Smitten (25 page)

Max’s figurine, the one he’d crafted and pieced together tenderly with love, had been placed on the stand located on her side of the bed. She liked it there where she could admire his talent.

“I understand,” Max said. “It won’t come to that, Ēostre. It won’t. Fafnir loves his son, and he’d never do anything to make Saul hate him. Despise Chloe, he may, but hurting her and an unborn child is simply beyond his capability.”

Ēostre whirled to face him. “The things he said, Bel. He ordered Saul to
kill
her.”

Max shook his head. “He had to know Saul couldn’t do that. When I look at your son and his wife, I can sense the soul bond surging between them, just as he could sense the bond uniting us. Do you see? It was talk. Foolish words said in the heat of the moment and anger, nothing more.”

“Perhaps.” Ēostre remained unconvinced. Quietly, she settled on the edge of the bed and gazed out the window. Their new but temporary residence didn’t yet have the feeling of home despite the nights she had snuck in to sleep beside him. Making it official hadn’t changed things.

“Will you be all right here while I handle this disaster?” Max asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Ēostre assured him. “This is home for us now, and I know where to find you. Go.”

“Are you—”

“Go.”

Max nodded his head and stepped from the room, leaving Ēostre to her own activities.

How could this happen? For over a hundred years, I’ve wanted nothing more than for you to return to my side, and now… our time is over, Fafnir.
Ēostre traced tiny circles over the smooth comforter. She tried to estimate the thread count of the cotton blend beneath it, and focusing on the trivial matters helped to blot out the horrors of the day.

“This wallpaper is hideous,” she muttered. She stood from the bed and strode over the cream carpet to the window, lush fibers shifting beneath her bare toes. “And I miss my balcony.”

The petty complaints brought a smile to her face and grounded her back to the reality of being America’s first lady.

With a view of the south lawn and Constitution Avenue ahead of her, Ēostre plucked the mobile phone from her purse and dialed Saul. He picked up promptly, startling her with his speed.

“Is everything all right?” Ēostre asked. “Where’s Chloe?”

“In our bedroom resting. Why?”

She exhaled a relieved sigh. “I worried a little, is all.”

“Father would have to go through me to harm a single hair on her head. We’ve been talking.” Ēostre heard the hesitation in her son’s voice, as he whispered, “I don’t think he meant what he said, but I don’t intend to trust him with her either. Would you like to speak to Chloe?”

“No, I won’t disturb her.”

A quiet, peaceful silence fell between mother and son. She stood by the window with the phone cradled between her shoulder and ear, gazing out over the immense stretch of manicured lawn.

“This will all sort itself out, Mother. Have faith in that.”

“Saul!” Chloe’s voice echoed through the manor, reaching Ēostre’s ears through the line.

“Ah, she must be awake.”

“Must be,” Ēostre replied dryly.

“She’s surprised me a time or two. With this pregnancy, she has nightmares. Nothing about it is the same as when she carried Astrid, and once again, we have only her and Marcy’s experiences.” He paused as Chloe called for him again. “Give me a moment—”

Ēostre chuckled. “No. No, go find out what your wife needs, and call me if anything happens with your father. I love you.”

“And I love you. Pass my regards to Maximilian.”

Ēostre pressed the little red button to end the call and set the phone on the desk in passing. Not a fingerprint on the polished surface. The writing desk, like all other facets of the master bedroom, appeared entirely brand new from top to bottom without a sign of its previous occupants. If she reached down deeply and felt with her magic, she could find the soul of the room and feel a glimmer of the people once there. Their sorrows, their celebrations, and the events that shaped each presidential era, but even her fine dragon’s sense of smell couldn’t detect a whiff of their predecessors.

Will it be like this for us? Never really feeling at home? Leaving no imprint of ourselves when we leave?

The thought was a lonely one. Before her wistful mood made the full transition to melancholy, Ēostre broke the cycle by snooping through Max’s things. She found the bulk of her belongings stored within a walk-in closet behind a hidden panel. There, she continued her accounting of her personal effects, only to come upon a strange chest at the rear of the room.

“That isn’t mine.” She furrowed her brow and found a note taped to the lid.

Do not open, by order of President Emberthorn.

Ēostre sniffed daintily and popped the ancient lock with magic. The aged wood creaked, smelling of old saline and memories of the sea. She flipped open the lid. Instead of finding pirate booty, she revealed a treasure trove of sweet cakes, protein bars, jerky, packaged tuna, and sardine cans. “What in the name of the Ancestors is this?”

Some dragon had a lot of explaining to do.

“Trash. All trash. Is this what he eats at night?”

Leaving the closet behind, she stepped from the bedroom into the casual west sitting hall. A wide, central hallway connected it to the east sitting hall, stretching from one side of the grand residence to the opposite side where historic bedrooms awaited with priceless relics from another era.

“There you are!” came an enthusiastic cry from Ēostre’s rear. She turned to see Max’s personal maid, Lynette, emerging from the second floor kitchen to greet her.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Not exactly, but I was hoping to run into you. It feels like forever since we’ve talked.”

“Darling. We see each other almost every day.”

“But it isn’t every day that you’re the first lady of the United States,” Lynette said teasingly. Then her bright smile dimmed and concerned touched her brown eyes. “What’s happening? Is Max in trouble? Ever since his speech, the staff have been speculating about what’s happened and whether it’s safe to continue working around all of this. I’ve been picking up tidbits here and there, I heard one of the housekeepers whispering to another in the linen closet a moment ago about being afraid.”

Ēostre’s heart thumped in her chest, a miniature explosion of anxiety slamming her ribcage. “All of them?”

“No, only a few,” Lynette clarified. “I don’t think they’re all afraid. The head housekeeper asked me if I knew all along though.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I said hell yeah. I also said he’s Tolkien’s inspiration for Smaug the Great and Terrible. I don’t know if that helped.”

“Lynette—”

“I’m joking. The head chef though. He was having a real tizzy, except, I don’t think it was an angry one. He’s freaking out about how to feed not one but two dragons. He was rambling about raw steers or something when I passed by.”

“I haven’t eaten a raw steer in… well, not since Leiv asked us to cull his herd of the older animals.” Ēostre pressed her lips together and glanced into the wide-open space behind Lynette. Like the rest of the residence, it had been styled to his personal tastes shortly after his inauguration, and the large sitting room window at its end shed abundant sunlight into the furnished corridor. “Wait, how does the chef know?”

“He’s an executive chef, Ēostre. That makes him senior staff. Besides,” Lynette paused and gave a nervous twist of her hair. “Gossip actually spreads pretty quickly through the staff, but it never goes beyond these walls from what I’ve seen this past year.”

“Should I go speak to him?”

Lynette thoughtfully pursed her lips, then nodded. “I would. We all know you from your visits here as a guest but… you’re a fixture now. Let them see you’re more than what the stories say. That you’re a woman who loves stir-fried rice and sesame chicken as much as the next person.

“I really do,” Ēostre admitted. “I could go for a large order now, even if Max claims it’s never spicy enough.”

The young woman nudged her in the ribs with her elbow. “Then get it done, missy.”

They embraced like old friends, much to the surprise of a passing housekeeper tidying a nearby picture frame in the central hall. When they separated, Ēostre drifted to the middle-aged human woman and flashed a friendly smile. “Hello,” she offered.

The maid, a portly woman in her fifties with graying wisps of hair at her temples, froze on the spot. She resembled a statue at first, then she quickly regained her wits to speak. “Hello, Mrs. Emberthorn.”

“There’s no need to fear me. I… understand many of you among the senior staff have reservations about remaining.”

“Oh no, not me. I enjoy my job here at the White House,” the woman said quickly.

“And my husband enjoys your presence among the staff,” Ēostre replied, taking a stab in the dark. “He’s had only the most pleasant things to say about each of you regarding dedication to your duties. You’re Annalisa, right?”

“I am.”

“And I’m Ēostre. Please, I’d like to be on a friendly basis with everyone.”

With each person she met along the way to the ground floor, Ēostre lingered for small talk and conversation. While some quickly fabricated excuses to hastily return to their duties, some engaged her eagerly in conversation, fascinated by the answers to their tentative questions.

After an hour, she consulted her phone while standing beside the entrance to the kitchen.

No one’s leaked it to the gossip columns and media. Maybe they’re as devoted as Lynette says. Maybe they’ll keep it to themselves until the big press conference tomorrow.

Her heels clicked over an exquisite, gold-trimmed rug as she navigated the central hall. The White House interior wasn’t new to Ēostre. She’d been a visitor over the year during their public courtship, but marriage gave her new perspective as the woman of the household, as opposed to a visitor who would one day reign over it all.

Nervous, she ran her fingers through her tidy, platinum hair, and stepped into the kitchen. All at once, the scurrying of several employees halted and heads turned her direction.

“Hello,” Ēostre said in a gentle voice to them. She waited in the doorway of the massive kitchen as neatly dressed men and women in white jackets hurried to and fro. The man she presumed to be the supervisor of the cooking staff beelined to her as if his pristine jacket was on fire. “You must be Chef Teller. I don’t believe we’ve had the chance for an introduction before.”

“Mrs. Emberthorn, what an unexpected pleasure. Is there something you require?”

“No, nothing like that. I only wanted to introduce myself and settle any concerns you might have regarding recent events.”

“We are prepared for any eventuality, ma’am. Special diets included.”

“Oh that won’t be necessary. Continue to feed us both the way you’ve prepared his meals for the past year, only, ah…” After a brief hesitation, she gently said, “please increase the serving size. Plan each of our private dinners to provide leftovers for three or four people. We’re nocturnal and sleep rarely at night. If that isn’t possible, sandwiches will suffice. Maximilian enjoys spicy meatball subs — the messier and soggier the better. I fear he’s been eating poorly to avoid revealing his night time dining habits.”

“That’s it?”

She nodded. “No steers are necessary.”

The man looked aghast. “That reached you? Mrs. Emberthorn, I’m sorry—”

To ease his mind, she flashed a sunny smile. “There’s no need for apologies. We are what we are, after all. My son’s caretaker does own many fine creatures of excellent dining quality, and while I do enjoy them from time to time, that will not be necessary here. We would never tax you in such a way.”

“If you keep late hours, I can be on hand to prepare—”

Ēostre shook her head. “No. I speak for my husband as well as myself when I say we’d prefer for you to go home at a reasonable hour each night. Do you have a family?”

“Why… yes, a wife and a daughter.”

“Then strive to be gone no later than six each evening. Have dinner with your loved ones, Alan. They’re precious to us, and even I as a dragon know the value of family. My son and his wife shall be visiting us frequently, I’m sure, and they’ll be bringing a little girl with them. We’ll always try to give you advance notice.”

The chef’s smile brightened his otherwise stern visage. “Children are always a welcome addition to the White House halls. Will she have any specific needs?”

Ēostre chuckled. “Astrid is not a picky eater and will enjoy whatever you prepare, I promise.”

She and Teller chatted for a while longer before the man gave her a tour of the kitchen and its adjoining rooms. As she discussed their favorite cuisines and let him in on Max’s hidden secret — his reluctance to bother the cooks — they shared a laugh about some of the man’s stranger antics over the past year.

“Now we understand why an entire roast disappeared over the holidays. No one could account for where it went!”

She left the kitchens feeling lighter and more at home. The acceptance she’d found from a majority of the staff gave her hope.