returned.
Someone . . . someone needed to do something.
“They’re talking about plants,” Shallan said.
Balat and Jushu looked at her. Wikim continued staring at the fire.
“Plants,” Balat said flatly.
“Yes. I can hear them faintly.”
“I can’t hear a thing.”
Shallan shrugged from within her too-enveloping dress. “My ears are better than yours. Yes, plants. Father is complaining that the trees in his gardens never listen when he tells them to obey. ‘They have been dropping their leaves because of a sickness,’ he says, ‘and they refuse to grow new ones.’
“‘Have you tried beating them for their disobedience?’ the messenger asks.
“‘All the time,’ Father replies. ‘I even break off their limbs, yet they still do not obey! It is untidy. At the very least, they should clean up after themselves.’
“‘A problem,’ the messenger says, ‘as trees without foliage are hardly worth keeping. Fortunately, I have the solution. My cousin once had trees that acted this way, and he found that all he needed to do was sing to them and their leaves popped right back out.’
“‘Ah, of course,’ Father says. ‘I will try that immediately.’
“‘I hope that it works for you.’
“‘Well, if it does, I will certainly be relieved.’”
Her brothers stared at her, baffled.
Finally, Jushu cocked his head. He was the youngest of the brothers, just above Shallan herself. “Re . . . leaf . . . ed . . .”
Balat burst into laughter—loud enough that their father glared at them. “Oh, that is awful,” Balat said. “That is purely awful, Shallan. You should be ashamed.”
She huddled down in her dress, grinning. Even Wikim, the older twin, cracked a smile. She hadn’t seen him smile in . . . how long?
Balat wiped his eyes. “I actually thought, for a moment, you could really hear them. You little Voidbringer.” He let out a deep breath. “Storms, but that felt good.”
“We should laugh more,” Shallan said.
“This hasn’t been a place for laughter,” Jushu said, sipping his wine.
“Because of Father?” Shallan asked. “There’s one of him and four of us. We just need to be more optimistic.”
“Being optimistic does not change facts,” Balat said. “I wish Helaran hadn’t left.” He thumped his fist down on the side of his chair.
“Do not begrudge him his travels, Tet Balat,” Shallan said softly. “There are so many places to see, places we will probably never visit. Let one of us go to them. Think of the stories he will bring back to us. The colors.”
Balat looked across the drab blackrock room, with its muted hearths glowing red-orange. “Colors. I wouldn’t mind a little more color around here.”
Jushu smiled. “Anything would be a nice change from Father’s face.”
“Now, don’t be down on Father’s face,” Shallan said. “It’s quite adept at doing its duty.”
“Which is?”
“Reminding us all that there are worse things than his odor. It’s really quite a noble Calling.”
“Shallan!” Wikim said. He looked dramatically unlike Jushu. Spindly and sunken-eyed, Wikim had hair cut so short he almost looked like an ardent. “Don’t say such things where Father could hear.”
“He’s engrossed in conversation,” Shallan said. “But you are right. I probably shouldn’t mock our family. House Davar is distinctive and enduring.”
Jushu raised his cup. Wikim nodded sharply.
“Of course,” she added, “the same could be said for a wart.”
Jushu just about spat out his wine. Balat let out another roaring laugh.
“Stop that racket!” Father shouted at them.
“It’s a feast!” Balat called back. “Did you not ask us to be more Veden!”
Father glared at him, then returned to his conversation with the messenger. The two huddled together at the high table, Father’s posture supplicating, the highprince’s bastard sitting back with an arched eyebrow and a still face.
“Storms, Shallan,” Balat said. “When did you become so clever?”
Clever? She didn’t feel clever. Suddenly, the forwardness of what she’d said caused her to shrink back into her chair. These things, they’d simply slid out of her mouth. “Those are just things . . . just things I read in a book.”
“Well, you should read more of those books, small one,” Balat said. “It seems brighter in here for it.”
Father slammed his hand down on the table, shaking cups, rattling plates. Shallan glanced at him, worried as he pointed his finger at the messenger and said something. It was too soft and far away for Shallan to make it out, but she knew that look in her father’s eyes. She had seen it many times before he took his cane—or even once the fireplace poker—to one of the servants.
The messenger stood up in a smooth motion. His