Sunlight spilled through the shutters in slim, golden bars, laying ladders across the floor and up the heap of blankets where two girls pretended to still be asleep.
Tyrande surfaced first with a groan, hair tangled, one sandal inexplicably tucked under her cheek like a very poor pillow. "If I die young," she muttered into the blanket, "tell Elune it was the fault of candied nuts."
"If you die young," Lytavis replied without opening her eyes, "she'll send you back to clean up your mess."
Skye was already awake and insufferably pleased with herself, preening on her perch. She spread one glossy wing to catch the sun, then clicked her beak at them in a tone that suggested heroic deeds had been performed and certain parties had not adequately applauded.
Whisper padded by in a slow, silent patrol, tail flicking as she nosed at last night's trail: a smear of dust on the threshold, a bead fallen near the bed, moonberry stains on the rug that someone had definitely meant to wipe up and definitely had not. Ginger snored under the chair, twitching occasionally as if chasing something unwise.
Tyrande sat up, pulling at a candied nut stuck in her hair. "Do I smell like smoke?"
Lytavis sniffed her sleeve, then her own. "You smell like roasted almonds and regret."
"Girls!" Zoya's voice, bright and warm, floated up the stairs. "Breakfast."
The girls stared at each other in identical horror. Then chaos: a scramble for the basin, furious braiding, an argument over whose ribbon was whose (it was neither; Skye had stolen both), and a hurried straightening of blankets that made the bed look somehow more suspicious than before.
They descended with the grave dignity of criminals attempting to pass for clergy.
The kitchen held its own weather: steam from the kettle, the slow drift of sunlight across the table, the smell of bread and berry jam. Lucien sat with his tea, the morning reports half-read and wholly ignored as he watched them take their seats. Zoya set plates down - porridge, sliced pears, a curl of butter melting like surrender.
"You two seem unusually subdued for morning," Lucien observed mildly, which from him was the equivalent of accusations and shackles.
"We stayed up talking," Tyrande said, carefully choosing the safest truth within reach.
"About what?" he asked, too casually.
"Elune," Tyrande blurted.
"Until dawn?" Lucien lifted an eyebrow above the rim of his cup.
"Very devotional," Lytavis added helpfully, knocking her spoon onto the floor. "I'll, um, fetch more tea."
Skye chose that moment to hop onto the table, head cocked in theatrical innocence. She opened her beak and dropped something small and glinting into the exact center of the tablecloth: a glass bead, the color of disreputable lantern light.
Zoya regarded it for a long heartbeat. "Interesting," she said at last. "I don't recall buying anything in this shade of questionable morality."
Tyrande's smile locked at the corners. Lytavis's did, too.
Lucien set down his cup. He did not smile. He did not frown. He simply looked at the bead, then at the girls, and said, in the tone of a man identifying a rare but familiar species, "The Night Market."
Zoya sighed - one of those slow, wind-through-pines sighs that carried both worry and relief. "If you're going to sneak out," she said, voice even, "at least have the sense not to bring home evidence."
"We're sorry," Lytavis said at once.
"It was my idea," Tyrande added, because loyalty is a reflex before it's a virtue.
Zoya's gaze softened, but the line of her mouth did not. "The Market is not a game. There are people there who trade in lies and fear. And worse."
"We kept together," Lytavis said quietly. "We were careful." She hesitated, then told the rest. "We were followed."
Lucien's hand stilled around his cup. Zoya's chair scraped back; she crossed to the bench and cupped Lytavis's cheek, thumb brushing the faint crescent of sleeplessness beneath her eye. "And?"
"Skye sent him away," Tyrande said, pride slipping through the apology. "With her face."
Skye fluffed to twice her size, as if in agreement that her face had indeed played a crucial role.
Zoya closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then kissed the top of Lytavis's head. "I am glad you are safe."
Lucien folded his hands. "Curiosity is not a sin," he said. "But wisdom lies in surviving what it brings you."
"We know," Tyrande murmured.
"Good," Zoya said. "Because next time you're curious about somewhere dangerous, you will ask. There are ways to see the world without letting it swallow you."
"Yes, Min'da," Lytavis said. Tyrande nodded as well, contrite and only a little sulky.
Breakfast resumed. The porridge cooled. The bead disappeared into Zoya's apron pocket with the quiet inevitability of future conversations.
After, they slipped into the garden with the last of the candied nuts. The air was already warm, bees busy in the lavender. They sat on the low wall beneath the pear tree, shoes dangling, sharing the sticky spoils of last night's shenanigans.
Skye landed between them and stared until a moonberry appeared. She accepted it with regal disdain, then tilted her head to present the exact spot that required praise.
"Our savior," Tyrande declared solemnly, scratching the indicated feather.
"Two threads in one storm," Lytavis said, half to the raven, half to the bright morning. "Remember?"
Tyrande's smile turned small and real. "I remember." She leaned her shoulder against Lytavis's. "Next time… maybe fewer storms."
"Maybe better lanterns," Lytavis countered.
"Definitely more candied nuts."
They fell quiet, listening to the bees and the distant sound of Zoya humming in the kitchen. Whisper's shadow pooled across their feet as the manasaber settled beside the bench with a sigh. Ginger snored under the thyme, somehow comfortable on a patch of stones no creature should have found appealing.
The world felt ordinary and miraculous at once, as it always did here: danger survived, lesson learned, sunlight warm on their knees. Skye clicked her beak and, satisfied that appropriate gratitude had been rendered at last, tucked her head beneath her wing.
They did not promise never to wander again. They did not promise anything at all. They just sat there a little longer under the pear tree, two threads resting, knowing the storm would come when it came - and that, when it did, they would not walk into it alone.
Notes in the Margin - Lucian Ariakan
There are mornings when parenthood feels less like guidance and more like archaeology - unearthing the evidence of mischief and pretending to be surprised.
Today was such a morning.
They returned safe, though not unchanged. I saw it in their eyes - the thrill of danger softened into understanding. Youth learns its lessons best through folly; I only pray those lessons come gently.
Zoya scolded them, of course, but even her anger carried relief. I sat silent and let the tea cool, thinking how strange it is to love someone so fiercely that even their mistakes become precious.
The world will test them soon enough. Let them have their candied regrets while they still can.