Twilight's Dawn

that would never be forgotten.
    “Luthvian didn’t like your brother, so you didn’t like her. Hell’s fire, Daemon. Sometimes you took my breath away when Luthvian tried to coax you into doing something with her. Just you and her. You were barely old enough to string words together in a complete sentence, and you were still so coldly and cuttingly polite there was no doubt how you felt about her.”
    Good.
    Saetan studied him. “Being Warlord Princes, the two of you are bound to feel territorial about anyone who matters to you, and subtle challenges and bristling are not unexpected when those territories overlap, especially when the individuals are still getting used to sharing. But for Tersa’s sake, I need to know if it’s more than that. So I want an answer to a question: Do you have a problem with Lucivar spending time with your mother?”
    “Our mother.” The moment Daemon said the words, something in him settled. Things that were the most precious, the most important, were shared cautiously, if at all. Their years of slavery had taught him and Lucivar that hard lesson. Sooner or later, Lucivar would have told him about visiting Tersa. Of that he was certain. “Tersa is our mother.”
    “Fine, then. We’ll all have coffee and nutcakes, and I’ll reassure Tersa that making these little Winsol surprises won’t get her boys into too much trouble.”
    “Wait.” Daemon held up a hand. “What did Lucivar ask her to make? Aren’t you going to tell me?”
    His father just looked at him—and laughed.

THREE

    A fter giving the door to the butler’s pantry a perfunctory knock, Daemon walked into the room and wasn’t sure who was more flustered—himself or Beale.
    Good manners dictated that he walk out of the room as if he’d seen nothing. Curiosity had him closing the door and asking, “Are the acoustics good in this room?”
    Beale lowered the flute and said, “It’s a private place to practice.”
    There was enough emphasis and bite to the word “private” to tell Daemon that if he’d been a boy instead of a grown man—regardless of being the High Lord’s son—he would have been booted out the door, and that boot would have had the strength of Beale’s leg behind it.
    “Beale . . .” Daemon looked around the pantry. Two rolltop desks, side by side, shelves of the best silver, the bottles of wine that were anticipated to be needed for the next few days.
    Hell’s fire, the Hall had at least one music room. Why was the man hiding out here to practice?
    “I suppose this is a practical place to practice whenever you have a few minutes between your duties,” Daemon said, feeling a sudden need to choose his words with care. In no way did he want to imply that Beale might be shirking his duties. “But surely you have some free time in the evenings, even with all the preparations needed because the Lady and I will have a more demanding social calendar than usual.”
    Beale gave him a measuring look. Daemon wasn’t sure against what standard he was being measured—and he was even less sure that he measured up to that standard.
    At last Beale said, “We do have free time, even with the increased activity at the Hall. The High Lord always insisted that everyone working here have some time for their own lives. Since there are so many who work at the Hall, and so many who reside here as well, we are our own community and have our own entertainments. Several people play musical instruments, so we have a musical evening each week and give a performance once a season. Those who enjoy reading have literary discussions. There are also weekly card games. Since the Hall allows several beginning positions to be used as a training ground for Blood who have chosen to work in domestic service, such activities provide the younger staff with opportunities to enjoy society without needing to go to the village. And because the rules at the Hall are so strict—and strictly kept—the penalties for mistakes while playing cards are not so great.”
    “Like a youngster gambling away all his wages,” Daemon said.
    “Exactly.”
    Feeling awkward, Daemon looked away. “I’ve owned the Hall for a year now. Should I have known about this?”
    Beale laid the flute in its case. “Taking care of the interests of the SaDiablo family is not a small task, Prince. Neither is taking care of Dhemlan. And you’ve also had the equally demanding—and more important—task of helping the Lady regain her health. I