House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(20)

Lorcan chokes on air, or perhaps on one of the bees cartwheeling about this magical greenhouse. When his face tips backward and laughter spills from him in deep, gravelly ripples, I realize he swallowed no bug.

I hate how much I enjoy his laugh.

A beautiful laugh does not a beautiful person make, I remind myself, before I can forget that the man standing before me has stripped me of one of my fundamental rights.

He sobers, yet his eyes keep dancing. “What am I going to do with you, Little Bird?”

It’s a rhetorical question, yet I say, “You could start by setting me free, Morrgot.”

That snuffs out the light in his eyes and turns the gold matte. We keep staring at one another, and although tension billows, there is no awkwardness. After all, how can one feel awkwardness before a man who’s seen one naked? Who’s heard all about one’s nipple burns and silly crushes on Faerie princes?

I deemed the Crow King a friend. Someone who merited my trust and my respect. Someone I could count on. But then he had to go and ruin it all by being greedy and selfish.

He must hear my thoughts because his lips flatten and his irises, which I considered matte, blunt like tarnished metal. His hands break away from their knot as he strides past me toward where Phoebus and Arin are attempting to carry a conversation.

Lorcan’s soundless footfalls peter out when he reaches Arin. The older Crow tilts her head to look up at him. Slowly she cups his jaw, drags his face down, and presses her cheek to his. I’ve come across many Crows in my hike across this rocky kingdom, and the only ones who pressed cheeks were mothers with their children.

Which means . . .

Which means that the woman Phoebus called a gardener is no horticulturist at all.





Ten





My mouth must gape because Phoebus traipses over to knuckle it shut.

“Did you know?” I hiss, watching mother and son interact.

“Do you really think I would’ve called her a gardener if I had?” He gnaws the life out of his bottom lip. “Thank the Cauldron she doesn’t understand Lucin.”

Arin runs her thumb across the hollow of Lore’s cheek, smoothing the edges of a black stripe.

He has a mother.

Lorcan has a mother he never mentioned—not once—during our voyage through Luce.

He has a mother.

Lorcan Reebyaw has a mother.

A mother?!

“Should I be worried?”

“About?” I finally tear my gaze away from Arin and Lore.

Phoebus’s head is tipped, and his eyes tapered. “About these berries melting my brain and robbing me of my sanity, since clearly, they’ve done away with yours?”

My crossed arms jolt. “The man has a mother, Pheebs.”

“Many men have mothers. Actually, all men have mothers. You do know how babies—”

“Not you, too,” I mutter.

“Why is this upsetting you so?”

“Because I spent days with him. Just him and me. And not once did he mention his mother was alive.”

“And he was supposed to tell you why?”

“Because—because—” I toss my hands in the air. “You’re right. He had no need to share anything private with me. He still doesn’t.” I add that last part because I can feel Lore’s gaze on my face.

I pluck Phoebus’s hand and drag him toward the hallway opposite where we came from, energy restored. Since most of my blood is concentrated between my face and heart, I can barely feel my feet, which is quite fortunate considering I plan on putting as much distance as possible between me and the shifter.

If he’d trusted me, he would’ve told me about his mother.

“This isn’t the way back,” Phoebus says as we slip beneath a stone arch and the ceiling slopes violently downward; probably because of the topography of the summit over our heads.

The sky is a deep purple flecked with stars by the time we pass beneath an archway that opens onto a grotto as voluminous as the vertical orchard, except this one boasts communal tables girdled by market stands. Each stand is equipped with firepits atop which are roasted produce, fish, and meats that put the Harbor Market’s wares to shame.

The crisscrossing strings of lanterns trickle as little light as the moon through the cupola carved inside the jagged rock ceiling, but torches have been welded, not only into the uneven walls, but also around each stand.

“Antoni told me about this place. It’s called Murgadh’Thábhain, which means the Market Tavern. It’s at the epicenter of the kingdom. It’s both a marketplace—the only one for that matter—and a tavern.”

I roll the foreign words over my tongue: Murrgaw Hawben.

Phoebus’s gaze narrows on the openings peppering the rock and the black wisps streaking in and out. “Huh. This must be proletariat housing.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“No doors. Stacked rooms.”

“Or it’s their version of a brothel.”

“Or that.”

“We do not have brothels in the Sky Kingdom because we deem the act of coupling sacred.” Lorcan materializes out of a shadowy pocket.

I wonder how long he’s been there, and why?

I make sure to wipe all traces of wonder from my expression and turn, pretending he isn’t present. Perhaps if I pretend long enough, he’ll vanish.