“Do you think Lachlan still loves Sera?” I ask when I can breathe again, surprising myself with the question.

Deria’s expression softens, and she stares into the distance as if caught in a daydream. “Yes. I think he’ll always have love for her. She helped him a great deal with his father, when he was alive and in death. She was a wonderful girl.”

I beam, happy that Lachlan was supported by someone he loved. “Do you think it might be too soon for him to remarry?”

Her eyes snap to mine. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Good morning, beautiful castle. Good morning, beautiful food.” We both startle as the doors slam open. Stig strides in with a cocky grin and gazes lustfully at every object he passes. “Good morning, beautiful women.” He wiggles his brows as his smile grows.

Deria laughs behind her hands, but I’m less than amused. I’ve no idea why he’s still allowed here.

“Perhaps you could write a song about their beauty,” Braizen calls as he enters. I roll my eyes. The last thing I want to hear on this peaceful morning is these two blathering, yet here they are.

“I could,” Stig says as he grabs a platter of eggs from the sideboard and sits next to me. “But not on an empty stomach.” He begins to devour the food with his hands. I frown and slide a fork towards him, and he acknowledges the cutlery, but continues to eat like a barbarian.

Deria holds a hand against her chest and eyes Braizen as he settles himself next to her. “And who might you be?” She asks flirtatiously.

“Prince Braizen, son of King Vaskis,” he says, staring deep into her eyes. “And you are Lachlan’s aunt, correct? Deria Thrope?”

I shake my head at his blatant display of charm, but the older woman laughs hysterically.

“I haven’t been called a Thrope in years, darling. I’ve taken many names in my day. I can’t even recall which one I’m using now! Though, you aren’t mistaken. I’m Lester’s sister, aunt to Theodore and Lachlan.”

“Ya know, I’m wondering something,” Stig says. He looks at the noblewoman. “How are King Lachlan and Princess Theodore so dark while you’re so pasty?”

Braizen chokes and coughs into his fist.

“My seventh husband once called me pasty!” she says. “In fact, he told me that if we ever visited the mountains of Verdana, he’d lose me in the snow.” Deria heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He died not two weeks later. Shame.”

The musician’s eyes widen, but Deria only sends him a dangerous smile.

“May the Lady offer him serenity in the afterlife, of course.” She adds.

The two men resume gobbling their food with feral intent until Braizen speaks.

“Do you have any children? Any cousins Lachlan hasn’t told me about?”