A few minutes later the grand dining hall of House Valerian looked less like a noble breakfast and more like a fever dream that had discovered table manners.
Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, scattering prisms across the mile-long mahogany table already groaning under silver platters of buttery croissants, honey-glazed ham steaming with clove and orange, towers of pancakes dripping syrup thick as liquid amber, and bowls of strawberries so red they looked embarrassed. The air was a dizzying cocktail of warm bread, smoked bacon, melted chocolate, and the faint lingering ozone from Cassian's earlier lightning tantrum.
Everyone had, mercifully, located clothes.
Aurelia Valerian (now in a flimsy silk robes the colour of sunrise) perched on the right arm of my chair, one bare leg swinging, feeding me forkfuls of strawberry pancake while occasionally "accidentally" elbowing Lyria.
Lyria Valerian (robes the colour of midnight, naturally) occupied the left arm, pressing honeyed figs to my lips with deliberate slowness, then stealing kisses that tasted like sugar and mischief. Every time their eyes met over my head, tiny sparks (literal sparks) crackled between them, accompanied by hissed whispers of "Mine," "No, mine," and the occasional playful nip at my earlobes from both sides. My lap had become disputed territory; I was the very contented no-man's-land.
Across the table, Elder Garrick (finally in a velvet dressing gown the size of a circus tent) and Matron Elowen (now primly buttoned into a high-necked gown, jasmine perfume still clinging like gossip) were feeding the children with the solemn ceremony of generals distributing rations. Syrup ended up in hair, bacon became airplane fuel, and one toddler wore half a pancake as a hat. Their laughter bounced off the vaulted ceiling like silver bells.
At the far end, Seraphine (elegant emerald dress, slit dangerously high) sat sideways on Cassian's lap, feeding him forkfuls of omelette while he tried (and failed) to look dignified. Every time he opened his mouth for food, she stole a kiss instead. Tiny lightning bolts danced along the silver cutlery in protest. Cassian's cheeks were roughly the same shade as the strawberry jam.
Vespera Valerian, still fully armoured in midnight silk and authority, stood at the head of the table in quiet conference with Reginald the head butler. Her voice was low thunder; his replies were crisp winter wind. Whatever they discussed made the chandeliers flicker nervously.
The rest of the cousins (Lirael, Sienna, Mira, Thalia, and the remaining boys) crowded around them, leaning in, arguing, gesturing with butter knives and half-eaten croissants. Someone's orange juice sloshed onto the tablecloth in passionate emphasis. Nobody cared.
Plates clattered, children shrieked with joy, Seraphine laughed throatily, Cassian groaned through another stolen kiss, Aurelia and Lyria turned feeding me into a competitive sport that involved far too many lingering lips and whispered threats of later revenge.
The hall smelled like warm pastry, expensive perfume, syrup, and barely contained chaos. Sunlight poured through stained-glass windows, painting everyone in jewel tones while the storm outside rumbled away like it, too, had decided breakfast was more interesting.
It was loud, sticky, ridiculous, and perfect.
House Valerian, fully clothed (mostly), utterly shameless, and very much alive.