House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(131)

She stares down at her bare, shapely legs as though to check whether she’s wearing appropriate attire. “Would it be very odd if I went to breakfast wearing Mattia’s shirt? I really don’t want to don that red dress again.”

“I’ve done it before. It got me looks.”

“His shirt it is, then. Let me just get some shoes and—” She’s running her fingers through her hair, or attempting to; they get stuck at the root. “Oh. My. Gods.” She rolls her eyes as though to cop a look at her hair. “Fuck . . . I slept on wet hair. Fuck.” She tugs on the strands to force them to straighten.

“Syb, I know you hate your curls, so you may not care about my opinion, but I’m still giving it to you. You look gorgeous.”

She narrows her eyes as though she expects me to break out into a fit of giggles. Except I’m not because I meant what I said. “I’m glad my curls appeal to you, but they do not appeal to me.”

“Syb . . .”

“Is there anyone in your rooms? Like, a slumbering king?”

I smile. “No.”

“Fantastic. Can I borrow a shower and a dress?”

“Of course.” My stomach gurgles so loudly that it hitches the downturned corners of Syb’s mouth.

“Go to the tavern. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can tame my Giana-hair.” The mention of her sister’s name makes a swallow jostle her throat.

I grip her hand and give it a squeeze. “Lore will get her back. I swear he will.”

She nods, then glances over her shoulder at the large shape burrowed beneath her covers.

I drop my voice. “Is he still asleep?”

“Yeah. I suspect he’s going to try and sleep his heartache away.”

Is that even possible?

“Better apathy than vengeance, right?” she murmurs.

I don’t remind her of the different stages of grief, that anger will undoubtedly follow the dispiritedness. She doesn’t need additional worries. Besides, deep down, I think she knows her boyfriend will someday thirst to avenge his cousin’s death.

We part ways after she closes her door. While she heads south, I head north to the Sky Tavern where only one person is seated—Bronwen. I’ll admit the hour is odd—long past breakfast but way too early for lunch.

I sidle up to the bar where Connor is arranging cloves of garlic and sprigs of rosemary in glass jars. He does it with such care that one can tell he enjoys the task.

“Morning, Connor.”

He looks up, and, lo and behold, he smiles. At me. I’m so surprised that I don’t automatically return the sentiment. And yet it doesn’t seem to irk him since the corners of his full lips stay lifted. What have I done to deserve such a kind look?

I finally wrangle my mouth into an answering grin. “I’d like to order everything on your breakfast menu.” I realize that I’ve never given him coin for all the food and drink I’ve ingested in the past and suddenly wonder how to pay. “Do I have a tab here?”

“No.”

“Then . . . um . . .” I play with the ribbon I tied loosely around my neck. “How do I pay you?”

“No one pays in Sky Kingdom; we trade.” His accent roughens his words but not his tone.

My decision firms. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to help out here. I used to work in a tavern so I know . . .” His eyes have gone so round that I ask, “Did I say something wrong?”

He tugs on the black collar of his long-sleeved top, dragging it so low that a necklace pops out from behind the fabric. “Sorry, but Lorcan’s mate not wait tables.”

My head rears back. “Why the ever-loving-Cauldron not?”

“Because you’re . . . you’re . . .”

At his third you’re, I mutter, “The king’s mate?”

“Yes.”

I snare my lower lip with my teeth. Had I married Dante, I’d have had to quit my job at Bottom of the Jug and move to Isolacuori. Though Lore is not Dante, he probably wouldn’t appreciate me serving food and drink to his people. I wish I had other skills I could put to use. I suppose that now’s as good a time as any to pick up a new one.

Nonna taught me to tend plants. I could garden with Arin! That way I could get to know her and—

“Fallon?” Bronwen’s voice steers my thoughts off Lorcan’s mother. “Come and have tea with me.”

Although there was no question mark or please at the end of that request, the manners Nonna drilled into me kick in. “Coming, zia.”

When I turn back around to ask Connor for a pitcher of coffee, the sun catches on the pendent strung to the leather cord and the sight halts my breath. It’s a rock. Not a precious one, yet the engraving is precious. To me, anyway, because it’s that curved V, the same one that graces Mamma’s rock. Yes, I realize Vs aren’t extremely original pieces of art, yet instead of straight, the diverging bars are curved in the same way as on my rock.

I jerk my gaze to Connor’s. “What does your pendant symbolize?”

He frowns.

I gesture to his necklace.

“Ah. It symbol of us. Crows.” He smiles fondly at the flat stone resting just beneath his collarbone. “My son make it.”

“Did he make one for my mother?”