Book 4: A Night Out

Xander

That night, Father stands from his seat next to me. “As a token of gratitude for how you’ve welcomed us, we would like to offer you this chest, hand-painted by my own mother in anticipation of our trip.”

That is our cue. I reach under the table, and at the same moment as my Beta, Corwyn, lift the three-foot-long chest onto the edge of the partially cleared banquet table. Nonna’s delicate brushstrokes swirl across the slick, black surface in reds, greens, and purples. Father is lying, of course. Nonna’s hands shake like the last autumn leaves of late; she painted this chest some years ago, and he stored it in one of our rare water-tight rooms for an occasion such as this. But it has the intended effect. Oohs and ahhs ripple up and down the table from the dully dressed Dun’s Crossing nobles.

Alpha Kieran stands and runs his hand across the lid. “This is an incredible gift. Give your mother my deepest thanks.”

There’s a beat. Father’s sho