Chapter 40: Around the Sun!
The royal bedroom was a sanctuary of velvet and silence in the late afternoon. Charlotte sat at the edge of the colossal Alaskan king bed, her fingers tracing the intricate silver thread of the duvet. A year. The thought settled in her bones, a quiet, weighty fact. The last embers of the previous month’s fire had long since cooled in the hearth, taking her birthday with them into ash.
She hadn’t told them. The omission had felt small at first, a private thing. What did centuries-old vampires care for the marking of a single, mortal-adjacent year? But now, with the sun painting long amber streaks across the floor, the silence around the date felt like a hollow space inside her. She wasn’t a maid anymore. That life of scrubbing stone and ducking gazes was twelve months gone. The resentment from some of the staff was a faint, prickling static she felt in the halls—whispers cut short when she turned a corner, eyes that dropped too quickly.
Only Evette’s friendship remained a steady, warm constant. The chambermaid’s freckled face and quiet humor were a balm. Just last week, Charlotte had been caught red-handed helping her strip linens from a guest chamber. Sebastian had leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. “Consorting with the help, my heart? Scandalous.” He’d then shooed Evette away with a wink and carried Charlotte off over his shoulder, her protests drowned in his laughter.
A soft knock pulled her from the reverie. Evette entered, her mousy brown braid neat over one shoulder, carrying a heavy velvet garment bag. “Valance is ready for you in the solar,” she said, her storm-gray eyes crinkling. “She’s in a mood. Says the silver brocade is ‘fighting her.’”
“Everything fights Valance,” Charlotte said, standing and smoothing her simple day dress. “It’s why her work is impeccable.”
The solar was bright, all south-facing windows. Valance, a vampire of indeterminate age with fingers like bird bones and a permanently pinched expression, fluttered around a dress form. The silver brocade glittered like captured moonlight. “There you are. Don’t just stand there. Up on the platform.”
The fitting was a familiar ritual of pins, subtle adjustments, and Valance’s muttered critiques. Evette stood by, handing over pins and smoothing fabric. The conversation drifted—a new book in the library, the overly pungent scent of the new stable hand.
“It’s a wonder Their Majesties didn’t mark the occasion with more fanfare,” Evette said absently, holding a pin between her lips as she eyed the drape of the skirt. “Quiet seems unlike them, especially the Duke.”
Valance paused, a pin poised in mid-air. “What occasion?”
Charlotte’s blood went still. She shot Evette a look.
Evette’s eyes widened, realizing her slip. The pin fell from her lips. “Oh. I just meant… the, uh, the anniversary of her coming to the castle.” She fumbled, her freckles stark against her sudden pallor.
“That was in spring,” Valance said, her voice razor-sharp with curiosity. “This is autumn. What was last month?”
The air in the solar tightened. Charlotte held her breath, the beautiful fabric suddenly feeling like a cage.
“It was nothing,” Charlotte said, her voice firm. “A personal note. Evette misspoke.”
Valance’s ancient eyes narrowed, calculating. The unspoken hierarchy of the court was a living thing; information was currency. Knowledge of a dhampir’s birthday, a human sentiment, was a trivial oddity. But knowledge the Kings might have overlooked? That was a tiny, sharp shard of gossip.
“Of course,” Valance said slowly, resuming her work with deliberate slowness. “My mistake.”
The rest of the fitting passed in a strained quiet. When Valance finally dismissed her, Charlotte all but fled to her chambers, Evette scurrying behind.
Once the door was shut, Charlotte turned. “Evette.”
“I’m so sorry,” the maid blurted, wringing her hands. “It just came out. I was thinking how my mum always made a fuss on my day, and how you’d sneaked me that goblet last week saying you remembered I hadn’t eaten, and it just… slipped.”
Charlotte’s anger deflated. She saw the genuine distress on her friend’s face, the fear of having exposed her. “It’s alright,” she sighed, sinking into a plush armchair. “It’s not a state secret. I just… didn’t tell them. On purpose.”
“Why?” Evette asked, perching on a stool. “They adore you. The Duke would probably declare a holiday. The King would have the fountain run with wine.”
“That’s precisely why,” Charlotte said, staring at her hands. “It feels… mortal. Small. They have centuries. They rule territories. What is one year to them? I didn’t want it to be a pity celebration, something they felt obliged to do because they found a stray.” She shook her head. “It’s foolish.”
“It’s not,” Evette said softly. “It’s yours.”
The evening found Charlotte in the west library, a book open but unread on her lap. The scent of sandalwood and night air announced him first.
“There you are,” Sebastian’s voice was a warm murmur against her ear as he leaned over the back of her chair. His auburn hair brushed her cheek. “Lucian’s finalizing the trade accords. He’s being boring. Rescue me.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. His emerald eyes were bright, playful. No shadow of knowledge about last month lingered there. He saw her looking and swooped down, kissing her soundly. “What?” he asked, pulling back an inch.
“Nothing. Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.” He came around the chair, plucked the book from her hands, and pulled her to her feet. “Come. Walk with me. Tell me what thoughts are dangerous enough to furrow that lovely brow.”
They walked the long, portrait-lined gallery. He held her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. He talked of an impertinent envoy from the Eastern Reach, of a new stallion in the stables that had tried to bite him, of how Lucian’s patience was a more formidable weapon than any sword.
Charlotte listened, smiling at his stories, the hollow space inside her echoing faintly. He doesn’t know, she thought. And why should he? It was a line she had drawn herself.
Later, in the bedroom, Lucian returned. The quiet authority that followed him seemed to soften the edges of the room. He shed his formal coat, his molten gold eyes finding her where she sat by the fire.
“Sebastian said you were pensive,” Lucian stated, moving to stand behind her. His cool hands came to rest on her shoulders.
“Sebastian exaggerates.”
“He rarely exaggerates about you.” Lucian’s fingers began to knead a tension she hadn’t even acknowledged was there. “He senses a shift. As do I.” He bent, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “The bond is a quiet thing, but it is not blind. Something is… unspoken.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. The warmth of the fire, the strength of his hands, the profound safety of them—it all made her secret feel both smaller and larger. A piece of a life that didn’t quite fit into the glorious, immortal tapestry of theirs.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered, the lie tasting of ash. “Just a passing mood.”
Lucian was silent for a long moment, his hands stilling. He turned her chair gently to face him, then crouched before her, his regal form brought low to meet her eyes. In the firelight, his features were all ancient, patient planes.
“You have given us your past, your present, and your future, little one,” he said, his voice so low it vibrated in her chest. “But you are allowed to keep pieces for yourself. Until you are ready to share them.” He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “But know this: when you are ready, no piece of you is too small or too mortal for us to treasure.”
He saw. Not the detail, but the shadow of it. The validation unlocked a tightness in her throat. She nodded, unable to speak.
Sebastian appeared in the doorway, having shed his own outer layers. He took in the scene: Lucian kneeling, Charlotte’s shimmering eyes. His playful demeanor faded into something more serious, more intuitive. He didn’t ask. He simply crossed the room, his presence a solid, comforting heat at her side.
“Alright?” he asked, his question meant for both of them.
“We will be,” Lucian said, rising, his gaze never leaving Charlotte’s face. It was a promise, and a question, all in one.
As the fire cracked and the deep night settled around the castle, Charlotte sat between them, the unspoken birthday a quiet, personal stone in her pocket. But the weight of it was less hers alone to carry. It was now held in the space between three hearts, waiting for its moment to be offered, and met.