Chapter 344: Which One Of Them Are You Keeping?

"You’re one to talk."

"Ma."

"You’re all bones. They aren’t feeding you."

"Everyone says that."

"Everyone is right." Elara’s voice was thick. She drew back, and took Morgana’s face in both her thin hands, and looked at her. Her thumbs wiped the tears off her cheeks. Her eyes were red and swollen, and bright as grey-green glass. "Let me look at you."

"Ma...."

"Hush. I’m looking."

She looked for a long time.

She looked at every inch of Morgana’s face, her chin, her cheekbones, her brow. She looked at her hair, and her coat, and the faint dark circles under her eyes. Her mouth trembled. She tried to say something, and didn’t.

"You’ve grown," she said at last.

"I haven’t."

"You have. In the face." She traced Morgana’s cheek with one finger. "You’ve got a look about you. Something’s changed."

"I’ve been busy."

"I can see that." Her mouth twitched. "You’ve been kissed."

Morgana went scarlet.

"Ma!"

"Don’t Ma me. I know that look. I wore it myself, once." Elara’s eyes were wet, and fierce, and utterly delighted. "Oh, my girl. Oh, my darling. Are you happy?"

"I...."

"Never mind. Don’t tell me. I can see." She pulled her back in, and crushed her against her chest. "Oh, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much."

"I missed you."

"I told you not to come."

"I know."

"I’m glad you did."

She laughed, and it turned to a cough.

It came up out of her, harsh and dry and wracking, and her whole thin body bent with it. She turned her face into her sleeve. Her shoulders shook. Morgana felt it in her own ribs, felt each spasm rattle through her mother’s frame, and gripped her tighter, and felt her heart go cold.

It went on too long.

When it stopped, her mother’s hand was pressed against her mouth. A thread of red showed on the back of her knuckles. She wiped it away, quickly, on her apron, and straightened, and lifted her chin.

"It’s nothing," she said.

"Ma."

"It’s nothing. It does that. It’s a bad winter."

"It’s autumn."

"It’s a bad autumn." Elara met her eyes. Her face was drawn. "We’ll talk about it. Later. Inside."

Morgana swallowed.

She wanted to say something. She wanted to press her hand against her mother’s chest, and feel the thing that was wrong, and tear it out with her bare fingers. She wanted to scream. She wanted, with a ferocity that shook her, to put her arms around this small proud woman and never let go.

She did none of it.

"All right," she said. "Inside."

"Good girl."

Elara turned.

For the first time, she looked past her daughter. Her gaze moved over the dim front garden, the gate, the lane beyond. And it stopped, with a faint, deep stillness, on the two tall men in plain coats who stood at the gate, with the dusk behind them.

"Ah," she said.

Draeven bowed.

It was a courteous bow, neither too deep nor too shallow. His hood was back. His dark hair was combed. His golden eyes, in the thin light, were steady and warm and utterly grave. He looked like a man who had been preparing for this meeting for some time and was trying very hard to do it right.

"Madam," he said. "I am Draeven."

"I know who you are."

"I was afraid you might."

"I’m a weaver, not a fool." Elara folded her arms. She looked him up and down, slowly, with the cool, careful, unimpressed gaze of a woman assessing a bolt of cloth. "You’re the first king."

"Yes."

"The oldest."

"By eleven minutes."

"And that one?" She jerked her chin.

"Kaelen," said Kaelen, with a grin and a bow. "The youngest. And the best-looking."

"I didn’t ask."

"I thought it should be on the record."

"Hm." Elara’s eyes narrowed. She turned back to her daughter, and her face was perfectly, innocently grave. "Morgana."

"Yes, Ma?"

"Which one of them are you keeping?"

Draeven’s expression did not change by so much as a flicker.

Kaelen made a strangled sound.

"Ma," said Morgana, through her teeth.

"It’s a fair question. A girl brings home two men in the dead of night, I like to know where I am." Elara’s mouth was perfectly straight. "I’ve only got the one chair."

"I believe, madam," said Draeven, with great gravity, "that she is keeping both of us."

"Is she?"

"If she’ll have us."

"Hm." Elara’s eyes flicked from one face to the other. They lingered on Kaelen, who had gone suddenly very interested in his boots. "And the third?"

Silence.

"The third?" said Draeven carefully.

"Don’t be coy. I’ve heard the stories." Elara’s voice was dry as old straw. "There’s three of you. Three kings. Three dragons. And this one’s got a look about her that says she’s been collecting."

"Ma. Please."

"I’m only asking."

"He’s...." Morgana swallowed. She felt heat climb up the back of her neck. "He’s at the palace. He had to stay."

"Is he nice?"

"Yes."

"Does he feed you?"

"Ma."

"It’s the only thing that matters." Elara turned back to Draeven, with a kind of grim approval. "Well. You’re very tall."

"Thank you."

"You eat, I assume?"

"Frequently."

"Good." She jerked her head toward the door. "Come in. I’ve a stew on, and it won’t keep, and I won’t have it said that Elara of Ashford let a king starve on her step."

Behind her, Kaelen made a small choking sound that might have been a cough.

"And you," said Elara, turning on him.

"Me?"

"Take your boots off. I’ve just done the floor."

***

The cottage was exactly the same.

That was the strange thing. Everything in it was exactly as she’d left it, as if time had folded up and tucked itself under the eaves. The low-beamed ceiling, black with smoke. The wide stone hearth, with its iron crane and its blackened pot. The old table, scarred and scrubbed, with its two benches and its one three-legged stool. The loom in the corner, with a half-finished length of grey wool stretched across the frame. Herbs hung in bunches from the rafters, thyme and sage and lavender, drying in the warm dark.

The air smelled of stew. It smelled of woodsmoke, and wool, and thyme.

It smelled like home.