On the other hand, the king and several of his officials hold no such respect for Evander, and they certainly don’t hold back their opinions regarding my husband on my account.

It leaves me in a strange position, and though I always try to redirect the conversation away from what the king often refers to as “my offspring’s numerous insufficiencies,” I never seem to succeed.

Except for last week, when I told the king that if he wanted Evander to be prepared for the throne, he perhaps should have shown some forethought and trained Evander for the position from a young age.

Needless to say, I’ve been avoiding the meetings when I can.

“Now,” says my father, wiping his sweating palms on his apron. “Why do we coat cast iron with glass?”

“You ask me this question every day.”

“And?”

“And I get it right every day. One would think you’d trust that I know the answer.”

“Perhaps you remember the answer because I ask you every day.”

I laugh, then say, “Glass is resistant to chemicals in a way iron is not.”

“Much more resistant,” says my father, as if proud of the glass itself.

Indeed, he goes on with his daily ode to glass. “People underestimate glass, because they perceive it as easy to shatter. They assume iron is stronger, because iron does not break so easily. But glass is deceptively resilient, Elynore. The same chemicals which erode the iron, the glass finds to have little effect.”

“You should teach philosophy at the Academy, Papa,” I say, smiling up from my forty-thousandth pan this afternoon.

My father pokes out his lip and nods his head, as if he’s never considered this before, but thinks it’s a grand idea indeed.

“Life is like that,” he continues, apparently spurred on by my encouragement. “It is often the things that appear the most delicate that, when tested, we find to be the strongest.”

My father reaches out, squeezing my shoulder affectionately, and I can’t help the tears that burn at my eyes.

I don’t feel strong. Not anymore, at least. I haven’t for a while, not since losing my ability to form art with my glass. It’s not even about feeling strong, I suppose, but about feeling useful. Ever since Blaise disappeared and Asha and Kiran opened our eyes to the dangers brewing in Alondria, I’ve felt a sort of innate uselessness.

I’m not fae. I don’t have an immortal lifespan or unworldly strength. Asha is human like me, but she has her own powers. Her Gift of the Old Magic makes her useful. She saved Kiran’s and Fin’s lives through an illusion she’d crafted from nothing, didn’t she?

Not that I haven’t tried to be of use. Asha’s quick to remind me any time I feel useless that I’m the only one in our group who holds sway over the King of Dwellen, and that this is helpful in its own right. She thinks I’m the only one who can convince him of anything. Which was probably correct, up until my comment last week.

Still.

I stare down at the cast-iron pot in my hand and sigh.

It feels silly, thinking that if I could make art again, it would somehow be of assistance against the oncoming war that simmers. But in the art district, even the smallest pieces of beauty can bring joy to the downtrodden. Besides, don’t they send minstrels out to war to lift the spirits of the soldiers?

I pile my finished pot atop the heap and start on the next.

Thankfully, Asha arrives around lunchtime to save me from completing the rest of my cast-iron pots.

She pokes her head into the workshop, crinkling her nose in displeasure at the scent of soot and enamel.

“Is it that time already?” my father asks, jumping up in delight to greet the Queen of Naenden. “Time just flies when you’re lost in a train of thought.”

Queen Asha curtsies to my father, and a bashful look overtakes his face. He and my mother took to Asha immediately, which I find hilarious, since my father initially pitied the girl who had ended up the sacrificial bride to the Naenden king. I’m not sure how Asha was before, but she certainly doesn’t give off the aura of someone to be pitied. Even with the missing eye and the scars, there’s a self-deprecation about her that’s charming. One I somehow missed upon our first meeting.

She seemed so much older than me then, regal of sorts, but I’ve come to realize it was just part of the role of queen she plays.

In the end, Queen Asha isn’t above jokes that most would consider below her station, and my parents love her for it.

“For Jethro,” Asha says, pulling a parcel that smells of freshly baked bread from her pocket and handing it to my father.

Okay, so perhaps the baked goods that Asha never fails to pick up from Forcier’s on the way are what endear her to my parents. But who can blame them?

My father opens the parcel, revealing marbled sweet bread, his favorite. You have to stand outside of Forcier’s for an hour before he opens if you want a chance of getting any before the crowd devours it.

“You’re my favorite queen; did you know that?” my father asks, his brown eyes lit with joy at the scent of the loaf.

A bemused smile touches Asha’s lip. “I’ll happily assume that position while we’re waiting for Ellie to become a queen herself.”

“Yeah, well, we both know that’s never going to happen,” I say, happily taking the parcel Asha hands me. “My father-in-law is immortal, remember?”

Asha shrugs. “You never know. Being a heartless boor might wear him out one of these days.”

“Asha,” I say, though in truth it would be nice to speak as freely as she does. There are only so many disparaging comments I can make about my own father-in-law and remain on his good side.

“What?” Asha says, pulling out her favorite order, a sticky flaxseed cake, and munching on it. “A girl can hope, can’t she? Mind if I borrow Ellie for a little while?” Asha asks my father, as she always does, even though the answer is always the same—a bit of effortless grumbling about how perhaps he could spare his daughter if the queen truly needed me.

She grins and nods her head before ambling out into the yard.

I can’t help but laugh at Asha’s attire. It’s burgeoning upon summer in Dwellen, though you can’t tell based on Asha’s clothing choices. She’s taken to sweaters, having amassed a collection of them during her stay in Othian.

I’m not sure how she isn’t sweating, though I suppose Naenden is so torrid in comparison that she truly can’t stand to be out in normal clothes, even on the warmest of days.

“They’re like wearing a hug.” Asha gestures down to her knit sweater, as if reading my thoughts.

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes hugs,” I say, walking alongside her down the cobbled streets of Othian.

There’s a glint of mischief in her eyes when she says, “I’m not. That’s why I said they’re like wearing one.”

I’m not exactly sure why Asha makes the journey out of town to interrupt my sessions with my father every day, except that we’re both missing our husbands terribly and need a distraction from their absence.

We haven’t received word from them in over two months, and though that’s easily explained by the late-season snowstorm that has blocked the roads out of Mystral, it’s still unnerving not to have any contact with them.

I suppose we both needed a distraction.

Especially Asha, who has been screaming out in the middle of the night, awakened by cruel nightmares.

I unwrap the scone Asha got for me, but as soon as I bring it to my nose, another wave of nausea rolls over me. I wince, which Asha catches immediately with her discerning eye.

“Is it moldy?” she asks, peering over my shoulder to look at the pastry.