Daughter of the Blood

started again.
    Daemon reached for the nut cake, but, without looking, Jaenelle took it. She was just about to bite into it when Cook put the mug of coffee on the table and gasped.
    "Now what's the Prince going to do for a breakfast, I ask you?" she demanded, but her eyes glowed with pride at the empty plates.
    Jaenelle looked at the nut cake, reluctantly put it back on the plate, and edged the plate toward Daemon.
    "It's all right," Daemon said mildly, looking directly at Cook. "I'm really not hungry."
    Cook opened her mouth in astonishment, closed it again with a click of her teeth, and went back to her worktable, shaking her head.
    He felt a warmth in his cheeks for telling so benign a white lie while those sapphire eyes studied him, so he concentrated on his coffee, avoiding her gaze.
    Jaenelle broke the nut cake in half, handing him one half in a gesture that was no less a command for being unspoken, and began to eat the other half.
    "You don't want to get yourself too stuffed during the day, you know," Cook said pleasantly as she puttered at her worktable. "We're having leg for dinner."
    Daemon looked up, startled, as the nut cake Jaenelle was holding dropped to the table. He had never seen anyone go so deathly pale. Her eyes, enormous unblinking pools, stared straight ahead. Her throat worked convulsively.
    Daemon pushed his chair back, ready to grab her and get her to the sink if she was going to be sick. "Don't you like lamb, Lady?" he asked softly.
    She slowly turned her head toward him. He wanted to scream as his insides twisted at the pain and horror in her eyes. She blinked, fought for control. "L-lamb?"
    Daemon gently closed one hand over hers. Her grip was painfully, surprisingly strong. Her eyes didn't waver from his, and he sensed that, with the physical link between them, he was completely vulnerable. There could be no dissembling, no white lies. "Lamb," he said reassuringly.
    Jaenelle released his hand and looked away, and Daemon breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
    Jaenelle turned to Wilhelmina. "Do you have time for a walk in the garden before you go to Graff?"
    Wilhelmina's eyes flicked toward Daemon. "Yes. I take a walk most mornings."
    Jaenelle was out of her chair, into her coat, and out the door before Wilhelmina got her chair pushed back.
    "I'll be along in a minute," Daemon said quietly.
    Wilhelmina slipped into her coat and hurried after her sister.
    Cook shook her head. "I don't understand it. Miss Jaenelle has always liked lamb."
    But you didn't say lamb, you said leg, Daemon thought as he shrugged into his topcoat. What other kind of leg would they serve in that hospital that would horrify a young girl so?
    "Here." Cook handed him another mug of coffee and three apples. "At least this will get you started. Put the apples in your pocket—and mind you keep one for yourself."
    Daemon slipped the apples into his pocket. "You're a darling," he said as he gave Cook a quick kiss on the cheek. He turned away to hide his smile and also so she could tell herself—and believe it—that he hadn't seen how flustered and pleased he'd made her.
    The girls were nowhere in sight. Unconcerned, he strolled along the garden paths, sipping his coffee. He knew where to find them.
    They were in the alcove, sitting on the iron bench.
    Wilhelmina was chattering as though the words couldn't tumble out fast enough and gesturing with an animation startlingly at odds with the quiet, sedate girl he was accustomed to. When he approached, the chattering stopped and two pairs of eyes studied him.
    Daemon polished two apples on his coat sleeve and solemnly gave one to each of them. Then he walked to the other end of the alcove. He couldn't make himself turn his back on them, couldn't give up looking at her altogether, but he settled his face into a bland expression and began to eat the apple. After a moment, the girls began to eat too.
    Two pairs of eyes. Wilhelmina's eyes held a look of uncertainty, caution, hesitation. But Jaenelle's . . . When he came into the alcove, those eyes had told him she'd already come to some decision about him. He found it unnerving that he didn't know what it was.
    And her voice. He was far enough away not to catch the quiet words, but the cadence of her voice was lovely, lilting, murmuring surf on a beach at sunset. He frowned, puzzled. Then, too, there was her accent. There was a common language among the Blood, even though the Old Tongue was almost forgotten, as well as a native