Although it was rude, he ignored the woman on his left and spent the meal conversing with Anneth. During the soup course, she made him smile with tales of her escapades in the court, including raiding the library and making off with as many lurid tales of mortals as she could carry. “One of us needs to know what you’ll be getting into when your human woman finally appears,” Anneth said, giving him a teasing look. “Did you know that mortals prefer strong light—even stronger than our brightmoon—and like to eat snails?” “That sounds most unappetizing.” “What, the light or the slugs?” “Both.” But the prophecy demanded he bear with honor whatever challenges a mortal wife would bring. “What is afoot with our parents?” Anneth glanced to the head of the table, where the Hawthorne Lord and Lady presided over the feast. “Mother looks as though she’s swallowed something surprisingly pleasant, and Father is absolutely gloating.” Bran leaned back to let the servant take his bowl, and did not speak until the man had moved away down the table.
