He clapped his hands together and walked toward me as I stood frozen, unable to move beneath the heavy stares. He took his place beside me, wrapping one arm around my shoulder, and I tried not to go rigid. The smell of leather polish and spice enveloped me, distinctly male scents that rarely filled my home in Nimsmire.
“Bryn, I’d like to introduce you, once again, to your uncles.” He lifted a hand toward the man standing beside Murrow. He had the same straight edge to his shoulders, but he wasn’t quite as tall as his son. The greatest difference between them was the pensive look on his face. Murrow had a perpetual humor in his eyes. “This is Casimir.”
The man lifted one of his hands from where it was tucked into his elbow in a silent greeting.
“And you know your cousin Murrow,” Henrik added.
Murrow gave me a nod and he looked as if he was about to laugh, making me feel embarrassed. I probably looked as uncomfortable on the outside as I felt on the inside.
“This is Noel.” Henrik pointed to a shorter man on the other side of the fire. He was younger and handsome, with wide, open eyes and a gentle set to his mouth. “He and his family live in the flat on the third floor.”
“Hello,” he said, quietly.
“His wife, Anthelia,” Henrik continued. “And their sons, Tru and Jameson.”
The young woman finally did look at me, but her eyes dropped almost as quickly as they found mine. The young boy, Tru, who’d answered the door that afternoon, poked his head out from behind her, formally tipping his hat as if he were a grown man.
“I’m sure you will all join me in welcoming our Bryn back to Bastian.”
Our Bryn.
The words put gooseflesh on my skin again.
Henrik clapped me on the back suddenly, sending me forward just enough so that I had to take a steadying step, and the room erupted with laughter, making me blush. Their manners were as confusing as their empty expressions. I couldn’t tell if they were happy to see me or if they were going to set me on a platter and have me for supper.
“All right.” Henrik moved to the head of the table and almost in unison, everyone broke from the fire, lining up behind the empty chairs.
A hand touched my arm, and I glanced up to see Murrow motioning me to the seat beside his. I was grateful. There was no decorum about these people. No apparent order. They were smartly dressed and groomed, but something about them had the look of feral creatures who’d been tamed. The only thing that seemed clear was Henrik’s leadership over the rest of them.
Everyone stood, waiting patiently, and I eyed the chair across from mine. It was the only one that was empty.
The table was set with fine china and silver, crystal goblets and linen napkins. There was a roasted pig in the center, wreathed in herbed potatoes and cooked apples. It was a familiar scene to me, except for the dark glass bottles that were poised at each end. Rye. Never in my life had I seen rye served at a proper dinner. It was the drink of filthy taverns and surly ship crews.
Henrik pulled out his chair to sit and the others followed, taking their seats in what looked like a choreographed movement. The fire was at his back, illuminating the small leather-bound book that sat at his right, the very same I’d seen on his desk.
“That chair’s been empty too long,” he said, giving me a smile.
I realized then that it must have been my mother’s seat at the table. The thought made me feel uneasy, but it was quickly followed by a sense of grounding. That’s why I was here, after all. To take her place. Carve out my own stake in the family. Help Henrik bridge the gap between Lower Vale and the guilds.
Murrow picked up a basket of bread and passed it to me. I stared at it, unsure of what he wanted me to do, and he stifled another laugh, plucking one of the rolls from inside and setting it on my plate. “You look like you’re about to crawl under the table,” he murmured, reaching over me to hand the basket to Noel, who sat at my other side.
“Sorry.” I attempted a smile, unfolding my napkin in my lap and at the same time watching the way everyone else left theirs crumpled beside their plates.
Heat crept up out of the collar of my frock, stinging my skin. I didn’t know how to act. What to do. And everyone but Murrow and Henrik seemed to be watching my every move, sending me side glances every few bites.
A door opened and closed somewhere in the house and I felt a shift in the warm air, as if someone had come in from the street. But no one seemed to notice, refilling their glasses with rye and roughly cutting into their food. Boots sounded through the doorway and a figure appeared, slipping into the dining room without a word. My eyes followed him as he moved around the table, finding the empty chair across from me.
He was a young man, dressed in a clean, white shirt and suspenders, with a dark brow set over even darker eyes. He was cut from a different cloth from the others entirely, with smooth, pale skin and defined features.
“You’re late,” Henrik said, his voice heavy and deep with reproach. He didn’t even look up from his plate, but the air in the room went cold.
“I apologize” was his only reply. He took his seat, sitting straight-backed, his eyes pinned to his plate.
The young man picked up his fork, serving himself silently as Murrow reached across the table to fill his glass. My grip tightened around the stem of my goblet when I noticed a patchwork of silver scars tracing over his hands. They wrapped around his knuckles and fingers, disappearing beneath the cuffs of his shirt.
“Don’t be rude, Ezra,” Henrik spoke again.
The muscle in his jaw clenched before he cleared his throat and finally, he looked up, his eyes catching mine. They were so focused that a flash of heat raced over my skin, making me swallow.
Ezra. A name I didn’t know.
“Pleased to meet you.” The words were polite, but they were missing any semblance of sincerity. And as soon as they left his mouth, his gaze dropped back to the table.
“Pleased to meet you,” I echoed, stabbing an apple with my fork. It hovered over my plate as I studied him.
There was something different about him, and not only in his features. I was sure I’d never heard his name from Sariah, but he looked about Murrow’s age. Maybe two years older than me. If that was true, he wasn’t blood. But if he was sitting at this table, then somehow, he was considered family.
“Ezra is our silversmith,” Henrik said, sensing my curiosity.
I looked down to his hands. That explained the scars. They were from the forge.
Henrik took another too-large bite of roast and chewed, setting his fork down on his plate with a clatter, and everyone looked up, dropping their own silver. My other uncles settled back in their chairs, pulling out small books from inside their vests, as if waiting for something.
I followed suit, setting my knife on the edge of my plate neatly and folding my hands awkwardly in my lap.
Henrik opened his book, flipping to a page filled with markings. From where I sat, it looked like a ledger.
“Casimir?” he began, picking up his quill.
There was a tense silence and I looked up to see more than one person looking at me. Whatever was being discussed, they were uncomfortable with me hearing it.
“Cass,” Henrik said, impatiently.
Casimir set his elbows on the table, shooting me a quick glance before he answered. “Are we discussing business tonight?”