A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 25: Silent Admissions

Chapter 25: Silent Admissions

Galadriel narrowed her eyes at the sight of a familiar woven basket sitting discarded on one of the lowered tables in the sitting room belonging to the House of Wind. "Is that mine?"

Rhysand hummed so she asked again, pointing before it went out of sight as they wandered through the hall.

"My basket."

He followed her finger to what she was certain was the basket she brought over to his house weekly, always filled with new sweets that she had experimented with. "It appears to be," the High Lord said, urging her onwards with the nudge of his wing, hands tucked deep into his pockets.

"Why is it here?" Her gaze flickered across the expanse of the wide corridor he led her down, still amazed by the monstrous size of the mountain palace and the intricate detail in everything—from the bronze mantels to the window trimmings.

Rhysand sent her a brief smile. "I think Cassian stole it."

Her tone turned indignant. "I want it back."

Laughing, his wing nudged her again. "I'll ensure its safe delivery to your home, as always." As always indeed. Every week, just before she thought of baking some more, it appeared on her kitchen bench, the cloth inside clean and folded, scented with fresh mint or lemon or apples. Galadriel would thank him for the extra touch, but she had a feeling it was the wraiths' doing.

Before they reached the large dining room they were to meet the rest of his family in, she stopped in front of a garish silver mirror hanging from the wall. Frowning at her reflection, she twisted strands of her hair around her finger, attempting to tame them back against her head.

"What," Rhysand drawled with a lazed grin, "are you doing?"

She scowled at him over her shoulder. "You can't fly me anywhere without messing my hair up. I'm not a male—I don't just run my hands through or toss and flick. Well..." Smirking, she shifted her weight to one foot and looked him up and down. "Most males. The town house is practically a house of mirrors with how much preening you do."

Wrinkling his nose, he argued, "I don't preen."

Looking back at her reflection and finally satisfied with what she could accomplish in the minute he would spare for her, Galadriel gave a little humph and fell back into stride beside him. The broad oak doors with swirling whorls engraved into the wood came into view. The moment before they passed into the dining room, Galadriel placed her hand on the High Lord's chest.

He arched a brow down at it.

"You do preen," she told him, her tone clipped but proper. "Like a peacock in mating season." Not letting him respond, she pushed the door open and was embraced by the flood of warm light and conversation. He muttered something behind her about 'always having the last word.' At least he knew his place then.

It had taken some convincing on Cassian's part to let them drag her to their monthly dinner, but after spending every second morning on the rooftop, circulating training with them all bar Amren, dinner didn't seem such a gigantic leap.

"Finally," Mor called through a mouthful of what Galadriel assumed was a greasy chicken wing, the bone currently clutched between her slender fingers.

"Clearly you weren't going to wait anyway, Mor," Rhysand pointed out as he untucked Galadriel's chair before taking his own, wings disappearing into a void with nothing but a wisp of darkness in their place. "So you can't complain."

The bone, shredded of its white meat, fell with a clunk against her plate. Plum-painted lips pouted as she sucked her fingers clean of grease. "I'll complain if I want to."