Reborn From the Cosmos

Miniarc-Meet the Parents-08

Being a noble comes with certain expectations. Power and wealth are the big ones, both inheriting it and pursuing it. Responsibility is a distant third, for most. There are the odd counts and barons that are the comically pure-hearted leaders that treat their citizens like extended families. Maybe I’m a cynic, but good intentions like those just aren’t maintainable when governing a territory of thousands. That’s too many people to know personally, too many problems to become personally invested. At some point, people become numbers.

Marriage is another big obligation of nobility. It’s an integral part of government, really. They’re used to forge alliances, preserve bloodlines, and even to smooth over problems. A good marriage can be the foundation for change. It opens communications between territories. Can facilitate trade. Be the basis of an exchange of information, both magical and scholarly, secrets held in families for generations brought to light.

Most noble children understand that marriage is a duty, not a lifelong quest for fulfillment. Doesn’t matter if you’re an inheriting son or a seventh daughter. The only exceptions are those with enough personal power, magical or otherwise, to refuse and even then, they risk alienating their family. A harsh price to pay for avoiding popping out a kid or two. Especially when mistresses and pretty boys are both prevalent and accepted, as long as they are handled with the proper discretion. It’s just the way things are done.

I thought my life would be the same, hitched to some average-looking, average-thinking, average-everything nobody that had enough money and/or influence to benefit the family but not so much he made our Grimoire overlords nervous. I’d drop a kid, who I might or might not resent, and then throw myself into summoning. Or excessive drinking. Or summoning and excessive drinking, a bad combination.

Part of that was the expectation that I would have to make nice with another family, one that didn’t understand the Tome ways and would probably be just as disappointed with the match. In other words, an uphill battle.

Saints, I had no idea.

I’m a mess as I ride through the city I broke on the way to the Grand Hall. Inwardly. Outwardly, I like to think that I appear to be calm and in control. Not at all concerned about meeting Talia’s adoptive father in all but name.

Understandably, the fact that Baron Remmings, accomplished mental caster and head interrogator, came to visit his heart daughter and only disciple slipped my mind. While we were away battling titans, he dropped in on our flower, ready to drag her back to the capital. Must be something in the water with all these fathers crossing great distances to drag errant daughters back to their supposed duties.

To be fair to Orum, he’s far more understanding than I would expect from the man that married Morgene and raised Kierra, but that’s supposedly a new trend, owed to his journey of self-discovery he took after Kierra’s imprisonment. And Lord Remmings is a darn sight more reasonable than him. It’s hard to imagine, but he accepted her decision not to take over for him. He’s stuck around to change her mind, which I don’t think is unreasonable. No threats to drag her back. No attempts to stick his fingers in her mind and scramble what’s inside. Makes the man practically a saint in my book.

If Talia is as nervous as I am, she’s doing a masterful job hiding it. Her expression is as expressive as ice, her eyes closed as she relaxes on the plush cushions of my custom carriage. She enjoys dressing up these days but she’s more dressed than usual; a salvaged yellow dress with white underskirts, laundered till it gleams, a white ribbon tying up her hair, and a delicate silver brooch around her neck. She makes for a cheery picture, which is the point. She wants to show her life-long guardian that she’s very happy with her chosen partners. I think the bright colors are also supposed to distract him from the gloomy aftermath of my rampage, but I don’t have much hope of that.

“There’s really nothing you can tell me to get on the interrogator’s good side?” I ask again.

“Short of allowing him to peruse your mind at will, there is nothing that will make him like you,” she says breezily. “It’s best not to worry about it.”

“I’m worrying.”

Her lips turn up the tiniest fraction. “What can he do to you?”

“Nothing. But you want us to get along, right?” It’s important to her and that makes me worry about messing it up.

“I would prefer that he accepts us and your generosity. I owe him and, as you know, I am someone that pays her debts. If he rejects you, then he is the only one who will suffer.”

That’s a relief. “Do you think he’s likely to? Reject me, us, you know?”

“He has expressed nothing but disapproval so far.”

I wince. “He needs to change his mind.” Because if he doesn’t come to dinner tonight, he’s not just throwing an insult in my face. He’ll be insulting Kierra’s parents, who are expecting the clan to sit down and parley. They’ve set aside their violent impulses to have a civil conversation, they fully expect Lord Remmings to do the same. If he doesn’t, he refuses to meet them on neutral ground, that’s an inherently hostile action. A threat. I don’t want to imagine how either of those two will react to being threatened, even peripherally.

“Then you will need to be very convincing.”

“That’s a lot to put on me. You’re his daughter. Aren’t fathers supposed to dote on those?”

“Did your father dote on you?”

“…good point. I promise I’ll get him to dinner.” Even if I have to knock him out and kidnap him.

“I know.”

Hah. That unconditional belief really does something before me. I never understood why the smaller nobles surrounded themselves with ass kissers, useless people who did nothing but praise their every action, no matter how good or bad it was. Now, I get it. “Come here.”

She obediently slips into my open arms, climbing onto my lap. Doesn’t open her eyes but I can feel her attention focused on me. “Talking to Lord Remmings isn’t going to be easier if I show up looking ruffled.”

“Probably not but it’d be funny, wouldn’t it?”

“Whatever pleases you, Lou.”

My hand crawls along her side. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

My hand migrates to the back of her neck, holding it lightly. She sighs. It’s not enjoyment or exasperation. Just the acknowledgment of the touch and what it means. “Pretending.”

My fingers start to massage, touch light as I can make it. Her next sigh is a little deeper. This time it is inspired by pleasure. “It’s not a hard part to play,” she whispers. “You treat me well.”

“You can live without me. Live well without me.”

“I choose you,” she moans as I increase the pressure. “If you are worried that it could be the wrong decision, make sure I don’t regret it.”

Huh. Breaking character a bit? Or is she fine tuning her performance for me? It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that I like a little arrogance. And I think she’s taking a liking to running things in the bedroom, which is no surprise. She likes control, of herself and her surroundings. Yet, she follows my hand as I urge her to lie down on the bench.

We’ve got time to kill and I’ve got enough self-control not to rip anything. Maybe.

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