. "Do you always ask me the same questions you ask him?"
    "It depends on whether or not I get an answer."
    Daemon clamped his teeth together in order to keep a wonderfully pithy response from escaping. "I see," he said in a strangled voice. He started walking again.
    Jaenelle skipped ahead to examine some leaves. "Sometimes I ask lots of people the same question."
    His head hurt. "What do you do if you don't get the same answer?"
    "Think about it."
    "Mother Night," he muttered.
    Jaenelle gathered some of the leaves and then frowned. "There are some questions I'm not allowed to ask again until I'm a hundred. I don't think that's fair, do you?"
    Yes!
    "I mean," she continued, "how am I supposed to learn anything if people won't tell me?"
    "There are some questions that shouldn't be asked until a person is mature enough to appreciate the answers."
    Jaenelle stuck her tongue out at him. He responded in kind.
    "Just because you're a little older than me doesn't mean you have to be so bossy," she complained.
    Daemon looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else was around. There wasn't, so that meant she was referring to him. When did he change from being an elder to being just a little older . . . and bossy?
    Impertinent chit. Maddening, impossible . . . how did the Priest stand it? How . . .
    Daemon put on his best smile, which was difficult since his teeth were still clenched. "Are you seeing the Priest today?"
    Jaenelle frowned at him, suspicious. "Yes."
    "Would you give him a message?"
    Her eyes narrowed. "All right," she said cautiously. "Come on, I've got some paper in my room." As Jaenelle waited outside his room, Daemon penned his question and sealed the envelope. She eyed it, shrugged, and slipped it into the pocket of her coat. They parted then, he to escort Alexandra on her morning visits, and she to her lessons.
    Saetan looked up from his book. "Aren't you supposed to be with Andulvar?" he asked as Jaenelle bounced into his public study. He and Andulvar had decided that, under the guise of studying Eyrien weapons, Andulvar would teach her physical self-defense while he concentrated on Craft weaponry.
    "Yes, but I wanted to give you this first." She handed him a plain white envelope. "Is Prothvar going to be helping with the lesson?"
    "I imagine so," Saetan replied, studying the envelope.
    Jaenelle wrinkled her nose. "Boys play rough, don't they?"
    He's pushing because he's afraid for you, witch-child. "Yes, I guess they do. Go on now."
    She gave him a choke-hold hug. "Will I see you after?"
    He kissed her cheek. "Just try to leave without seeing me."
    She grinned and bounced out of the room.
    Saetan turned the envelope over and over in his hands before finally, carefully, opening the flap. He took out the single sheet of paper, read it, read it again . . . and began to laugh.
    When she returned and had plundered her way through the sandwich and nut-cakes that were waiting for her, Saetan handed her the envelope, resealed with black wax. She stuffed it into her pocket, tactfully showing no curiosity about this exchange between himself and Daemon.
    After she left, he sat in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips, and wondered what his fine young Prince would do with his answer.
    Daemon was helping Alexandra into her cloak when Jaenelle popped into the hallway. He'd spent the day teetering between curiosity and apprehension, regretting his impulsiveness at sending that message. Now he and Alexandra were on their way to the theater, and it wasn't the right