Page 11 of Fey Divinity

“No more difficult than breathing,” he says after a moment. “Less exhausting than maintaining a court appearance, certainly.”

There’s something in the way he says ‘court appearance’ that makes me think there’s a story there, but before I can work up the nerve to ask, he’s already moved on.

“I assume you’ll be wanting to show me around today,” he continues. “Introduce me to the important people, and explain how things work here.”

It’s not really a question, more of a statement of fact delivered with the kind of resigned efficiency of someone who’s spent their life being shuffled from one obligation to another.

“Well, yes, if you’d like,” I say. “Though it’s not exactly exciting. Mostly it’s just offices and meeting rooms and people in suits looking permanently stressed.”

“Riveting,” Dyfri says dryly. “I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.”

Despite everything, I find myself smiling. There’s something oddly comforting about his sarcasm. It’s honest, at least. No pretending this is anything other than what it is.

“There’s a decent coffee machine in Dad’s private office,” I offer. “And the view from the first floor isn’t terrible.”

“The heights of luxury,” he murmurs, but I catch what might be the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

We fall back into silence, but it feels slightly less oppressive now. I watch him finish his toast with the same methodical precision he’s applied to everything else, and I wonder what he’s actually thinking behind that carefully controlled expression.

“Can I ask you something?” I say suddenly.

His dark eyes fix on me with laser-like intensity. “You may ask. I make no promises about answering.”

Fair enough. “This morning, when those fey turned up...”

“No.” The word is sharp, final, cutting through the air like a blade. “We will not be discussing that.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop about ten degrees. Dyfri’s expression has gone completely blank, not even politely distant anymore. Just... nothing.

“Right,” I say quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did.” He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “It’s what humans do. Pry, probe, collect information. It’s in your nature.”

There’s something bitter in his voice that makes my chest tight. “That’s not... I wasn’t trying to interrogate you. I was just...”

“Curious,” he finishes. “Yes, I’m sure you were.”

He moves towards the door with that same fluid grace, even in jeans and a t-shirt, and I have the sudden, panicked feeling that if I let him walk out of here like this, we’ll never recoverfrom it.

“Dyfri, wait.”

He pauses, his hand on the door handle, but doesn’t turn around.

“I know this is weird,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know neither of us chose this, and I know you probably think I’m some sort of... I don’t know, bumbling idiot who’s going to make your life miserable. Maybe you’re right. But I’m not trying to spy on you or collect intelligence or whatever. I just... I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know what you need or want or how to make this less awful for both of us.”

The silence stretches so long I start to wonder if he’s just going to leave anyway. Then, slowly, he turns around.

“You think this is awful?” he asks, and there’s something almost curious in his tone.

“Don’t you?”

For a moment, something real flickers across his face. Something vulnerable and tired and maybe a little lost. Then the mask slides back into place.

“I think,” he says carefully, “that awful is a relative term.”

Which is possibly the saddest thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Right,” I say quietly. “Well. The offer stands. Tour of the building, introduction to the important people, terrible coffee, mediocre views. No pressure.”