After the soup is done, we just sit and talk about nothing in particular. The weather, mostly. Whether we're likely to see snow before the Holy Days end. My dad thinks it's likely, but my grandmother disagrees. If it hasn't snowed by sunrise on the Ship's Day, it won't until the next year, apparently. I can't help being a little sceptical of that, and wanting to test it against weather data, but I keep my mouth shut about it.

And politics: what to make of the new coalition government and how effective it will be. What Ariana Carling will be like as leader of the opposition. I mostly just listen, and try to get a sense of how people who aren't Blackthorns see the country's politics. My perspective has probably been somewhat warped by being best friends with Edward.

My observations are somewhat interrupted by my grandmother asking me what I think of the situation. I don't have a good answer. "What Ariana Carling has said sounds good in theory," I say. "It's a question of whether she's likely to actually follow through."

I'm glad that Edward isn't there to hear me say that. I don't know how much he'd object to it, to be fair. Despite all the time we've spent together, I don't have much of an idea of his true political leanings beyond his obligation to be an ardent royalist. It seems a little tragic, that he doesn't get to be public about his own views. Then again, nor does his father. Political power is not always a direct thing.

"And do you think she will?" my grandmother presses.

"It's impossible to say," I reply. "At least with the information I have." I realise too late that my phrasing could be misconstrued as implying that I have information which isn't public. That's the last impression I want to give. She doesn't mention it, though, thankfully, just replying "I suppose we'll see, then."

She doesn't particularly think that Carling is likely to follow through. She's heard too many big promises from politicians who've never come close to delivering on them. Why should this one be any different?

I'm not convinced by that argument. I do think there's something different about her, compared to most politicians. She's not part of the Rasina establishment, she's held no title or ministry before now. And there was what she tried to do after the election. That wasn't playing according to the established rulebook. So I'd be surprised if she settles down and becomes a conventional leader of the opposition after that.

Weather and politics discussed, my grandmother turns to what she made of this morning's service. I squirm a little in my chair, hoping that she won't ask me what I think of it. My religious opinions, such as they are, probably aren't wise to share with her. And besides, I don't remember enough of the service to say much about it, given… whatever happened inside my mind when I should have been paying attention.

Thankfully she doesn't ask me any questions that can't be answered with a handful of non-committal words, and after a few rounds of "Mm" and "I think so" she leaves the topic alone.

"Are you looking forward to turning sixteen tomorrow?" my dad asks at the next lull in the conversation.

I blink. Of course I know tomorrow is my birthday and I'll officially be an adult after then, but the thought has been overshadowed. Not just by Holy Days but by everything that's happened. Birthdays don't seem quite as important as they used to now. "I suppose so," I say.

"You were born on the Bird's Day?" my grandmother says, sounding surprised.

"I was." There isn't much else I can say to that.

"I'm terribly sorry," she says, "I've just remembered I need to take an urgent trip to the market for unspecified reasons completely unrelated to what I just found out."

I laugh. And appreciate her a little for recognising my birthday despite it being Holy Days.

"By all means, don't let us detain you any longer," says my dad, also laughing.

The market officially closes at eight after noon – it's just gone seven now – but a lot of the stalls tend to shut up earlier in the evening than that. She'll have to hurry if she wants to find something. So she does, and is gone within a minute.

"Well," says my dad once the sound of the door closing behind her has faded. "Are you okay?"

"Yes?" I say, slightly confused for a second as I wonder why I wouldn't be okay. Then I realise he wants to follow up on our conversation on the way to the coach. "Yes. I'm fine. I'm fine with her."

He lets out a sigh of relief. "I'm very glad of that."

"Me too."

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We read for a while until my grandmother returns. I studiously pretend that I'm not at all curious about where she's been or what she has in her bag and I have no reason whatsoever to suspect it's related to me. It's a silly game, but kind of fun.

I return to my book once she's gone, and I've nearly finished it by bedtime. I wouldn't miss out on that much sleep if I just keep reading for a few minutes longer… my dad gives me a knowing look, though, and I know he's not buying my excuses any more than I am.

"Fine," I mutter, setting the book down and trying not to sound too resentful. It is the sensible thing to do, even if leaving the book so nearly complete is painful. Especially since I won't sleep as well on the sofa as I would in a proper bed. Which makes me wonder how my dad seems fine after having done it for weeks.

I fall asleep quickly.

I wake in the middle of the night and wonder what time it is and whether I'm officially sixteen yet. I could cast a light-spell that would let me see the clock, but that would wake my dad. If I crept as close to the clock as I could and covered the light with my hands… still probably not worth it. But the question lodges in my mind, making it harder to get back to sleep.

Eventually I manage to accept not knowing and drift back to sleep. I dream of Edward, alone in his father's manor, wandering the halls and wishing I was there. I miss him too, but I don't regret coming home for the holidays. And then we're together, and I'm trying to find the words to express why I left him, and he doesn't get it. And then I say something cruel about fathers, something that I regret the moment the words leave my mouth, but they've been said and I can't take them back and I have to live with the terribly hurt look in his eyes and –

And I wake up again, confused by dream-logic and concerned that there might well be truth in the dream. It isn't hard to realise that Edward is probably desperately lonely, missing me and wishing his father actually had time for him during Holy Days. And that me disappearing to my own father probably makes that feel worse.

But, just as in the dream, I don't regret my choice. I'm not going to deny myself my family because it's something he can't have in the same way.

Also, it's the Bird's Day. It's my birthday. The childlike flutter of excitement that brings isn't quite enough to fully wake me up; the allure of warm blankets and not having to do anything is still too strong. I wouldn't mind just sleeping a little longer…

I don't fall asleep again, but I still enjoy just doing nothing, not having to do anything. Eventually the feeling that I should probably not lie here all day becomes strong enough that I untangle myself from the blankets and pad to the bathroom.

"Good morning," says my dad, smiling, when I get back. "And happy birthday!"

"Thanks. Good morning."

He's folding paper into the shape of a bird, I notice. That's a tradition of the Bird's Day. The bird is a metaphor for hopes and dreams, so you're supposed to let your paper bird fly out of a high window and think of your hopes for the new year. I've always thought that unless there's a very strong wind, having the bird come crashing down to ground is not a very appealing metaphor.

Hopes and dreams. That's a strange thought. I hope I make it through the next year without being assassinated or becoming mala sia. I don't have the faintest idea what my future looks like, or what I want it to look like.

I don't have to fix that today. For once I want to just enjoy the moment I'm in.

"We're having pancakes for breakfast," my dad says. "If that's okay with you?" The sparkle in his eyes says that he has no doubt it will be better than okay.

"I suppose I can tolerate them," I reply, lips twitching.

"Excellent. I'll start cooking at once, then."

And so he does. I offer to help, but he refuses point-blank. My grandmother appears in the kitchen and volunteers herself in my place. So I sit back and watch them whip up pancake batter together, smiling.

The first one comes out burnt, as they often do, so I'm not allowed to eat it. My grandmother wolfs it down with a large helping of sugar. The second pancake is perfectly cooked, and I happily devour it. Once a third is finally cooked we settle around the kitchen table, eating and smiling and enjoying being together. I'm surprised by how happy I'm feeling.

We've used up the last of the batter and my grandmother is just starting to wash up when there's a knock at the door. We glance at each other, startled and a little concerned.

"…I'll get it," says my dad after a moment's hesitation.

I bite back a protest. If it is dangerous, then it's likely danger directed at me, which means I shouldn't be the one opening the door. I dart out of the kitchen to position myself behind the sofa, where I can see the door but whoever is on the other side won't be able to see me. I try to work out what spells I'm likely to need, but my mind is racing too fast.

My dad opens the door. Standing on the other side is a young woman with a warm smile and a large parcel in her arms. "Special delivery for a Miss Tallulah Roberts," she says. "On behalf of Lord Blackthorn."

My dad and I both freeze. This could well be genuine, but the risk that that parcel is enchanted, and when one of us touches it… I don't know what to do.

The woman laughs at our hesitation. "And a message to deliver with it: you once asked me to marry you so you could get into my library. "

I let out a startled laugh. I did indeed once say that to Edward. When we were in his home together, and no-one else was in the room. Except possibly Elspeth, but I'm going to assume that Lord Blackthorn made the right decision in trusting her. I poke my head up from behind the sofa. "That – it's fine. It's from Edward."

"Then thank you," my dad says. "And sorry – "

"Oh, it's perfectly understandable. You have good reason to be wary." She lowers the parcel into my dad's arms. "Pleasure meeting you, Tallulah. I'd best be going."

My dad sets the parcel down on the nearest flat surface, which happens to be the floor, while I cross the room to shut the door.

"Did you actually…"

Ah. Maybe it wasn't a good thing that Edward chose that specific memory. "In my defence, I was probably in shock at the time. It was just after – the riot."

"Oh," he says flatly. I'm guessing the reminder of the time I nearly died isn't a pleasant one. But at least it distracts him from the realisation that I've technically proposed to a Blackthorn. Even if it was a joke. I wouldn't actually marry Edward for his library.

…well, that's less clear a decision than it perhaps should be.

I eagerly untie the strings on the parcel, slowed down by my clumsy fingers. Finally the paper falls away to reveal two stacks of books and a letter on top.

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