I didn't expect our first American holiday to be spent in a kitchen with my soon-to-be husband's wife, and yet, somehow, it felt right in a strange sense. The welcoming heat emanating in the large kitchen keeps me from needing a dose of lycan to keep me from freezing to death as my body continues to threaten to chill me. 

I even dare to bravely roll up the sleeves of my sweater as I swerve around Marisol, who helps me with the English directions in the strangely bland cookbook we had been provided. There is a distinct lack of fresh herbs and spices in these recipes, it would seem with modernization came a lack of creativity. 

While the Spanish woman was willing to help, I feared for all of our safety with her handling of knives and her foul mood. She was so uncomfortable that I relied on my fiance to keep her at bay, as it seemed he was the only one who could reel her in. As much as this was not our intention, we had so seamlessly sprung into action to save what was left of the strange tradition. 

We made do, taking advantage of Legardo's well-stocked arsenal of cooking implements. How the son of a dictator could find a love for cooking was beyond me; it seemed so out of place considering his lineage. Off as it may be that the two foreigners were cooking an American dish, it was a welcomed distraction from the damp mood that loomed over the family at the loss of their mother. 

Any other family might find it extremely odd, hell, I did. But it seemed to be something expected to happen regardless of the circumstances.

While the separation of the couple had been going on for some time, nothing could prepare a child for the loss of a mother, and I could sympathize with the cold, empty hole that loss left. 

I set to work with a new purpose, determined to make the best of it. 

To our surprise, Legardo seemed quite desperate for the company as we had been so graciously ushered into the living space. Busy hands occupied the mind, I suppose. Maybe he didn't want to be alone with the sad-eyed children or even his own thoughts; we had all experienced loss in some form or another. 

In this world, there was no escaping the ever-looming thought that not everyone would survive. 

I steal a glance at Marisol as she whisks a mixture for a sort of gravy or glaze, filling the air with the savory scent of butter and herbs mixed with turkey; she curses at the book and insults it on a deep level by the look on her face. Waving her hand dismissively as she tastes the mixture, I decide I've had enough silence between us. 

"Where did you learn to speak English?" I ask her, desperate to talk of anything other than Tonya. 

Behind me, I hear the melodic tones of my warlord singing a tune from a movie along with Silvia, who had claimed him as her own for the evening. I would not dare pry him from her grasp, but the distraction would have been nice. 

I manage a glance over my shoulder, the sweet girl singing along to the cavalier song about strength and finding one's inner self. Verando, who I suspected would be bored out of his mind and perhaps a bit embarrassed, is happy to indulge her. It makes my heart flutter, and I quickly pry my eyes away. Dare I beg him for children all over again?

Marisol almost resembles a cat as I meet her gaze and flush at her grin. "He is quite intoxicating, isn't he?" She offers me her finger to taste, and not wanting to offend her, I oblige. "Needs more salt?" She asked, and I grimaced, indifferent. My pallet wasn't quite the same as hers regarding spices.  

Regarding cooking, we clashed in some ways and came together in others. What I wouldn't give for curry, at times.

Rolling her eyes at me, she grumbles to herself before pushing the bowl aside and starting work on husking corn. "Doe taught me. Marcus Senior spoke some English, but none of us did as children for the most part. He was pretty young when he came to live in our community, but he taught as many of us as he could and continued to do so as he learned how to read. 

The mistresses of the home often pitied us when we came to help unpack carts; sometimes, we could earn lessons from gathering eggs or sweeping chimneys. Well... I did until they found out I was a girl. Couldn't hide these-" Sighing, she exhales at her swollen chest.  "Where did you learn to speak English? Aren't you Romanian?" 

Pursing my lips, I sigh at my own answer. "The servants taught me. My father was fluent but didn't see the importance of passing it on. There was some literature I wanted to read in English, but speaking it and reading it are two fairly different things. I'm afraid I've also adopted some of Randy's accent, so my English is quite bastardized. It's grown on me." 

Smirking at me, she bumps me casually with her hip, almost playfully. "Not the only thing that's grown on you about him. Are you excited to get married? Have you picked a theme?"

I blink because I haven't given it much thought, preparing myself to slink away and crawl into this oven from embarrassment. He'd handed the wedding to me to design, though I was sure if I asked, he would do it himself. Fillipa had designed our entire marriage from start to end; this part was new to me, even if I had done this once before. 

I parted my lips, willing a lie, but under the pale eyes of this woman, I couldn't manage a single one. While the Siren might be what lures men to their deaths, it's the stare of Medusa herself that could turn men to stone, and Marisol would give her a run for her money. 

I turn my attention to the potatoes I'm boiling and plead the gods for a distraction, yet here she stands ever so patiently. I'm about to marry her ex-husband, the love of her life, and it's as if she's wishing well for her best friend. I had done nothing to deserve Marisol; neither of us had. 

In any other story, she deserved to be the one with a happy ending, but as it stands, I'm too selfish to give up mine. If I were to leave, would he return to her? There is no space in my heart to answer that with an untruth; he would not have remained by her side. 

I don't want to think about where his life would have gone if we had not found each other, my melancholy warlord.

Finally, when I can stand the silence no longer, I sigh. "I haven't quite thought much of it. I've been quite busy."

Marisol smacks me on the back of the head so sharply that I wonder how many brain cells I have left after the assault. I gape at her, and she points a knife at me so close I fear for the safety of my nose. "Listen to me, Nicolas. You either ask for help or design an incredible wedding because if you break that man's heart with some half-assed gathering, I will castrate you myself. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," I mumble, and she smiles so sweetly at me that I am almost sick to my stomach. Her shoulder-length hair falls so innocently in kinky, voluminous masses that she almost looks sincere. "Do you know how long it's been since I've even seen France? Where do I start?"

"About four hundred years?"

I sneer at her, poking the potatoes with a fork. A light blinks at me, reassuring me that they aren't done. How could one learn a skill when technology did everything for them? "I wish he didn't get seasick; a boat would be beautiful."

"Baby, you'd need such a big boat there wouldn't be a harbor that could support it. Every politician and celebrity will want to come to this if I have anything to do with it. It needs to be big, muy grande. Something that people would be ashamed to miss. That is how we're going to find Fergus.

 Drunken political figures have to know something about where this damned beast is hidden. With Tiberius singing, maybe we can get some truths out of these con artists." 

Oh right. The wedding was supposed to be a sort of bait for the political heads of France. This was something that I could do, something I was trained to do, and as much as I wanted to be offended, I found some comfort in it. 

I hadn't had time to get nervous; I hadn't had a moment to think that in a few short weeks, I would be bound to this man on paper for the rest of our lives. There would be no more hiding; I could not release his hand at the last moment or introduce myself as my own. I would happily take his last name and step into a different world, one of acceptance, one that saw us as a rarity instead of an oddity. 

If I owed Helen for nothing else, it would be that she provided a means for me to fulfill my promise. My kingdom, I would give, for this man. "I'll have to look into it more in-depth; I'm still getting used to the idea. We've been talking about this for so long-" I stop myself; she probably doesn't want to hear this. Letting my eyes drift down, I feel ashamed all over again. 

"I'm sorry, Soli. I know you don't want to hear this."

Marisol blurts out a curse in Spanish that earns us an annoyed grumble from the living space. "The only one this is bothering is you. Nic. For the last time. Dios Mio! I'm fine with this. Stop apologizing for who you both are. You have done exactly what I asked you to, allowing me to stay with my best friend. For fuck's sake, I live with you both. Here- Doe!" She calls over her shoulder, and I clamp my hand over her mouth only to receive a murderous look that makes me quickly retreat. 

 "Punishment comes in many forms." She points the knife at me, narrowing her eyes. 

Verando appears on the other side of the island, wearing Silvia like a backpack. She kicks her feet innocently, her arms wrapped around his neck. "You're interrupting a rather extravagant ball."

"A gala." Silvia corrects dreamily. "I'm the princess."

Marisol gestures to me. "Nic thinks I care that you're gay."

I redden as I quickly turn to the stove; even if Verando was one of the last people to care that we were speaking about him, it was embarrassing to reveal that I still had these concerns. 

"I think you both need a hobby." He readjusts the squirming princess and sets her down so she can skip through the kitchen, making various neighs as she gallops her imaginary steed. She reminds me of how much I miss my own horses. Though without them, there was no heartache if they were to become dinner to a hungry lycan. "Also, I'm not sure you could call me 'gay'. The only man I'm interested in is Nic."

Marisol clasps her hands, feigning endearment. "How romantic." She swoons before raising an eyebrow. "Does that mean you still like women? How does that work? Because they tried to get you to have sex with me, you wouldn't do it. You say you'd have it with another woman?" Tossing the blade around haphazardly as she talks with her hands, Verando purses his lips as he pulls the knife out of her capable fingers.

"Language, Kitten. Children, cursing... come now, we'll never be invited back." Verando sighs, only to shrug. "I can find women attractive, I'd say. I can appreciate a beautiful woman. Not so much so with men; I've yet to see another man I find attractive. Perhaps Tomas, in some odd way?"

His words cause me to soften, deflating my anxiety with his disinterest in the topic, only to choke at the mention of Tomas. Legardo slips into the kitchen to become functional, and I use the excuse to follow the bouncing girl. 

Sitting on the floor, I'm happy to be away from the remainder of weddings and responsibilities as well as the bombshell that Tomas was possibly ever considered competition.

 Silvia curtsies to me, and I nod at her as regal as I can manage. "Papa says you were a King?" She asks, her voice dainty and small. I note Helen is sitting at Tyler's feet again, her cheek resting against his knee. It seemed they'd reconciled, but she looked like she'd receded back into herself. 

Why did she sit at his feet like his pet?

"I was," I tell her. Reaching over, I grasp one of her toy horses and brush my fingers through its plastic mane. "I had a whole stable full of horses, and I used to love to ride. I had a red horse, just like this one. She was very soft, like velvet."

She plops down on her knees, watching me as if I were some mystical being. "Horses are just pretend." She tells me firmly; her light English accent made her all the more endearing. "I've asked Father Christmas for a pony every year since I was small. Daddy says there are no more horses."

"Not in my kingdom," I respond slyly, motioning her over. She crawls over and into my lap, and I relish in the softness of her oversized, fluffy dress. "I even saw a real unicorn," I whisper in her ear. Squealing in delight, she covers her mouth as I put my finger to my lips, and she watches me wide-eyed. "His name was Fergus, and he was ridiculous. He loved apples, and he used to pretend to be a donkey."

The olive skin of my hands clutching the toy horse mixed with her snowy complexion was an odd contrast. It was something I'd hardly noticed before coming to the States. Many French people I'd interacted with were powdered and covered from head to toe. Now, the flesh was exposed almost to the extreme. 

"A donkey?!" She exclaims.

"I know. Not quite fond of donkeys myself. But, if you asked him just right and fed him plenty of treats-" I adjust her hair out of her light eyes, marveling at how potent these genetics were. Those bright eyes reflecting back at me cause the ache to echo much louder. "He would become a unicorn, white as the snow with so much hair, tangled and twisted from the fairies playing in it." 

Ruffling her hair, she giggles and bounces excitedly in my lap. It almost makes me want to cry for the loss of something I'll never have in this beautiful child and the pain of knowing something as magical as horses would be lost to this world forever.

"Fairies?" She giggles, jumping out of my lap to twist and squirm in the delightful movement of excitement that only a child could claim. "Papa Nic, you're tellin' stories."

I shrug, half-hearted. "Or, maybe only those who believe see them?" 

Maybe it was unfair. None of this existed in her world as it did in mine. To her, these were just stories, and to me, it was a life I had lived not that long ago. "A princess ought to know of all things, real and make-belief."

Helen chuckles at us, leaving Tyler to crawl over and sit beside me. "I saw the unicorn, Sil. I'm not sure about fairies, but if your Papa Nic says they're real, they are." 

The soft-spoken Helen had become quite the supporter. Seeing her sitting beside me, I can't help but think of how I almost killed her in Anuetta's room. I had so quickly blamed her for everything that had gone wrong, so many times I wanted to leave her behind and let her die when in reality she was just an overwhelmed girl from a different time who came back to save her world and her family.

 I wrap my arm around her, firmly hugging her to my side, and she offers a small smile. 

"What kind of princess are you, Sil?"

"You can be Princess of Dezna? That is my home city. Here, get your Papa to get you a glass of water." She excitedly runs to Verando, who obediently allows her to drag him to the kitchen and produce the glass of water. Running back to me, the water bounces and swishes with her movements as she clumsily paddles towards us, and I quickly form an ice cap over the cup with a flick of my hand. 

She giggles wildly as she crashes to her knees and hands me the cup. "Stand, fair Princess."

 Climbing to her feet, I uncap the cup and pull the water into my hand. Holding the ball between both hands, I remember seeing the girls in our schooling do this for each other. It was a little flicker of happiness in such horrible times. "Do you promise to do what is right and just and uphold the laws of the land?" 

She nods excitedly, and I craft the ice ball into a ring, then carefully tug on the edges of the ring as I form a crown, allowing the sides to expand naturally as if they were creating snowflakes. "Then I dub the Silvia, Princess of Dezna." 

I place the ice crown on her head and flinch from the screams of delight as she scampers off to show Legardo. 

Verando comes to sit beside me, and I try not to look at him with too much desperation. Helen gives me a firm hug. "Thanks for that. She's still a kid, so it's hard for her to realize what has happened. Thank you, both, for being here today." I see her eyes are misty, and I hug her back, for I know how badly this pain hurts. 

"It was not your fault, Helen. I don't know if you need to hear it, but I will say it. It's not your fault. It was never your fault. You did everything you could." I tell her those words with every fiber of my being because I desperately needed to hear them when I was in her position.

 "Sometimes good people die, and that's why we do what we do, to prevent any more unnecessary death."

Tyler slides off the chair to sit with us and takes Helen's hand, giving it a firm squeeze. "It's alright, Nic. Helen knows exactly what she did wrong." 

I flinch, forcing a smile that doesn't touch my eyes. "Right. She didn't do anything wrong."

Verando grips my hand, pulling me to my feet, giving me a look that suggests I leave it alone. We weren't her husband; we weren't her parents.

Today was so much more than just a holiday; it was a unification, bringing us together in a way that we so desperately needed. A reason to fight, a family to fight for. Marisol calls us to the dining room, and dinner pans out better than I could have hoped in some ways.

There isn't any room for silence. Marcello and Rhea join us, and while I wish Tonic, Reid, and Tonya could be here with us, I'm grateful for all we have. 

Silvia brags to Rhea about her crown, and the table bustles with quiet conversation from the anticipated Christmas to the expectation of snow. I hint to Tyler that finding a way to heat the Dead City would be next on our agenda with the clever disguise of helping the needy inner cities. 

I was lukewarm on him, and while I found him to be kind and considerate, I wouldn't say I liked this new reveal of how he treated Helen. I'd thought their relationship was based on more equal levels, not this outdated way of thinking.

Despite my apprehension about letting such behavior slide, the day goes smoothly. There is laughter, love, and family. I slip my hand into Verando's as he sips his wine, amused by his lack of interest in this American-style meal, though it doesn't go unnoticed that the slender Helen is picking at her food, too. 

Verando found much of modern food was too sweet, and I tended to agree with him. 

He ate much more than I had anticipated; I had prepared myself for complete rejection. Yet, as my gaze crosses the table, I note that Marisol is unleashing quite the look upon him not to reject our hard work. 

I appreciate the amount of non-meat-based options and load up on various steamed and baked vegetables and starches. 

For once, I don't partake in any alcohol. I don't need it. There is nothing to hide from; there is nothing I need to escape. My cup is full, and there is no need for a dampener.