Lysander Veremond was lounging in his mother's drawing room when he was informed that Eros Tariel had come to visit. Lysander was not back a week from school.
Lysander was quietly leafing through one of the books on his mother's coffee table— a list of ancient, but defunct spells that had been published in elaborate and embroidered pages that struck Lysander as the Sorcerer's version of what illuminated manuscripts were to the human world. It must have cost Gemma a fortune.
He had started referring to his mother as "Gemma", much to her chagrin. And then she'd lovingly grab his chin between her thumb and forefinger and shake her head at him.
Eros entered the room without a sound. There he saw a boy sitting at the edge of a divan-- his dark blonde hair was short at the sides, while his straight mop had slipped down, boyishly, in front of his eyes.
"Why do you always look like some 17th century French aristocrat?" Lysander murmured not looking up from the book.
"Well," Eros Tariel had handed his ivory walking stick and his gloves to the anticipating servant. He had worn Veremond colors— a pale blue-green that was more wintry than spring— and dressed from head to toe in shiny silk and damask, "at least look up and pretend that you made that assessment fairly."
"It was a highly educated guess."
Eros had large, protruding eyes that were a sharp blue color, and they assessed the 17 year-old that didn't offer the man the courtesy of standing up: Lysander's features had sharpened; they lost their boyish sharpness. Or perhaps it was his knife-like irony, an unrelenting edge in his words and overall personality that had surged over time.
Perhaps it was the academy, Eros thought as he collapsed in a chair next to the divan where Lysander sat.
"So," Eros clasped his fingers together.
"So," Lysander mimicked, snapping the book shut and finally looking up at Eros.
Eros, too, had that same edge, but what Lysander had was raw and unfettered, an edge that could be mistaken for an always-swinging knife.
Lysander continued to watch the garden.
"I hear you disappear late at night," Eros spoke slowly, measuring each word and tone, making sure that it was all delivered without a hitch.
Lysander turned back to Eros.
"And?"
"And?" Eros shook his head, not understanding.
"And what else have you heard?"
Eros' eyebrows shot up and then lowered. "It's what your tutors tell me."
"Good, I don't have to cull my friends."
Eros rolled his eyes.
"As well as Adonis!"
"Can't Adonis mind his own business?" Lysander shot back.
"Well, he and I disagree about what you do, but we are quite worried how frequently you do it."
It wasn't long after Gemma Veremond in her blonde, silken glory floated into the drawing room. Eros leapt up, his entire person and expression changed immediately. He took her hands and kissed them both warmly. But Gemma could see on her son's face and general atmosphere in the room that they had quarreled.
"I hope everything is alright," she looked from one to the other— who would give her a sign first?
"All is well now that you're here," Eros rocked on his heels.
Eros wouldn't.
Lysander just inhaled deeply as he stood, and turned to the garden with his hands behind his back. He was the only one that wasn't wearing the icy Veremond colors— he was drenched in black and a deep cerulean that only lightened the color of his hair, the straight top part always fell in front of his eyes. He was constantly pushing it out of his face. He was the only Veremond that didn't have the characteristic violet eyes. The only other person in that family was his Aunt Irena. Both of them had slate blue. In the sharp autumn light that poured through, the color almost looked transparent.
"Please stay for dinner," Gemma entreated.
Eros demurred, but then agreed. Gemma's Talent was enchantress, and while Eros' Talent was manipulation: he could dialogue with animals and insects that could fly. Eros had developed the regrettable reputation as having little spies.
"Lysander's cousins, Valentine and Leda, will be joining us for dinner," Gemma kept trying to entice Eros.
"I think I met Valentine several years prior," Eros remarked.
"If you stay, you can meet her again," Gemma smiled.
Lysander just glowered at Eros.
Night climbed rapidly before the clock struck 7. Dinner was at 7:00, and Eros was walking around Gemma's garden alone, while Lysander brooded on the veranda, wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea. Soler, his older brother, stepped out and followed his gaze.
"Tariel," it was more of a question of confirmation than a statement.
Lysander just grunted an affirmative. Soler just watched Eros as he turned about below them. Judging by Soler's stony expression, he had no sooner warmed up to the idea of having a Tariel in the house as Lysander did with conversing with him. Just then, Eros spotted the two of them and raised an arm in a wave. Soler solemnly waved back. There was something almost sarcastic about Eros' gestured that contrasted sharply with Soler's constant stoicism. And for some reason, this exchange only made Lysander smile— he wasn't alone in his general discomfort.
"When is he leaving?" Soler asked as he waved, careful that his lips weren't readable.
"After dinner," Lysander said in his most needling voice, amused by Soler's apparent dislike.
Soler grunted again, his jaw twitching. Then he turned his deep blue eyes on his brother, "I'm glad one of us enjoys the discomfort we all feel about his presence."
"Hardly," Lysander breathed out. "How would you like it if you had someone constantly looking over your shoulder at everything you do?"
"You say that like you're the only one." Soler turned on his heels and went back inside.
Lysander only glared at his retreating figure. Of course he wasn't the only one— Eros probably had thousands of bugs and birds tucked somewhere spying on all of them. Gemma probably loved it.
Lysander just wrapped himself tighter into his blanket watching Eros.
It was after a few minutes when Lysander twisted his body around to look inside, and just as he did, he saw two slender figures cross in front of the threshold as they took off their coats. One sister, Valentine, had black hair that was twisted up into a chignon. Her deep purple dress complimented her dark skin and the blue in her violet eyes. Her sister Leda, however, was as pale as the moon, with feather-white hair that softly fell around her shoulders, and a pale dress— her whole body seemed to catch all the light in the house, and she glowed while Valentine seemed like a velvety shadow.
Eros was just climbing back up the steps just as Lysander was throwing off the blanket.
"That's her," Eros was just at Lysander's elbow.
Lysander jumped and then rolled his eyes-- "Who?"
Eros seemed to nod at the other end of the room just as Leda was the first to enter.
"Her?"
"Her."
"I thought it was the other one," Lysander glanced at Eros before turning back. He wasn't supposed to be so obvious.
"Not anymore."