Chapter 95 - Christmas Eve (Pt. 1)

Chapter Ninety-Five

Christmas Eve (Part 1)

that is

A Short Tale of Reminiscing, Toying with a Prince, Molly Mormons, a Sisters' Quarrel, Begging Pardon, Nymphs and Elves, and a Small Get-Together

.

.

Dylan and Nuada stayed at the store for over an hour, to give the children a chance to play with fae and human young ones their own (relative) age. To pass the time, Dylan tugged Nuada through the store, pointing out things displayed along the aisles that she'd played with as a little girl.

"That's Connect-Four," she said with a little laugh, pointing to a table-top board game in a blue cardboard box with a picture of a yellow plastic thing with holes in it on the lid of the box. "John could never beat me, but I could never beat Francesca. You have to get four of your checker pieces in a row to win while keeping your opponent from doing the same thing. We use to play that for hours, all eight of us taking turns. Pauline sucked at it, but she'd play with us, anyway."

Nuada hesitated, then asked gently, "Do you still play such games with your sisters?"

He regretted asking when a shadow passed across her eyes. She shook her head. "It's kind of lost its appeal since I got out of the institution. The girls…don't like to play anymore. Sometimes I play with my nephews, though." A smile curved her scarred lips. "Russell and David. They're both sweet boys. Russell loves dogs. And Ari, my niece, she's a good girl. We play cards sometimes. I'd love to spend more time with them, but Petra doesn't like me spending too much time with her kids. Pauline and Gardenia don't, either."

Somehow he managed to bite out from between clenched teeth, "Your sisters are…" He swallowed the profane insult before he risked offending her.

Dylan shrugged. "It's understandable. I spent eleven years in a mental institution. They probably overheard my parents talking about all the times I was put in Isolation for fighting or violent behavior. They know being there didn't 'cure' me, so they worry. I understand."

"I beg your pardon?" Nuada snarled too softly. "You understand?"

"Well, what if they were right? What if I was crazy, and they left me alone with the children and I hurt them? How could a parent forgive themselves if their child was injured because they left their child alone, in danger? Can you imagine how that would feel—that grief, that guilt, because you weren't there when your child needed you? And they've never understood…they don't See what I See. So yes, I understand that my sisters fear for their children with me."

He shook his head and gazed sightlessly at the game-boxes on the shelf. "I despise your family, mo crídh. All but your uncle—he risked all that could be asked of him to protect you. Surprisingly, I find myself with a great deal of respect for him." Nuada shook his head again. "Respect for a human…two humans," he added ruefully, glancing at her. "I never would have expected it. But your sisters are cruel to you, Dylan. Your sister Francesca no longer fills me with the urge to wring her neck, but your other sisters…they're vicious to you. You deserve better."

She huffed a humorless laugh. "You're sweet, the way you always jump to defend me."

"I am not sweet."

She gave him a true laugh this time. Cuddling against his arm, she said, "You are absolutely sweet. You're like a cake, remember? All hard and stiff on the outside like frosting, warm and squishy and sweet on the inside. I know we've talked about this before."

"Silence, insolence chit," he replied with grand hauteur. "Need I remind you that I am a prince? A legendary warrior?"

A smile, bright and sweet, flashed up at him. "You're very rugged and manly, Your Highness; you're right. But there's just one thing." She rose up on tiptoe to press her warm lips to his ear, and whispered, "You. Are. The. Sweetest. Guy. Ever."

Ignoring the flush of pleasure the words brought him, he fixed her with a mock-scowl and murmured, "I will pay you back for that, Lady Dylan."

Dylan's smile melted into something that might've been called sultry. Her eyes darkened to a beautiful and intense sapphire. "Oh, I look forward to it. We'll make it a date. The seventh of February. We can meet up at the sanctuary. Mmm, sometime in the evening works for me. How about you?"

Nuada swallowed hard as understanding—and the first shimmer of desire—washed over him. He was surprised that his fingers didn't tremble when he reached up and touched the satin curve of her cheek, tracing the scar he loved so dearly to touch. At the first caress of his fingertips, she arched a provocative brow. Little imp. She was torturing him on purpose, wasn't she? With this and her previous comment about wedding cake. His voice was surprisingly steady when he murmured, "We shall make it…a date, then. Payback for your mockery."

She did her best to suppress a grin. Mischief and love sparkled in her eyes. "You'll enjoy that, won't you? Even more than the wedding cake."

By the Fates…Somehow he managed to clear his throat. "I imagine I will."

She turned with a swirl of skirts and took a step down the aisle to the next board-game. "I'll just bet. And who knows?" She added airily. "Maybe I'll enjoy it, too. You never know."

He could take no more. His hand shot out like lightning and grasped her wrist, drawing her back against the shelter of his body. Throwing up a wall of glamour between themselves and the rest of the toy store, Nuada turned Dylan around and snaked an arm around her waist, leaning over her to touch his forehead to hers. His free hand came up to cup her cheek. He trailed his thumb across the fullness of her bottom lip.

"We're in public," she whispered.

One knife-thin brow quirked. "I've put up a glamour. No one can see or hear or feel us."

"Yeah, but—"

"Shhh." He took her mouth in a slow, languid kiss that left her weak-kneed and breathless. When he managed to drag himself away from the temptation of her lips long enough to speak, Nuada muttered, "You should know better than to toy with an Elven prince."

Dylan's lips quirked. "We are in a toy store."

"That's no excuse," Nuada replied, and kissed her again. Her fingers curled in the collar of his tunic. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest as she pressed her mouth harder against his and made a happy sound. "My betrothed is such a wanton creature," he murmured against her lips.

"Am not," she mumbled. "You're just deliriously attractive."

A quick brush of lips across hers. "Well, I am an Elven warrior, mo duinne. And a prince. Of course you would find me so."

"Shut up."

"You are the one talking." Another kiss, teasing and light. "It seems I'm not holding your attention very well. Perhaps I need to try harder."

"If you try any harder, I'll turn into a puddle," she mumbled. "Now stop that. You're making my life very difficult right now."

Nuada smirked. "Am I? Poor darling." He whispered his lips across hers, feather-light and torturous, then pulled back. His smirk widened when she made a small sound of disappointment. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

"I'll get you back for this, Your Highness," Dylan promised breathlessly. "I will. Count on it."

He grinned. "Oh, mo crídh, I am." His attention shifted to a point beyond her left shoulder. "The children are looking for us…and your sisters."

The smile fled from Dylan's face. "Sisters, plural?" She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder to see Francesca walking with Petra, Mary, Pauline, and Victoria. "Fantastic. Well, at least Gardenia's not here. I'm not in the mood for her sarcasm. Okay, okay, unglamour us. Well, unglamour me. Can you…stay glamoured?"

He arched a brow. "Is this not a good time to reveal my true form to them?"

"No. Petra and Pauline both have kids, and it's Christmas Eve. Today is the last day you want to give them anything to stress over. Especially if…" She trailed off, scanning the store. "I knew it. They've got their kids with them. Yeah, not a good time for an unveiling."

Inclining his head regally, the prince murmured, "As you wish, mo mhuire—my lady." A moment of concentration and a brief flick of power made Dylan completely visible to the store's inhabitants while simultaneously cloaking himself to make his appearance more human. Not ten seconds afterward, Francesca spotted the pair and began dragging Petra and Victoria toward them. Mary and Pauline followed at a more sedate pace.

Before the sisters could actually get close enough to engage Dylan, however, a pair of mortal women who looked to be in their mid-to-late forties suddenly appeared as if by magic, beaming benignly at Dylan and Nuada with glittering eyes that reminded the prince of voracious predators.

"Well, Sister Myers, what a pleasant surprise! Fancy seeing you here!" Cried the first woman, a plump brunette with green eyes in a cheerful yellow sweater and slim jeans. Around her neck hung the same medallion that Dylan always wore.

"Sister Finley and I were just saying we never see you at church anymore, and then there you are, large as life," said the second woman, a starkly slender blond woman wearing too much lipstick and a jogging suit.

Dylan looked like a terrified doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. "Sister Means," she said, a strained smile on her face. "Sister Finley. It's so nice to see you both. How is everyone in the ward?"

"Oh, well, you know Brother Phillips got in a car accident last week. Broken arm and twenty stitches, don't you know?" The blond woman, Sister Means, said with bloodthirsty relish. "And Sister Almsley's little girl was sent to the bishop's office for something. Of course no one's saying what, but you know how these young people are these days. Probably drugs or alcohol. You know her father's not a member, and what kind of influence is that for a child?"

"Well…I doubt it's that bad. Lori Almsley's a good kid. Oh, by the way, this is—"

Sister Finley broke in with, "And they've replaced you in the Primary, did you know that? Poor dear, we all know you tried so hard and put in so much work with those children. And to be replaced like that, without even giving you a new calling…tsk, tsk, tsk. We're so sorry, Sister Myers."

"It's not a problem," Dylan said in a voice that aimed for jovial and fell a bit short. "I'm moving, you see, so I'm not going to be in the ward anymore. That's why I haven't been at our ward lately—I've been out of town most Sundays and been attending the ward where I'm going to be living. You know, making new friends, getting acquainted with the bishopric. All that good stuff. See, I wanted to introduce you to—"

"Moving?" Sister Means asked with a false smile. "Why, where could you be going to, Sister Myers? Why on earth would you be moving?"

"I'm getting married," Dylan said proudly. "I'm moving to Ireland."

Thank the Fates, Nuada thought with some asperity, her words seemed to shut them up long enough for him to put an arm around his truelove and thus draw the mortal women's attention to him. Both older women focused on the strange man with his arm around Dylan's waist, then re-plastered those false smiles on their faces.

"Ireland?" Sister Finley replied. "Why, you don't say? What's waiting for you in Ireland?"

"My ancestral home," Nuada said coolly. He didn't like these women. He had no reason to loathe them as fiercely as he did his beloved's kinfolk, but there was something about the women who were obviously from Dylan's mortal church that rubbed the prince the wrong way. "Hello," he said anyway. "I am Nuada Áirgetlámh, Dylan's fiancé."

Sister Means offered her hand for him to shake. Swallowing revulsion, he did so, keeping the hand-clasp as brief as possible. He did the same with the plump Sister Finley. It took everything he had not to wipe his hand on his trousers when he was finished.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Brother Áirgetlámh. And which temple do you plan on getting married in?" Sister Finley asked Dylan. Nuada noticed something tighten in Dylan's gaze. "The one in New York?"

"Is there even a temple in Ireland?" Sister Means asked with an even brighter smile. "Oh, but how silly of me, I'm sure there is. Is it in Dublin or…" She trailed off, finally giving Dylan a chance to answer the question.

Nuada forced himself not to frown when Dylan didn't answer right away. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He noticed her hands trembled ever so slightly, and the toes of her boots bulged and then smoothed out a few times; he realized she was scrunching her toes in agitation. Finally she glanced at Nuada before fixing a smile on her face.

"We're not getting married in the temple. Nuada isn't a member of the Church."

This obviously took both women aback. Nuada wondered why. They gaped at Dylan as if she were speaking a foreign language before shooting him stunned looks. Then they seemed to recover themselves.

Sister Finley said, "Well, that's just lovely. Another soul has found the Gospel, it seems."

"Absolutely lovely," Sister Means added. "Have you set a date?"

"A date?" Dylan asked in a voice that was carefully neutral. "For what?" Nuada frowned. Surely they meant the wedding?

But apparently not.

"For your fiancé's baptism, of course, dear," Sister Finley replied with a bubbly laugh.

"I bet he's in a hurry," said Sister Means brightly.

Dylan glanced at him again; Nuada realized her look was one of apology. Suddenly he remembered what she'd told him about people in her Church giving her grief about being romantically involved with someone who was not also a follower of the High King of the World. Was this what she meant?

"Nuada isn't getting baptized," Dylan said with a smile. "He doesn't believe in our doctrine, though he has a great deal of respect for the Church and our values."

Sister Means' smile slipped, while Sister Finley's took on an edge. Sister Means asked, "So…he's not planning on becoming a member?"

"No," Nuada said in arctic tones. "I am not."

Sister Finley tried to appear kindly and compassionate when she said, "Oh, my dear Sister Myers. I understand. We understand, don't we, Louise? Poor dear. We all make mistakes, of course, and Heavenly Father forgives us. I'm sure He'll forgive this one, too. The Law of Chastity is important, as you know, but as long as you repent, the Celestial Kingdom is not beyond your reach—"

Dylan laughed, but Nuada didn't know why; he only knew that her laugh had held no humor whatsoever, and that according to these women, marrying him somehow broke the Law of Chastity that Dylan held in such high regard. But Dylan's next words clarified their meaning.

"I'm not pregnant, Sister Finley."

Another silence fell, finally broken by Sister Means. "You're not? Then…but then why…why would you…I mean…think of your children."

"I'm marrying Nuada because I love him," Dylan said firmly. "And he loves me. Now, it was lovely to see you both, but my sisters are waiting for me just there, and I need to speak with them. If you'll both excuse me."

"Of course," Sister Means mumbled, nodding as if dazed.

"Lovely to see you, dear," Sister Finley added as Sister Means began dragging her toward the store's front exit. "Congratulations on getting engaged."

Once the women were out of sight, Dylan turned to her prince and pressed her forehead against his bicep, hard, as if trying to melt into his body. She sighed. "I'm sorry. People in my ward don't normally come here. I mean, they do sometimes, but…well, actually, Sister Means and Sister Finley should be home trying to outdo each other with their Christmas lights. I didn't think they'd be here. I'm sorry, Nuada."

"That was what you meant, wasn't it? When we spoke of why you wished me to attend church with you a few days past? Those are the sorts of people you were speaking of." A low pulse of fury throbbed through him like a toothache when she nodded. "Do people at the castle treat you the same way?"

"It's a bit more subtle there," she admitted. "I'm your lady and everything, after all. They can't be rude out loud; they'd get in trouble. But yeah, basically. Not everyone. Just the Molly Mormons and Peter Priesthoods." He frowned and cocked a brow. She smiled. "I mean, the super-strict followers of the Church who take everything to extremes. The sorts of people who believe it's wrong to associate with non-members."

"I see." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I am glad you're not a…Molly Mormon."

She laughed. "So am I. I'd have way less fun. And I wouldn't get to do this hardly ever." Popping up on her toes, she pressed her mouth firmly to his, uncaring of the crowded store. Nuada drew a breath and held her to him for a few glorious moments while he lost himself in the sweetness of those petal-soft lips. Forget sour old mortal gossips.

"Well," he said when they parted, "then I am most glad you're not one of those."

"Me, too. You're not so bad at this kissing stuff, by the way."

As she'd no doubt intended, he smiled. "Was that a challenge, mo duinne?"

"Maybe. You can accept it later. Here comes the next wave," she added when her sisters began moving toward them again. "At least the kids are with them."

Nuada took a moment to appraise his lady's sisters once more as they approached. Petra and Pauline were nearly identical in features—same slender bones, same thin lips and steely blue-gray eyes; the only way to tell them apart was that Petra still sported the same thick, dark braid down to her waist and wore a charcoal business suit, whereas Pauline's hair was swept up against the back of her head with a plastic clip of eye-searing green and she wore jeans and a magenta sweater. Nuada remembered Dylan telling him that although Petra, Pauline, and Mary were triplets, only Petra and Pauline were identical.

Victoria and Francesca were also almost entirely identical, even down to hairstyle. The only reason Nuada could tell them apart was that Francesca had a small scar on her left cheekbone. And Nuada remembered Mary from the small birthday celebration at Dylan's cottage a few days prior. From the wary look in Mary Myers' eyes, she remembered Nuada, as well.

A'du and 'Sa'ti had also found their mistress and liege lord, and were currently hanging on Dylan like monkeys clinging to a tree, laughing, purring, and chattering at her excitedly about all they'd been doing while playing in the store. Someone—Nuada suspected Mr. Magorium—had glamoured the cubs to look like human children. It wasn't an issue for the other fae children all around the store, but Dylan's sisters might actually comment on the appearances of the two children in Dylan's service, and it was just easier to avoid the issue entirely if at all possible.

"Hey, you two!" Francesca cried, grinning. It took the prince a moment to realize she was speaking to the cubs, who darted from their mistress to their mistress's sister and treated her to the same clinging affection. "Having fun and acting crazy?"

"Yeah!" 'Sa'ti cried, nuzzling Francesca's hand.

"Uh-huh," A'du murmured, swinging her other hand back and forth. Nuada opened his mouth to reprimand the children, but then caught sight of Dylan's smile. Clearly she wanted the cubs to be on good terms with her family. Better this childish amicability than A'du's overt hostility toward John, the prince supposed. "What're you doing here?"

Francesca waggled her slender black brows. "Getting into trouble. I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good. Which is exactly what you guys should be up to. Beat it so I can talk some grownup-talk with your boss." Focusing on Nuada and Dylan as the children scuttled off, she added, "How's it going, Mr. Áirgetlámh? Dylan—hey, sweets, merry Christmas."

Surprised the mortal woman had remembered the false surname he'd given Dylan's family, and irritated that he had to be polite to these…people…Nuada inclined his head toward his lady's five sisters. "We are quite well; I appreciate your concern." Hers, at least. Francesca seemed to be the only one who could exhibit consideration for the youngest Myers woman.

"Quick intro—Petra, Mary, Tori, you've met Mr. Áirgetlámh, Dylan's fiancé. Mr. Áirgetlámh, you remember my big sisters Petra and Mary and my twin sister, Tori? Pauline!" Francesca turned to the woman in jeans. "Pauline, this is Mr. Nuada Áirgetlámh, Dylan's fiancé. This," jerking a thumb at Pauline, "is our second-oldest sister, Pauline. And those are her and Petra's 'wascally wabbits' over there."

Dylan laughed at this opaque remark and, leaning on Nuada in order to rise onto the tips of her toes, waved to a group of seven children playing with a spiral of Slinkies at a table. Nuada counted three boys and four girls, all of whom looked like they could be siblings. The two youngest, a pair of boys in spangled blue shirts with white A's stamped on the chest, waved back at Dylan.

"That's Russell and David," Dylan told her prince. "They're Petra's boys, I've told you about them. Then there's Ariana, their sister—she's the eldest of everyone. The other four are Pauline's. See the one in the chef's hat? That's Remy. The girl next to him who's tying up the two girls next to her with the Slinkies is Collette, Remy's twin sister. The two girls actually getting tied up are Maggie and Wendy."

"Are they tying each other up again?" Pauline demanded, standing on her tiptoes to peer over the short shelves at her children. "I don't know why they do that. It's a new phase they're going through, but I don't understand it at all."

"Children like having control," Dylan said, "but they know they don't really have any. It's one of the reasons they enjoy playing with their toys and don't like sharing. They want to be in charge of what happens to which toys when. Here, they want to be in charge of each other and make the other kids do what they say. One of the easiest ways to exert control over someone is to tie them up. They're virtually helpless and dependent on the person doing the tying. But at the same time, children don't want to be completely in control, because they know subconsciously they're not equipped to handle everything that might go wrong, so they're doing it in such a way that if this is something bad, they'll get caught."

Dylan's five sisters stared at her for a moment. Even Nuada found himself raising his eyebrows at his truelove. Children couldn't be that complex in their thinking…could they?

Victoria gave a low whistle. "I forget you're a psychiatrist sometimes."

"Me, too," Francesca mumbled.

Mary snorted. "Funny. You know so much about kids, but you don't have any of your own. Ow!" She cried when Francesca dug her elbow into Mary's stomach. "What? It's not like she's raised any kids of her own. Unless there's something you wanna share about why you're getting married so fast," Mary added, eyeing Nuada. Dylan flushed.

Nuada's voice came as cold as winter wind when he said, "I object to what you're insinuating. Never would I even dream of treating Dylan so disrespectfully." Seeing his beloved's discomfiture, he took the precaution of glamouring the group so that only John, Dylan's uncle, and the children could find them if need be.

The human shrew quirked an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Well, you're not marrying her for her face, that's for sure."

"Mary!" The other four women snapped, but Dylan said nothing. When Nuada glanced at her, he saw she'd gone pale. Shocked hurt glistened like unshed tears in her eyes. Petra grabbed her younger sister's arm hard enough that Mary hissed in protest. "Mary, do you have to do this every time? It's Christmas Eve, for pity's sake! We're in public!"

"I was just saying," the harpy-shrew protested. "Look at her, Petra. Seriously. Then look at him. Be realistic, now."

Seething, knowing that if he slapped the mortal as he so desperately desired to his father would punish him and Dylan would become upset, Nuada growled, "I can assure you, madam, I much prefer my lady's face over yours. Where I come from, men are often cautioned about choosing beauty over substance. It is my good fortune that my lady was blessed with both. Also where I come from, women are cautioned against jealousy. I suggest you heed such words."

Dylan laid a hand on his arm and pressed her forehead against his bicep. "Nuada," she said softly. "Don't worry about it. It's okay."

"No," he said coldly, never looking away from Dylan's supposed kin. "It is not. It is not, as you say, 'okay,' and it never will be."

Mary sputtered soundlessly for several seconds before demanding incredulously, "You actually think I'm jealous of Dylan?"

Francesca and Victoria were eyeing each other; Nuada had the strange idea that they were silently debating dragging their older sister out of the store using bodily force, but hadn't been pushed far enough to actually attempt it yet. Pauline was rubbing the bridge of her nose as if to ward off a headache and shooting irritated looks at Dylan, of all people. Nearly white with anger, Petra hissed, "Mary, so help me, if you don't shut up right now—"

"Why would I be jealous of Dylan?" Mary demanded.

Nuada allowed a coldly amused smile to curve his lips. Dylan pressed his arm, a silent entreaty for him to keep silent, but he ignored it. Voice icy, he said, "Because she is everything you are not, everything you never could and never will be. She is kind, gentle, compassionate. She is intelligent as well as wise. And though you are too blind to see it—or too foolish to acknowledge it—she is more beautiful than you will ever be, both in body and soul. Why would you be jealous of her, you ask? I ask you—why wouldn't you be?"

His words left Mary gawping without a sound while Petra regarded him with an expression as if she'd never seen him before. Victoria and Francesca listened with smug looks on their faces, and when he finished speaking, mouthed the word "ouch" at each other and wiggled their fingertips against each other's in a gesture the prince had seen humans make before.

Pauline, on the other hand, said coolly to her sister, "Dylan, why is it that we always have fights whenever we visit or run into you? Why does this only happen when we're with you?"

"Because you're haters," A'du'la'di said, making the women jump. Silent as a cat, none of them had noticed his approach. Now he glared at Mary while half-hiding behind a tall bin of stuffed animals.

"A'du'la'di Ewah," Dylan said sharply.

The boy flinched, then shot his mistress a mutinous look before crying defiantly, "That's what John said! Erm…Master John. He said they were haters!" His expression grew a touch less annoyed when he added, "Except Mistress Francesca. But that's what he said! I don't know what that means, but it's bad, and he said it's why they're so mean to you!"

"Okay," Pauline snapped. "Who is that?"

Dylan ran her hands through her hair and replied, "My servant boy. Who is embarrassing me," she added sharply. A'du ducked his head. "And who is going to go over there and play with his sister now." Seeing his mistress wasn't fooling around, the cub bowed and scampered off again. Glaring at Nuada, Dylan demanded, "Are you smiling?"

Nuada offered her a bland look. "Smiling? I? Because the boy had the gumption to say exactly what these shrews needed to hear? Would I do that?" Judging by his truelove's expression, that hadn't been the proper response. The Elf couldn't find it in himself to regret his reply, though.

"Did he just call us shrews?" Pauline demanded.

To the prince's surprise, Francesca shrugged. "Hey, if the shoe fits." Then she frowned and glanced at Nuada. "You weren't talking about me, right? Because I'm trying to fix the shrew thing." Seeing her sisters' expressions, Francesca added to them, "Look, I don't wanna get all into this right here, right now—and considering Dylan looks like she's about to have kittens, she probably doesn't, either—so all I'm gonna say is, I've found out some stuff in the last week that made me feel more than a little horrible about the way we treat Dylan. It needs to stop."

"What do you mean, the way we treat her?" Pauline asked. "We love Dylan." Focusing on her youngest sister, she added, "What's she talking about? We love you."

Nuada scowled. "Clearly," he said, voice practically dripping with sarcasm. "It's so obvious, even a blind man could see it. Why, I am nearly overwhelmed by the outpouring of familial affection amongst you all." Why did Francesca keep smiling like that, he wondered?

"You can't marry this guy," Pauline said, ignoring Nuada and fixating on her sister. "He's a jerk. Seriously, you can't marry him."

"And what will you do if she does?" Nuada asked softly. "Cut her off? Carve her out of your hearts like a cancer and forsake her completely? Perhaps she would be better off."

"Okay, everyone needs to stop now," Dylan said in a voice that cut through the tension like the sharp edge of Nuada's dirk. "We are not having this conversation in public. We're not having this conversation at all."

Francesca shrugged. "It's gotta happen sometime, hon."

Dylan gave her an exasperated look. "Shush, you. You've caused enough trouble today, Tasering people on Christmas Eve." Tori shot her twin a wide-eyed look.

"Yeah; I ought to be ashamed of myself." Francesca grinned. Nuada felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Even he had to admit that Dylan's kinswoman exacting that small vengeance against the assassin had been satisfying to watch. "Anyway, for the record, I like Nuada. He's a good guy."

Mary had finally recovered from Nuada's verbal assault enough to make a retort. "He hates us." Pointing an accusing finger at the prince, she added, "Don't even bother to deny it."

Nuada fixed her with a frosty look. "Why would I?"

"You don't hate me," Francesca interjected, smiling brightly. Nuada said nothing. Francesca merely rolled her eyes and shook her head, still smiling. "We're working on it, anyway." To her sisters she said, "Look, he's stupid in love with her. Okay? And we aren't exactly Sisters of the Year or anything. Besides, it's not like he hates all of us. He likes John and Uncle Thaddeus."

"So…he likes the people who encourage Dylan's delusions," Pauline said coolly.

The other women froze, wide-eyed. Beside Nuada, Dylan went utterly still. She hardly even seemed to breathe. The prince was reminded of a rabbit, uncertain whether to hide or flee.

"Don't act all surprised," Pauline added. "Don't act like we don't know she still has them. Why would you encourage something like that?" She asked Nuada reproachfully. "What is wrong with you? Dylan is sick; don't you see that? She doesn't need you screwing her up even worse—"

Pauline didn't get a chance to finish. Just as Nuada started forward, murder on his mind and a crimson haze of fury beginning to descend across his vision, a strangled sound escaped Dylan and she took off like a shot, dashing across the store and out into the frosty winter air. Momentarily torn between following her and ripping Pauline Myers to shreds, Nuada closed his eyes and forced down his fury and detestation. Bronze eyes snapping open, the prince slapped the mortal in question with such a look of vicious loathing that it had her stumbling backwards, white as milk. His hand itched to strike her for true…but a real man didn't hit a woman in anger. Even one of the harpy-shrews. Instead, hot copper eyes fixed on Francesca.

"Tell your brother and your uncle what has happened, and fetch A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti. We will be outside near the doors." Then the prince followed after his lady.

He found her outside, leaning against the beige concrete front of the building next door. Head bent, arms folded defensively across her stomach, shoulders slumped, she shuddered continually as Nuada approached. Only when he drew close could he tell Dylan was crying.

"Uimh," he murmured gently, lifting her chin. No, he said in tender Gaelic. Her mouth quivered as crystalline tears slid down her cheeks. Nuada brushed them away with his thumbs. "Uimh, a thaisce, mo shearc, a ghrá geal." No, my treasure, my darling, my bright love. "Uimh, uimh. Ná caoin—don't cry." Drawing her against him, ignoring the repulsive humans shambling past on the sidewalk, he pressed her head to his chest and murmured in her ear, "Ná caoin, a ghrá.Tá sé ceart go leor; it's all right. Forget them. Their words mean nothing."

"I'm not sick," she mumbled against his shirt. "I'm not sick and I'm not crazy." Her voice broke when she added, "I'm not."

Nuada settled his chin atop her head. "No, you're not. I know that and you know that. Forget those who don't. They don't matter. They're nothing."

"They're my family."

He held her more tightly. "Perhaps," he said, though he wanted to deny any such connection. They didn't deserve her. "But so are John and your aunt and uncle. So is Francesca, who knows now how very wrong she has been all this time." Pulling back just a little, he tilted her chin up to look into her wet eyes. "And am I not your family, mo duinne? For you are mine, and I love you so very much. Ná caoin—don't cry; you are tearing out my heart with your tears."

Dylan swiped at the tears chilling her skin with the back of her hand, offering him a tremulous smile. "Don't worry about me. I'm just a bit stressed out, that's all. Same with the girls. They didn't mean any of that, but Christmas is stressful—especially for Petra and Pauline, because of the kids, you know?" Nuada opened his mouth to protest, but Dylan touched her fingers to his lips. "I know what you're going to say: not to make excuses for them. But I know things wouldn't have escalated like that if it wasn't for all the stress we're all feeling. Okay? Please don't be angry with them, Nuada."

It was like chewing glass to hold back the vicious invectives blistering his throat. Angry wasn't the word for how he felt toward Dylan's sisters—especially Pauline and Mary. How dare they insult her that way? No, he needed something stronger than mere "anger" to describe the roiling mass of emotions churning in his gut. But he would not lash out at Dylan in his anger, as her sisters seemed to do so often.

Instead, he offered Dylan a gentle smile and pretended to nibble on the fingertips laid against his mouth. A giggle rewarded him. He brushed a kiss across her knuckles, and her eyes went misty. "I love you," he whispered against her fingers. "Never forget it."

"Never," she promised softly. "You're all I need, Nuada."

"Shall we go home, then?" The prince asked. "After we bid your uncle and Master Magorium farewell?" She started to nod when an adolescent wail of despair snagged their attention.

"A'ge'lv!" The adults broke apart as A'du and 'Sa'ti raced over to them, followed at a more sedate pace by John and Francesca. A'du'la'di rushed to his mistress and threw his arms around her, pressing his face into her stomach. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do anything wrong, I'm sorry! I won't ever say anything like that again, I promise!" He glanced up, and bright gray eyes widened. "You're crying! Don't cry! I'm sorry, don't cry!"

Dylan sniffled and wiped at her cheeks again. "Not because of you, honey. But you shouldn't have said what you did to my sisters. That was very rude."

John nudged the cub's shoulder. A'du stared at the cement under his feet. "Master John made me apologize."

Poor child, Nuada thought with a twinge of sympathy. Being humiliated by apologizing to those harpies? The boy's pride had to be hurting.

"That's exactly what he should've done," Dylan said firmly, with a quick nod to her twin. "You interrupted a conversation that didn't include you, you were rude to people you didn't know, and you repeated things said by someone that shouldn't have been repeated. But," she added, "now you've apologized and promised not to do it again. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome," the boy said in a small voice. "Am I in trouble?"

Dylan sighed and glanced at Nuada. The prince gave his own sigh, then abandoned his dignity enough to lay a comforting hand on the boy's head.

"My lady," the prince said. He forced his features into a beseeching expression. "Surely the lad has learned his lesson and will speak more carefully from now on. Won't you, A'du'la'di?" The cub nodded so quickly, Nuada was surprised the child's eyes didn't rattle around in his head. Lowering his voice and feigning the utmost gravity, the prince said, "Lady Dylan, as prince of Bethmoora and this boy's liege, I beg you to grant my vassal clemency in this matter." Catching her eye and gazing at her soulfully, Nuada said softly, "I would be willing to pay any price you might ask for his pardon."

Dylan turned away to hide her smile. Any price? That was quite a promise, coming from Nuada—but then, he knew exactly what he was doing. If she'd been Francesca, the mortal psychiatrist knew exactly how she'd get him to pay up. But since she had higher moral standards than that, she decided on a different form of compensation—one that involved music, dancing, lemon custard, and mistletoe after the children had gone to bed.

"Very well, Your Highness," Dylan replied gravely. "I accept your offer and grant your vassal clemency. The price shall be agreed on later this evening."

Nuada canted his head. "As you wish, my lady."

"Oh, Your Highness," A'du murmured, looking aghast at his hero. "You said 'anything!' You shouldn't've done that. She's gonna get you."

The Elven warrior made sure the boy wasn't looking before he allowed himself a smile. Yes, Dylan was most certainly going to "get him." In fact, he was looking forward to it.

"Come on," Francesca said, propping her hands behind her head. "Let's say goodbye and get outta here. Tori's dealing with World War Three in there, so we gotta make it quick. Hey, John and I are invited to Christmas whatever at your guys' place, right? At the palace?"

Dylan and Nuada exchanged glances. Were they? Nuada briefly thought of dignity, royal image, his pride, and similar things. They were important, were they not? Vital. Yet he forswore them all in order to shoot Dylan a look that silently begged her to give Francesca an unequivocal no.

"Um," Dylan began, and Francesca beamed as if Christmas had come a day early.

"Awesome! I'll have to borrow a dress, though."

Horror stole as coldly and smoothly as a serpent down Nuada's backbone.

.

Things were starting to look up, Dylan decided. It had gotten a bit tense at the store with her sisters, but now that she and her entourage were back in Findias and supper was less than an hour away, things were looking up. Nuada had sent to Themba for a dress for Francesca and clothes for John—after Dylan had soothed some ruffled feathers with compliments and kisses—and now the mortal sisters sat in front of Dylan's bathroom counter putting on makeup.

"Now, you'll be polite to the king?" Dylan asked for the umpteenth time as she allowed Francesca to carefully line her eyes with vivid black makeup. "Thanks for doing my eyes for me, by the way, Cesca."

"No problem, I always do Tori's, too. And yes, I'll be polite to the king. I won't embarrass you, sweetie pie, I promise. Well…I might tell some embarrassing stories about you when you were little. That would be kinda fun. Does he know about the time you told Dad that God didn't love him anymore because he spanked you?"

Heat spread through Dylan's cheeks even as she laughed. "Oh, my gosh, I had the weirdest ideas when I was a kid. No, that little anecdote of my childhood hasn't popped up in conversation yet. I give you permission to tell that one if it's relevant, though."

"Ha, awesome. I won't spill anything too heinous, though. So I have a question about your prince. Hang on, close your eyes." Dylan obeyed. Francesca leaned in and carefully blew on her sister's eyelids to dry the liner more quickly. "There. Okay, can you help with my mascara? I need someone to hold the card for me. Thanks. So my question is, how much does he know about what happened in the institution?"

Propping her elbow on the counter, the mortal psychiatrist held a piece of cream-colored cardstock against her sister's eyelid to prevent smudging while she applied the black mascara. Focusing on that allowed her to keep her voice steady as she said, "More than you guys do. He knows everything."

Francesca's hand didn't shake as she swiped mascara along her lashes. "You told him everything? And he reacted okay?" The waitress saw her sister nod. "Were you okay after telling him?"

"No," Dylan murmured, "but he helped me become okay. Thanks for standing up for him to the girls today."

Her sister sighed. "I should've stood up for you."

"But you did."

"Before now," Francesca muttered. "I don't know how you can just forgive me like this. And I'm sorry about what Pauline said about you being…you know."

"It doesn't matter."

Francesca shot her a look. "Tell that to His Royal I'll-Kill-Anyone-Who-Makes-My-Girlfriend-So-Much-A s-Sniffle out there. Don't tell me you weren't crying. He was about ready to deck Pauline." Silence descended while the two women finished up their makeup, then Francesca added, "Why do you always say that? 'It doesn't matter.' You know it bothers you."

She shrugged. "I should be used to it by now. I don't have a reason to get so upset. It's not like I don't understand. And what Pauline was saying…she meant well. She was worried Nuada was taking advantage of me. You know, since I've got so-called 'problems.'"

"Is that a Mormon thing? You being all understanding?"

Dylan smiled. "No. That's a Dylan thing. I do understand where she's coming from; I'm a psychiatrist. So that makes it…easier."

"But not easy."

Another shrug. "Life's not easy. I'm pretty lucky as it is; what more can I ask for? I have a great twin brother, an awesome big sister who knows I'm not nuts, and a man I love more than I ever thought possible. I'm good."

Francesca shook her head. "I wish I was that easy to please. I wouldn't be happy unless I had a million dollars and a reverse-harem."

The younger woman gave her sister a perfectly-tailored WTF? look. "A what?"

"A reverse-harem. You know, instead of a harem of girls, it's a harem of guys? I want one of those."

"I thought you had a boyfriend."

"I love Davio. I adore him and all of his scaly muscles. He's got delicious biceps. For my reverse-harem, I'd just clone him. Then I'm still being monogamous," Francesca explained in a voice that sounded as if she were imparting the secret of life.

"No you're not!" Dylan cried, exasperated. "What do you need a harem for, anyway?"

Francesca shrugged. "What if I only had one Davio, and he had a long day at work? What would I do then?"

"Take a nap?" The younger woman suggested dryly.

"It might surprise you to learn that there are so many more interesting things to do in this world besides take a nap when you have a hunk-tastic significant other. You'll figure it out when you get married."

Dylan gave her a look that spoke volumes. "That…is…I don't have words for this."

The older woman sniffed haughtily. "Well, what about you? What are you gonna do after you get married if it turns out Nuada can't keep up with you? Hmmm? As repressed as you are, once you realize sex can actually be fun, you're gonna turn into a nympho."

Dylan arched a brow. "A nympho."

"Yep. Raging. I've seen it a million times. What will you do with Nuada then?"

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Dylan replied flatly.

"Yeah, but how do you know?"

"Elves have a great deal of stamina." A deep voice from the doorway had them both jerking around on their vanity stools to see Nuada with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. Dylan's cheeks flushed hot. Francesca's eyes widened. "Endurance is a key trait in any fae warrior."

Dylan's mouth went dry and her face flamed with embarrassment. She half-covered her burning countenance with her hands. Embarrassment warped into humiliation when Francesca, with the shining eyes of the nosiest older sister, demanded, "In a contest of endurance between you and a nymph, who would win?"

Nuada's gaze landed on Dylan. She peeked at him between her fingers and saw his indulgent smile turn lazy and smug, edged with just a hint of masculine pride.

"I would, of course. My lady, if you would attend me for a moment."

Somehow Dylan got to her feet. On her way out of the bathroom, she turned on her sister and mouthed, "I will kill you." Francesca just gave her a jaunty wave before going back to admiring herself in the mirror.

Nuada snagged Dylan, pulling her into his arms the moment she followed him into his bedroom. She squeaked, surprised, but the squeak was cut off by Nuada pressing his mouth against hers with barely-restrained fervor. Giving herself up to the kiss, she twined her arms around his neck. He was warm and strong and solid, the perfect antidote for the cold that had seeped into her since her run-in with her sisters at the toy store. He tunneled his fingers in her hair, something she loved, and kissed her as if he were starving for her.

But when he pulled back, Dylan burst out laughing. Nuada scowled.

"What is so funny?"

"You," she giggled, "you have—my lipstick—all over your mouth!" Startled, the prince swiped a finger across his lips and glowered at the smear of color on the pad of his finger. Still laughing, Dylan plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Here," she murmured. "Let me." With expert care she cleaned the wine-red color from Nuada's lips. "There. How's mine look?"

Glower fading, Nuada skimmed his knuckles over the curve of her cheek. "You are absolutely lovely. You're so beautiful, it makes my heart ache. And tonight, thank the Fates, I don't have to share you with anyone except your brother and sister, my father, and my sister. And Naya."

"Oh?" Uneasy at Ledi Polunochnaya being at such a seemingly-exclusive gathering, still Dylan was excited about not having to monitor Francesca and John at a court banquet. "Why did the plans change?"

Now a frown passed across Nuada's face. "My father, he's…feeling unwell tonight, but he wants to spend time with my sister and I, and to become acquainted with you and your family. He claims a small gathering in a private room suits him better. Naya will be there because she has no family, unlike that vulture."

A sudden thought sent a thrill of fear spiking through her like ice. "Bres won't be there, will he?"

"No," Nuada replied. "I told my father that expecting Bres to put up with three humans was asking too much of him." The prince sighed. "I'll have to speak to him about Nuala's engagement soon."

"Tomorrow?" Dylan asked plaintively. "Or even tonight?"

After a moment, Nuada nodded. "I will see if he will speak with me about it tonight." He hesitated before adding, "Dylan…you know he may not heed my words." Seeing the fear in her eyes, he said, "But I swear to you, I will speak to him. I'll not let Bres harm you."

"I just…I have the worst feeling about him," she whispered, pressing close to the Tuathan prince. "I don't know what it is. I've never felt anyone so…so evil. He hates me."

"It doesn't matter what he thinks," Nuada said firmly, kissing her hair. "I love you. Do you understand? I love you, and nothing and no one is ever going to take you from me."

Feeling inexplicably better, Dylan smiled. "Same goes for me. No one's gonna take you away from me, either. Okay, lemme get a good look at you. I wanna make sure we match."

And they did: Nuada's burgundy tunic and trousers went well with Dylan's wine-red kirtle, and his hunter-green shirt matched Dylan's under-dress. Little gold accents and Dylan's gold medallion and earrings completed the ensemble.

"We look pretty Christmasy, I think," Dylan said with a bright smile. "Let's go terrorize your dad like a couple of little kids who've drunk too much coffee."

.

Dinner was simple—compared to the standard banquets served at Findias, at any rate. Ham, roast duck and boiled baby potatoes, winter cabbage and bacon soup, lemon custard at the behest of the royal twins, and sugared bannocks opened up John and Francesca's eyes to the standards of a royal table. Elven wine was served, which of course Dylan politely declined in favor of spiced hot cider. To her surprise and pleasure, Nuada chose the cider as well.

I presumed, the prince murmured silently as he sipped the deliciously hot cider, that as you were not allowed to drink alcohol, you weren't allowed to imbibe it secondhand by catching wine droplets from my lips when I kiss you, either.

Thank you, she said. Then, smiling impishly, she added, So that means you expect me to imbibe cider secondhand from your lips, then?

Nuada's voice was a soft, black-velvet purr when he asked, Does my lady object to the taste of cider when I take the liberty of kissing her? I should like to think she has other things on her mind when I surrender my mouth to her. Am I wrong, mo crídh? Nuada leaned in and touched his lips to her temple, a subtle and seemingly-chaste kiss that made the hair on the back of Dylan's nape prickle. When my fingertips whisper over your skin, when I lean into you and I cover your mouth with mine, when I taste you, those teasing kisses that leave us both so hungry, are you truly thinking of a partiality to cider…or are you thinking of me?

Dylan swallowed hard. Even her mental voice squeaked when she replied, You. It took everything she had not to fan herself and pant for breath as color crept into her face.

He smiled against her temple. I thought so. Remember, my love, I possess considerable skill…and I shan't allow you to forget it.

"Are you two okay?" Francesca asked, frowning in bewilderment at her sister and future brother-in-law. Nuada looked like a cat that'd just lapped up a bowl full of cream, while Dylan was bright pink in the face and her eyes were sparkling. What was going on with them?

"Oh, we are both well enough," Nuada said politely. Smiling at Dylan, he added, "You are quite well, I trust, my love?"

His mortal lady cleared her throat. "I'm fine. Thank you."

As the night went on, it turned out that Francesca and Nuala got along terrifyingly well. Both enjoyed needling their engaged siblings. John seemed to enjoy talking to Polunochnaya, who paid more attention to him than to Nuada—to Dylan's relief.

For Dylan, the most fun was watching Nuala and Balor's reactions when Dylan presented them with her Christmas gifts. Even Nuada didn't know what they were; he hadn't even known she'd planned on giving his father and sister anything. He was just as avid an observer as Dylan during the unwrapping.

"Oh," Nuala gasped when she'd unwrapped the blue and gold paper from the carefully-packaged present. "Oh…oh, but how did you…? When did you…? When did he…?" Eyes glimmering with unshed tears, she looked at her twin's betrothed. "Oh, Dylan."

Balor simply stared at his gift.

Dylan had gone to a telepathic friend of hers, a sketch artist who worked for the police department, and convinced her to paint two different portraits of Nuada from Dylan's memories—portraits of him happy, smiling. Something the king and princess rarely got to see.

Nuala's portrait had captured all of her brother's brash arrogance and strength, as well as that kindness and compassion that Dylan always saw…and Nuala never seemed to glimpse. As for the king's painting, Dylan had focused on a memory of her prince from their time in the royal forest. Did Balor see the little-boy mischief in his son's eyes? Did that impish quirk to Nuada's smile remind the old king of his son in younger days?

Dylan hoped so. The mortal couldn't tell at first if Balor liked it until a beatific smile spread across Nuala's face while she gazed at her father. The king looked up at Dylan with a soft look in his eyes and murmured, "Thank you…Daughter."

Nuada squeezed Dylan's hand. Well done, mo crídh. Well done. Your gifts are very clever and well-chosen. Do I really smile like that?

You do. All the time. For me, anyway. She smiled back at her prince. And if you like these, you'll love my gifts for tomorrow.

Oh? I look forward to opening them in the morning.

Things got even more interesting when Nuala asked John and Francesca for stories about Dylan's childhood.

"What was she like as a little girl?" The princess asked Francesca, who laughed. "Is she much changed?"

"Oh, yes," Naya said, urging Francesca on. "Tell us about her."

Francesca glanced at the king, who watched the proceedings with tired interest from his chair. The mortal grinned at her younger sister. "Well, she's always been very opinionated. Always tried to do for herself, didn't believe in crying or whining or anything like that."

"Like that time she hit me in the face with a baseball," John muttered. Dylan nearly snorted into her cup of cider. John mock-scowled. "Don't you even laugh. That hurt. You hit me right in the forehead."

Dylan rolled her eyes. "You were wearing a helmet."

"Still made my ears ring."

"Made you cry," Francesca reminded him, grinning. John grimaced. "Oh, my gosh, Dylan was hilarious. All of us older kids were freaking out because John, who was second-littlest, had gotten hurt and was bleeding on the ground—"

"He wasn't bleeding that badly," Dylan interjected. "And it was because he bit his tongue."

John gave her a flat look. "You are an emotionless machine." Dylan just raised an eyebrow and took a sip of cider. "She didn't do it on purpose," he added to be fair. "But still."

"So we're all panicking and Dylan just marches over to him. She's maybe five at this point. She marches over to him and says, 'Are you crying?' All outraged about it."

"I was outraged," Dylan said. "I'd gotten a tooth knocked out the day before and I didn't cry about it. Of course that's because I'm an emotionless machine," she added, dropping her head on her twin's shoulder.

"Darn straight," John muttered. "And when I told her that yes, I was crying, she started making fun of me."

"I did not make fun of you," Dylan cried. "I just gave you the lecture."

Nuala had her elbows propped on her knees on the couch across from theirs and was leaning eagerly forward at this point. "What lecture?"

"The lecture. The baseball lecture. How did it go, D?" John asked.

Dylan cleared her throat and recited, "'Are you crying? What? There is no crying. There is no crying in baseball. No crying—'"

"'No whining,'" Francesca added.

"'No bleeding,'" the sisters chorused, grinning at each other.

"And what did you say to such rousing words, Lord John?" Balor asked with an inquiring lift of his brow.

John and Dylan both scoffed. "He spat blood on my brand-new sneakers, wiped his face, and told me I pitched like a girl," Dylan said. Smiling at her brother, she added, "Meanest thing he'd ever said to me."

Francesca's sigh was heavy with nostalgia. "You didn't say stuff like that to kids who played baseball back then. Oh, my gosh, Dylan. Do you remember when you said that to Tommy Malone from down the street?"

Dylan lifted her chin. "I didn't say he pitched like a girl," she replied haughtily. "I said he played ball like a girl."

"Oh, you made him mad," John said, shaking his head. "I remember he couldn't believe you said that. Didn't he beat you up for that later?"

She made a dismissive gesture. "No, he beat me up for the fairy thing."

Francesca frowned. "Didn't he break your arm?"

"That's what happens when you start rolling around on top of playground equipment trying to beat the stuffing out of each other," Dylan replied dryly. "I broke his nose, though."

Nuala and Naya were both wide-eyed at this point. "How did you manage that?" Naya asked, sounding as if she weren't sure she wanted to know.

Dylan smiled. "I kicked him in the face. That's why I fell off the playground. I got in trouble after I got home from the hospital."

"In trouble?" Nuala spluttered. "For defending yourself?"

"Oh, man, Dylan got in trouble all the time when we were kids," Francesca said, grinning. She didn't notice that Nuada had gone very quiet at her words. "I still remember that time Dad spanked you and you told him God didn't love him anymore." Dylan sputtered into her cider, giggling. "You were, what? Three?"

She shrugged, smiling. "Something like that. Back when I thought a quick swat counted as child abuse. I remember the time Dad caught you playing Choo-Choo in the garage with Tommy Malone."

"Hey, not my fault. I was seduced by an older man."

Balor, who'd remained mostly silent and smiling during most of the reminiscing, straightened in his overstuffed leather chair. "What is…Choo-Choo?"

Dylan and Francesca exchanged a glance and started giggling again. John took it upon himself to explain that their father had caught a five-year-old Francesca and a six-year-old Tommy Malone in the garage pretending that Tommy was a steam engine and Francesca was a tunnel. The significance of this arrangement was clarified when John explained that Francesca had been wearing a dress. Master Myers had dragged young Master Malone home to speak to his father.

"What a repulsive little boy," Naya exclaimed. "How dare he? Nuada would never have done such a thing when we were children!"

"No," Nuada said stiffly, "I wouldn't have."

His twin sister smiled. "Even if you'd had the notion, Áthair would've murdered you. I remember you told me once that you knew you'd likely get whipped by Father fairly often before you became a man, but that you never intended to let him whip you over a girl."

Francesca and Dylan shared another look, this one heavy with silent communication, but John didn't notice. Nuada did, but said nothing. He knew what his lady was thinking of.

John asked, "Wait, you got beat when you were a kid? I though royalty didn't believe in corporally punishing their children."

Nuada scoffed. "Maybe human royals didn't believe in disciplining their children. It would explain a great deal. I've lost count of the number of times my father took a strap to me as a boy. I always deserved it, though," the prince added, "when I was young. I cannot think of a time my father physically punished me unjustly."

Dylan noticed Nuada's emphasis on the words "my father." No, his father hadn't punished him unjustly as a boy…but his king had unfairly punished the man Nuada had become. Fey-like blue eyes flicked to Balor's face. He hadn't missed the underlying message in those words, either.

As if sensing the rising tension in the room, Nuala said brightly, "Father, do you remember when I 'drowned' Nuada's favorite stuffed warhorse in the garden fountain and he cried for days?"

"Nuala!" The Elven warrior cried in outrage. His sister smiled sweetly at him. Narrowing his eyes, Nuada said, "Well, I remember the time you threw a fit and cut off all your hair because Father said you weren't allowed to have boots like mine because you were a princess, and you swore you'd be a prince, and Father merely laughed at you."

"I didn't mean to laugh," Balor protested while his daughter scowled. "She was just so…adamant. If princesses couldn't do things, then she didn't want to be a princess anymore," the king added to the assembled mortals. "So she decided to be a prince."

"Her hair looked awful," Nuada added with a smug smile. "Our governess was furious."

Nuala shot him a look. "What about the time Na'ko'ma tied you up and hung you from an apple tree?"

Nuada scowled. "She snuck up on me while I was sleeping. And I paid her back for that bit of treachery, if you recall. She looked a right fool with her hair in elf-knots for a week."

"But then she shocked you with a thunderbolt and left your hair standing on end."

The prince scowled ferociously. "Yes, but I got her back, didn't I?"

Dylan's eyes widened. "What did you do?"

Balor heaved an aggrieved sigh, but the mortal could see he was smiling. "He enacted a strike from three fronts, the little scoundrel. First, he put pepper in Na'ko'ma's tea on random days for an entire moon; the poor girl never knew when it would happen. Second, he somehow managed to dye the poor child's hair bright orange." At this point Nuada was grinning with nostalgic self-satisfaction. "And third, he kidnapped her dolls and held them for ransom."

"You didn't!" Dylan's smile seemed to reflect the ghost of impish, boyish delight she could see in Nuada's eyes. "Your father's right, you were a little scoundrel."

Nuada lifted his chin. "I'll have you know, I acquitted myself with honor. They were returned intact and unharmed, as promised. She left me alone for an entire three moons."

"So it was worth it?" Dylan asked. He nodded. "What about your hair? How'd you fix the whole static-stand-up thing?"

"Oh," Nuada replied, smiling brightly. "Máthair fixed it. She was a…" He trailed off when his father and sister stiffened. Silence descended, thick and choking. Dylan could see how much of a strain it was for him to continue, "She was a sorceress when it came to such things."

For the second time, the tension thickened amidst the group. In an attempt to quell it, Dylan asked, "You were an unholy terror as a kid, weren't you?"

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Only to sisters and foster-sisters who didn't know not to pester me when I was busy. With everyone else, I was the epitome of charm and chivalry."

"Though the pair of them got along quite well most of the time," Polunochnaya added with a wistful smile. "Nuada and Nuala, that is. He and Na'ko'ma have always been more like a pair of feral cats tossed into a wet sack." Naya winked at Dylan, who for some reason had to actually force herself to smile. The Zwezda Elf continued, "Why, Nuada, do you remember when she shot you by accident when she was first learning archery? Nuala doted on you for weeks while you healed. She was practically your slave."

Dylan's eyes widened. "You shot him?" She demanded of the blushing princess. "Where?"

Nuala opened her mouth, but closed it when her twin shot her a quelling look. "Perhaps," the princess murmured, "I shouldn't say. It was an accident, of course. I would never dream of hurting my brother." Golden eyes noted Dylan's raised eyebrows, and Nuala flushed. "It would be like hurting mysel—Oh, someone's at the door."

At that moment, a Butcher Guard entered the room and announced a young page holding a large white wicker basket in his arms. "Delivery for His Royal Highness Prince Nuada," the page murmured.

Nuada smiled. "Ah, it's arrived. Right on time, too," he added as the clock chimed ten. "Give it to Lady Dylan."

The pageboy handed it to the mortal, bowing and diffidently tugging his forelock. The mortal smiled at the child and thanked him quietly. Guard and page were summarily dismissed by the king. Every leaned forward, save Nuada, to gaze the basket. Dylan shot her prince a curious look.

"My sister has often told me that women like things to match properly," the prince said. "I thought you would prefer this, then—a match for Eimh and Sétanta."

Thoroughly bewildered by this time, Dylan flipped open the lid of the wicker basket…and squealed in utter delight. Nuada grinned. Everyone else jumped.

"Bat!" Dylan scooped up the meowing black cat and hugged him to her chest. He purred so loudly it seemed as if the room should start vibrating, licking Dylan's cheek and butting his head against her chin. His paws pressed against her shoulder, kneading with feline pleasure. "Oh, Bat. Oh, I missed you." Dylan kissed his head. He didn't even protest, just continued to purr and rub his head against her. "Bat, Bat. Oh, my baby, I missed you so much."

Bat allowed his two-legger to cuddle and pet him for a few more minutes, basking in the devotion that was his due, before he squirmed out of her hold and hopped back into the basket. He popped out again with something fluffy and white clenched between his teeth. Dylan reached out instinctively, and the black cat dropped a very small ivory kitten in his two-legger's hands.

The kitten, barely old enough to be weaned, opened its eyes and blinked sleepily at the human, yawning to show its little pink tongue. It rolled over briefly on its back and stretched its paws, kneading the air and revealing that it was, in fact, a girl-kitten. A perfect match, then, for Eimh—white and female.

The little kitten curled up in Dylan's hands with a yawn and went back to sleep.

"Ohhh," Dylan breathed. "Ohhh, Nuada. She's so little. Look at her. She's so cute." Dylan cradled the kitten like a baby in her arms. She didn't seem to mind, cuddling against Dylan's chest and purring. She carefully stroked under the little chin. "Oh, listen to her purr. Little motorboat. Ohhh."

She met Nuada's eyes. He smiled. She grinned back and mouthed, "Best gift ever!"

Her prince gave her a look that said quite eloquently, "But of course."