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22

ADRIANA

My mom lifts the lid of the solar-powered cooker, turning her smart-watch to take a reading of the temperature. The smell makes my mouth water. The butcher, Carl, had to bring the meat himself, it was so heavy—a flank of venison. “Nature’s providence,” says my mom, satisfied.

“Needs a kick,” June interjects, swiftly dusting the meat with firethorn spice before my mom can voice her culinary conservatism.

A thud resounds as the front door bursts open. Oakly strides in, laboriously dragging an enormous wooden chair. “Those oversized lunks won’t fit in our chairs,” he grunts out.

“Ah! From last year’s art exhibition!” June reminisces, seemingly untouched by his grimace or the dark pall he brings in with him. “We’re supposed to grow nine feet tall, right?”

Oakly grunts in response, pulling the chair around the trunk to the dining room. “Not a bloody chance, and I don’t care what scientist predicts it.”

Mom tuts. “More size, more resources consumed. As long as people like me are in forest management, we’ll take steps against the oxygenation of our planet. June, set the table, please.”

“Why not get Adriana to pitch in?” June retorts, casting a baleful glance at me relaxing on the couch. When it’s her and my mom in a room, she instantly reverts to childhood dynamics. I roll my eyes and grab cutlery from the drawer. The knives might be wooden, but they’re as sharp and durable as metal.

I wince at the banging as Oakly loudly brings in the second chair, and stay out of his way as I set the table. Our dining table is a crescent around the trunk that forms the center of our home. Oakly at least sets the three giant chairs next to my customary spot on the end of the table closest to the kitchen. With Mom and Dad in the middle, there will be a buffer between him and the Aurelians.

“Thanks for coming, Oakly,” I murmur, as he lugs in the final monstrosity of a wooden chair. They were half-science, half-artistic demonstrations of what Virelians will look like in ten thousand years if our average height keeps growing yearly, and though it’s garbage pseudoscience, I remember my little sister sending a message about how she wished I was there to go to the exhibition with her.

“I’m going to need plenty of this to get through the night. He grabs one of the bottles of wine on the table, fills a glass halfway, and grimaces as he gulps it down. He spits his red stained tobacco leaf out into a napkin. It must have been a vile combination, but he washes it down with more wine. He stomps to the entrance hall, kicks off his boots, then refills his glass and sits on the couch, staring at the door like he’s ready for a barbarian horde to break it down.

Without saying a word, my mom sweeps the floor where he tracked in pine needles and dirt, then leans the broom against the wall. “I’m going to change,” she says, and the three of us sink into an unsettling silence.

Oakly looks over my dress. He doesn’t have to say anything. I can feel his judgment. I busy myself at the table, around thetrunk so I don’t have to face his eyes, adjusting perfectly straight napkins.

My mom comes down the stairs, radiant in a green sleeveless gown with golden embroidery gracing the hem and neckline, her hair braided in the traditional Virelian crownlike braid that wraps around her head.

An awareness I can’t place makes me turn my head to the door right before it slides open soundlessly, my father stepping in. He is straight-backed, taut like he is held up by invisible wires, because he knows our home is about to turn into a battleground. “Radiant as ever,” he murmurs, as his eyes seek out my mother. He’s always looked at her that way when she dresses up, from my first memory, as if he is enthralled each time anew. He kicks off his boots and kisses her, standing by her side as the Aurelian princes duck their heads in.

The entrance hall barely accommodates them. They stoop so they don’t bang their heads, and I am glad for the high ceilings of our home. The three of them shuffle off their colossal, mud-caked combat boots, and the air grows heavy, the door shutting behind them and sealing the outside world off.

Their boots look enormous next to my dad’s and brother’s, and neither of them are short for a Virelian.

“Welcome to our home,” says Mom, ever gracious.

“Thank you,” says Doman, ducking into the main room, where he can stand to his full, imposing height. “I am Doman. These are my battle-brothers, Titus and Gallien.”

“A pleasure,” my mom replies, maintaining her ever-present smile. “I’m Iris.”

“An exquisite name,” Gallien chimes in, always at ease.

“I’m June,” says my little sister. Her eyes are wide, not in fear, but in curiosity. This is the first time she has seen Aurelians in person, and she inspects them like they are zoo animals.

My brother is still sitting on the couch, clutching his glass of wine too tight. He doesn’t rise to greet them, judging and weighing them as the triad enters our family home. The seconds tick by, when he downs his glass, sets it down, and stands, taking a calculated step forward. He extends his hand. “Oakly.”

Titus’ nostrils flare momentarily, subtly testing the air, tasting my brother’s animosity as my brother greets them with a single syllable and holds his hand in the air, as if he is the king and they are his subjects, to present themselves to him one by one. Doman steps forward and shakes his hand, then Gallien and Titus. Titus’ eyes narrow a little, but he keeps his composure. By ignoring the slight, they make my brother look petty.

“June, drinks for our guests?” My mom keeps her smile, though I know she wants to glare at my brother for his boorish behavior. She prides herself on Virelian hospitality, and our home used to be the hub of social gatherings when I lived here. I’d often find the who’s who of the village at our table, and even diplomats from other cities would stop by to pay my parents their respects.

“Wine, please,” says Doman, and his battle-brothers nod in agreement. June pours three glasses, setting them on a tray and picking it up to bring to the triad, who are standing at the threshold, three towering warriors in formerly pure white robes which are now stained by sap and dirt—my dad definitely didn’t just take them for a stroll.

“Set them down.” Oakly interjects, his voice icy cold. June pauses in confusion, looking from Oakly to the Aurelians. “The only time these three have seen Virelian women is in the harems, lying back while theirservantsattend to them. I won’t have my sister play the role.”

His last sentence is aimed at me, glancing where I am sitting awkwardly on the couch.

Every muscle in Titus’ towering frame tenses, ready for a confrontation he’s been bred for but didn’t expect here. Gallien intervenes, striding forward and pouring a fourth glass of wine, which he brings to me, setting it down gently in front of me.