Chapter Text
The Midnight Skies of Summer
Nesta glanced around the House of Wind, cautious. Careful. “Is it clear?” she asked softly.
The House responded in its usual quiet way—by drawing back the curtains. Sunlight poured in, golden and warm, painting the walls with soft morning light.
She allowed herself a small smile, then slipped into her bathroom. The door shut with a quiet click, and as it did, she let the glamour fall.
Instantly, the House moved in harmony with her needs. It drew her a bath—warm, but not too hot, just the way she liked it.
She eased closer, her body protesting each step. Her muscles ached, her feet throbbed, and a deep, persistent soreness pulsed low in her stomach. She sank into the water with a sigh, grateful for the brief illusion of peace.
A bowl of steaming soup appeared beside the tub, and she didn’t hesitate. She ate quickly, almost desperately, though her heart longed to savor every bite. She didn’t know how long she had. Cassian and Azriel could return at any moment, and she wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk being discovered.
As bubbles curled around her, hiding the swell of her belly beneath a blanket of foam, the House whisked away the empty bowl.
Then came footsteps. Her moment of peace shattered like glass dropped on stone.
Cassian stepped into the room, the air shifting—tightening—with his presence. His jaw was set, shoulders rigid, tension radiating off him in waves.
“There you are,” he said, voice clipped, eyes scanning her like he was searching for something he couldn’t quite name. “I was looking for you.”
“I wanted to wash off the sweat from training,” Nesta replied, keeping her tone light, steady.
His eyes flicked to something on her cheek.
“And have a snack?” he asked, stepping closer.
He reached out and wiped a smear away with a calloused thumb, slow and deliberate.
“You’ve gotten sloppy, Nes,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Too many treats. Not enough effort.”
Her pulse spiked. If he stepped into the bath, reached beneath the water—everything would unravel.
“You’ve been distant lately,” he added, quieter now. “Up before me. Reading until I’m asleep. You disappear into the library for hours.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she murmured.
True. And a lie all the same.
Cassian’s frown deepened. He brushed damp strands of hair from her face, fingers gentle but searching. “You’re anxious. I can feel it through the bond.”
Nesta swallowed hard. “It’s just... a bad mental health day.”
Another truth, twisted.
Cassian stepped back, something cold sliding into his gaze. “You live here, rent-free. You have food, clothes—everything you could want—and you say you’re having a bad day?” His voice dropped, sharp. “You’re so ungrateful.”
The door slammed behind him.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Nesta exhaled slowly, her hand trembling as she laid it over her belly, fingers smoothing across the curve. “Nine months,” she whispered, “and your father still doesn’t know about you. Maybe it’s better that way. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
A note shimmered into existence, delicate as starlight. Gwyn had found the ancient spells. The magic tethering the House of Wind could be undone—freeing it to follow them.
Freedom. Not yet.
But close.
So, so close.
Nesta moved swiftly, hands steady despite the thrum of her pulse. She whispered the spellwork, cloaking her scent in layers of carefully woven magic. Then, the glamour shimmered over her skin once more, hiding the truth beneath illusion.
Nine months and three weeks pregnant—though to anyone else, she looked unchanged. But her body knew. Her aching back. Her swollen feet. The way her breath caught each time the baby shifted. Glamour could mask the shape of her belly, but not the pain, not the weight of it all.
She slipped out of the bathroom, pausing only to burn the note Gwyn had sent. The ashes vanished with a flick of her fingers.
Her steps were light, cautious, though her feet throbbed with every movement. She made her way down the hall to her old room—one she rarely entered anymore, not wanting to draw suspicion from Cassian or Azriel. The door creaked faintly as she pushed it open.
She went straight to the dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. Inside, tucked beneath layers of folded clothes, was Merrill’s note. She scanned it again.
I will winnow you, Gwyn, and Emerie to the Summer Court. I cannot promise sanctuary—but I can get you there. -Merrill
Nesta exhaled slowly. She folded the letter and buried it deeper, stashing it beside her emergency supply of clothes and a small bag of coin she’d siphoned from Cassian over the past few months—small amounts at a time, never enough to raise alarm.
Ever since she discovered the pregnancy, dread had lived in her like a second heartbeat. Telling Cassian had never felt safe. Not for her. Not for the child.
It was Emerie who’d first voiced the plan. Gwyn who helped shape it into something real. And tomorrow morning, they would run.
Nine months of hiding. Of maneuvering around Cassian and Azriel with care. Of managing her silences and masking every symptom. Nine months of decision after impossible decision: carry the baby or terminate? Keep the child or give it up?
She had denied herself everything. No celebrations. No joy. She didn’t even know the gender, didn’t know if the child would have wings or not. She couldn’t risk a healer, though the priestesses had begged her to.
Her pregnancy had not been about wonder or hope.
It had been about survival.
For her—and for the life growing inside her.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Merrill asked, her voice quiet but firm as she stood across from Nesta in the library’s hushed glow.
“Yes,” Nesta replied without hesitation. “It’s the only way.”
Merrill hesitated. “You could deliver the baby. We could arrange for an adoption. The Mother’s Church has done that… too many times, unfortunately—but it is an option.”
Nesta’s throat tightened. Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t look away. “I can’t risk it. If they find out—if I slip, even once—I don’t know what they’d do. If they knew I had a child… his child… and gave them up—” Her voice cracked. “No. I won’t give them a reason to take my baby from me.”
Merrill’s stormy eyes softened. She reached across the table, curling her weathered hands around Nesta’s. “I’m not a mother by blood,” she said gently, “but I’ve raised many orphans. As Mothers, we do what we must for our babes. And whatever choice you make—the Mother walks beside you.”
A shift in the air. The library seemed to still—grow heavier somehow—before Gwyn, Emerie, and Brook appeared in a shimmer of movement. Gwyn’s copper hair caught the light as she stepped forward, smiling, and held out a small, intricately woven satchel.
“Here,” she said. “The House is inside.”
Brook leaned over Nesta’s shoulder, grinning. “House of the Satchel,” she said, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Let’s go,” Merrill urged. “Quickly now. Brook, you know what to do.”
Brook nodded and turned, sprinting back into the heart of the library.
Merrill grasped one of Nesta’s hands, Gwyn took Merrill’s other, and Emerie clutched Nesta’s free arm. Together, they stepped into the Summer Court.
Warmth. A sudden change in the air. The sharp scent of salt and sea grass. The dull roar of the ocean. The humid heat of the Summer Court pressed against Nesta’s skin—and still, the breeze was fresh, welcome.
They landed softly at the base of the Summer Palace steps.
“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice rang out.
Cresseida stood on the marble stairs, sunlight catching on the edge of her gold cuffs. Her expression was unreadable.
“We seek sanctuary,” Emerie said, lifting her chin.
Cresseida raised a brow, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “That’s for Tarquin to decide. And the last time an Archeron came here with her two friends—she stole from us.”
Nesta stood between Emerie and Gwyn, clutching the skirts of her dress as if they were the only thing anchoring her to the world. The blood roaring in her ears drowned out every voice, every whisper of conversation around her.
“Lady Nesta,” Tarquin said gently, his sea-blue eyes calm and searching. “You seek sanctuary in Summer. Why?”
Nesta swallowed hard, anxiety tightening her throat. She dropped the glamour she created, hiding her swollen stomach.
“I… I’m pregnant. With Cassian’s child,” she said, voice trembling. “And I fear not just for my own life—but for the life of my baby. I am due in a few weeks. . .I can risk my life, but I don’t want to risk my child’s.”
Ever since she’d met Bryce and handed over the Mask, a crack had splintered between her and the Inner Circle. She’d felt the shift—the way Cassian’s anger simmered beneath the surface, the way the others kept their distance. One wrong move, and she knew: they would not hesitate to end her.
Or worse, take her child. Claim she was unfit.
She glanced up at Tarquin, who studied her with a softness that threatened to unravel her. Even Cresseida’s eyes glistened with sympathy.
“Sanctuary is granted,” Tarquin said, voice steady. “For all three of you.”
He added, “Any of the priestesses in the library seeking refuge may have it as well.”
“Thank you, High Lord,” Gwyn said, her voice firm despite the tension in her posture.
Tarquin turned his attention back to Nesta. “You fought in the War against Hybern. In Summer, we honor our veterans. Eight thousand pounds a month, for life. A bank account will be set up by nightfall.”
Nesta let out a shaky breath, her muscles finally beginning to unclench. “Thank you.”
Tarquin offered a small, warm smile. “Cresseida, take them to the Glen, set them up in a home.”
Cresseida descended from the dais and reached for Emerie and Nesta, linking hands. Gwyn gripped Nesta’s other hand. In a blink, they were winnowed away from the Summer Palace—and into a different world.
A great river sliced through the valley, its waters sparkling under the blazing sun. Elegant stone bridges arched over it, connecting both sides of the sprawling city.
“One side is residential,” Cresseida explained as they followed a gravel path toward the heart of it. “The other holds the shops and vendors.”
“It’s beautiful,” Gwyn breathed. And it was.
Nestled in a lush valley, hills rolled with vineyards and rows of fruit trees. The homes were crafted from pale stone, their golden roofs gleaming in the light. Yards overflowed with herbs, vegetables, and blooms. Broad streets allowed space for wagons to pass each other. Laughter rang in the air—children chasing each other, unburdened by fear.
And the Summer sun. Mother above—the sun felt so good on Nesta’s skin.
“No one can find you here,” Cresseida said softly, leading them to a spacious white home with ivy creeping up its walls. “This city is hidden. Only the High Lord can permit entry.”
“Like Velaris?” Gwyn asked.
“Similar,” Cresseida replied. “But our ancestors went further. See those hills? To any outsider, this place looks like a winery surrounded by orchards. No city. No homes. Just grapes and trees.”
She gestured to the house. “All fae are provided a home in Summer, this will be yours– unless if you wish to look at others. It has four bedrooms, but the homes are enchanted. If you need more rooms, they’ll appear—though the outside will remain unchanged. The house will reflect your individual preferences, but unfortunately, does not provide food, comfort, and books.”
“Like the House of Wind?” Nesta asked quietly.
“Yes, a different version of the House, hopefully less opinionated.” Cresseida said with a wry smile.
“Thank you. We appreciate it,” Emerie said.
Cresseida gave a graceful bow of her head, then turned to Nesta. “There’s a healer here—Kareen. She specializes in births, including those involving winged babies.”
“Thank you,” Nesta whispered, voice hoarse.
The three females stepped into the home.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off chandeliers lit with faelight. Nesta set her satchel down—and magic surged. The House of Wind burst forth from it, tendrils of enchantment slipping into the walls, claiming the space.
“I’m so glad you found that spell, Gwyn,” Emerie said as chocolate cakes materialized on the table, bookshelves filled with romance novels, and portraits of the trio—alongside paintings of Summer skies and flying pegasi—bloomed across the walls.
“Thank you, Gwyn,” Nesta whispered, smiling faintly. Her heart settled, just a little. Her friends were here. Gwyn. Emerie. And the House.
“I just wish I could see Rhysand’s face when he realizes the House’s magic is gone,” Gwyn said with mock sorrow.
“Let’s get settled,” Emerie said with a grin. “Then we relax, and mock Rhysand.”
“We’ll see the healer tomorrow,” Gwyn added gently, glancing at Nesta. “Get you prepared for the birth.”
“And to check if the babe has wings,” Emerie said. “I know you adjusted your body for that, but winged births are different.”
“Am I doing the wrong thing?” Nesta murmured. “Keeping a father from his child?”
Emerie placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “Look at me,” she said. “I grew up in Illyria. You’re not the first female I’ve met who fled for her life and her child’s. You won’t be the last.”
“Any male who lets his family threaten you,” Gwyn added, “isn’t a father. You’re protecting your child. That’s love, Nesta.”
“He never hit me,” Nesta whispered.
“There are different kinds of abuse,” Emerie said softly, pressing her forehead to Nesta’s. “And you… you have the same haunted look my mother had.”
Nesta’s throat tightened. “Thank you. For being here,” she said, pulling them both into a fierce, grateful hug.