Five years later, in the Fitzgeralt Manor
Lucas was trying not to swear.
Which would have been easier if he weren't buried under three years of accumulated noble responsibility, two contradictory reports about western trade corridor sabotage, and a very loud, very unsupervised five-year-old pretending the state seals were dragon scales.
"Sebastian," Lucas said slowly, "that is an official dispatch from the Imperial Court."
"I know," Sebastian replied, gleefully from the rug. "It's shiny. I made it a cape."
Lucas inhaled through his nose. Counted to three. Counted again because Trevor wasn't helping.
In fact, Trevor, Grand Duke of Fitzgeralt, Marquis of Fitzgeralt economic predator of half the continent, and alleged adult, was lounging on the sofa like this was a casual spring afternoon and not a diplomatic war waiting to happen, casually flicking a paper bird into the air every time Sebastian demanded "another one."
"Trevor."
"Mm?"
