Part One
Mattin didn’t like to think that hestumbledinto the king’s rooms, but the guards at the outer door moved toward him as if to catch him if he fell, so he certainly wasn’t graceful. He ignored his blush and the heat beneath his skin that was fading too slowly for his liking. His cool bath that morning had not soothed any of his aches and pains, but had at least left him clean and smelling of icy mint, which he hoped would keep his mind clear enough for him to get some work done today.
He’d fallen behind, caught unawares once again by his lust-fever despite how it occurred regularly every four months in everyone fae-blessed. Anyone with fae blood was afflicted—given gifts—in some way, although some fortunate souls were granted little more than occasional discomfort and others experienced no discomfort or fevers of any kind but had drive enough to match the needs of the third kind.Blessed, the third kind were called, though Mattin had never felt so.
The lust-fevers, or heats, as he’d heard some refer to them recently, were a messy, sticky, uncomfortable, humiliating business, and that didn’t even bring in the care required to not end up with child should Mattin ever be so fortunate as to have a partner, or how the heats interrupted his work.
Mattin loved his work. He enjoyed reading, and studying, and digging through records until he found information that was needed. It helped that books and scrolls didn’t care if he was a bit on the plain side for a Blessed, and too insignificant, even for a beat-of-four, for anyone to take a real interest in. Not seriously anyway, not beyond conversation at parties.
Not that Mattin went to many parties these days. The palace was finally starting to feel settled and calm again after years of warring, coups, and chaos, but there was much work to be done to keep it that way, and Mattin was happier to be useful to the new king than he was to fuss over his appearance just to attend a party where he’d end up tipsy on wine in a corner ignored by all and far from the king and his husband on the other side of the room if they happened to be there.
Mattin enjoyed a chance to show off pretty clothes and any new jewelry purchases, but he’d made a special effort to look nice forthoseparties. It was expected, even though the king and his husband were not the sort to wear much jewelry—or care for parties, to be honest. But Mattin’s extra effort had not resulted in much. He’d taken to bringing his work with him to the last few such gatherings he’d attended, and no one except for the king and his husband had interrupted him, which said it all.
Mattin did care. He was honest enough with himself to admit that. But his lack of appeal was only on his mind now because he was fresh, or not-so-fresh, from a fever, and stingingly aware that his lust-fevers wouldn’t be so difficult or exhausting if he had help in getting through them. A friend would have done, if he found one he trusted enough to let them see him… like that.
He shuddered a little at the thought, nearly bumping into a chair as he made his way to the king’s study—unoccupied by the king, as usual. Arden of the Canamorra was a noble with a noble’s education, and had a sharp mind, but he had also spent almost two decades living the active life of an outguard with his guard husband, and sitting at a desk for any length of time was something he avoided when he could.
Of course, at this hour of the morning, Arden would not have been at his desk anyway. He and his husband were still in their sitting room enjoying breakfast. If they hadn’t been, Mattin didn’t think the guards would have waved him in.
Mattin paused on the other side of the thick curtains that separated the study from the sitting room, straightening his clothes and inhaling the cooling scent of mint to keep all lingering fever thoughts at a distance. Then, with one anxious tug on his long braid, he pushed the curtain aside.
The conversation from the two at the table before the fireplace stopped.
Arden—that was, the king, as Mattin kept forgetting to call him of late—rose to his feet, entirely too much concern on his handsome, scarred face as he towered over Mattin.
Mattin quickly looked away from Arden to Arden’s husband, only to find Mil outright scowling.
“You look ready to fall over,” Mil growled, not pleased. “Are you ill? It’s those useless clothes you wear, Sass.” He insisted upon the nickname and Mattin was too flustered and tired to offer his usual polite objection. “They may be pretty and fine, and they suit you well, but we’ve had weeks of rain and now snow and yet you never dress for it.”
“My love,” Arden remarked to cut Mil off, “be gentle with him. He seems ready to fall over as it is.”
“I…” It was all Mattin managed. Then Mil was up, towering over Mattin even more than his husband did, and Mattin was being carefully but firmly urged onto the cushioned sofa on one side of their table and Arden was sitting back down to offer Mattin tea in Mattin’s favorite cup.
Mattin should not have a favorite cup at the king’s table and had certainly never been so improper as to say he did. Nonetheless, the cup, painted with delicate nasturtium vines, seemed to be on their table every morning now. At least, every morning that Mattin came here to share information with Arden at Arden’s request and to help him and Mil plan their days.
That was a task not required or expected of a Master Keeper at the Great Library, but Mattin was happy to do it, and the palace’s Head of House, Cael of the Rossick, was grateful for the help in corralling “their stubborn king and his only slightly more reasonable husband.” A funny description, as most nobles in the palace thought Mil was the uncouth, stubborn one and Arden—noble, even if also Canamorra—the one capable of being reasoned with.
Mattin had to hold his cup in both hands to keep his tremors from causing a splash, but he didn’t miss how Arden and Mil exchanged a glance at that.
“I’m getting a healer,” Mil announced when their look ended, and started to stand up again.
“No, no!” Mattin rushed to assure him, taking one hand from his teacup and immediately spilling some tea onto the plate that had mysteriously appeared on the table in front of him. The tea soaked into a sweet bun. Mattin stared at the bun blearily for a moment, certain he’d heard the king say that he didn’t care for sweet buns with raisins and that Mil preferred the buns with cream in the center. Yet there was a sweet bun with raisins and honey, what Mattin liked, and it had company on the plate.
“Yes, I think,” Arden calmly overruled Mattin, then reached over to take Mattin’s cup and fill it with more tea before handing it back. “You’re unwell, Mat—Keeper Arlylian. Drink that now.”
Arden said it pleasantly, but it was an order.
Mattin started to grow hotter in a way that had nothing to do with blushes or his proximity to the fireplace. Lust-fevers were slow to fade sometimes, and harder to manage when he was around Arden and Mil, who were fae-touched in the opposite way as Mattin and were unfortunately also large and handsome and smelled wonderful as only those fae-gifted could smell. Mattin couldn’t even explain it to himself, but they did.
They smelled like a good nest should smell.
It was dreadfully embarrassing although Mattin tried not to be obvious about sniffing them.
“I’m not unwell,” he muttered at last, looking away from Arden’s dark eyes as he drank his tea. The cup was plucked from his trembling hands the moment he was finished and filled again, with more milk added. Mil leaned across the table to nudge the plate closer to Mattin.
Mattin kept his attention on the tea, hoping the steam would explain away any red in his cheeks as the king and his husband unknowingly acted like a pair of Gifted out to court a Blessed, offering food and care and the Blessed’s favorite things.
He sipped from the second cup, swallowed, then murmured, “Thank you. But I’m not unwell.”
