House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(48)

“I’ll lend you some.”

“Dinner is serv—Oh hey, Gia.” Sybille swooshes past her sister in a teal tulle number that makes Giana’s mouth pucker.

“How much gold did you spend on dresses?”

Syb rolls her gray eyes. “I barely made a dent in what Lore left for us to use.”

“He left it for us to use on— Never mind. Just don’t spend any more on frivolous things, all right?” Giana backs up. “I’m going to shower before dinner. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Santo Caldrone, that one’s been tetchy since we landed here. I think the last time I saw her smile was back in the Sky Kingdom.”

“She very dedicated to cause.”

“We all are, Aoife,” Syb says.

Although I don’t refute this, Giana has been working with Antoni on helping Racoccins for decades. Syb and I, we’ve just joined their efforts.

“Come. You’re going to be floored by the entertainment quarters.”

Aoife trails us down the wide stairs, then around them, through a set of mirrored doors that Syb presses open with a great flourish. The U-shaped space is strewn with candles and tables and sofas and plush armchairs. I count five different sitting areas because, apparently, one isn’t enough.

As I stare around the garish crimson and gold room, I see Timeus’s head roll off his shoulders, and I jerk to a stop, jerking Syb to a stop in turn.

“What is it?” Sybille, who was explaining that the frescoed ceiling was apparently painted with real gold leaf, quiets and scans the room for danger. “Did you see someone?” she whispers, grip tightening around my arm.

“No.” I palm my throat, craving the feel of smooth skin. “It’s just—it’s just Ptolemy was a truly hateful man.”

“I could not agree with you more, micara.” Catriona bustles into the grand room, her gaze stroking over the heavy drapes. Is she picturing them open?

What lies beyond them? The manicured garden I spied from the long glass hallway? I’m tempted to part them to peek but Antoni was clear about keeping them closed. Not to mention I don’t want to endanger Aoife.

Catriona has moved on to scrutinizing her. “You should really wipe the dirt from your face. One, it looks like you’ve rolled around in the mud, and two, it gives what you are away.” Catriona has never been one to mince her words but her comment is unwarranted.

“It’s not dirt,” I say.

She flaps a hand. “Yes, yes, it’s war paint.”

“It’s tradition.” Smoke curls off my Crow guard’s rigid shoulders.

“A tradition that is not very popular these days.”

“Catriona, you’ve said your piece. Now leave Aoife alone.”

“Is okay, Fallon.”

My skirt isn’t ample, so there’s no fabric to grab, only fabric to claw at. I claw at it. “Why are you here, Catriona?”

“To aid the cause.”

“Except you don’t care about humans.”

“I care.” At my peaked eyebrow, she adds, “In my own way.”

“The truth, Catriona.”

She adjusts the black velvet gloves she’s matched to her black dress, a number which seems to have been created from a single bolt of fabric someone unrolled around her neck and crisscrossed around her body. “Fine. There was no more work to be had at Bottom of the Jug, and my roster of private customers held me accountable by association, so they stopped calling. Since I loathe silence and cannot live on air, I came here.”

“You said you planned on helping. May I ask how?”

“I made supper.” She gestures to a table laden with platters of food.

“You made—” I gape between the table and the courtesan. I’ve never seen Catriona lift a finger in the kitchen. “You know how to cook?”

“I am not entirely incompetent.”

“Yeah.” Syb releases my arm and walks over to the table, filching a paper-thin slice of fried zucchini. “Should’ve seen my face when she offered to cook.” She puts a crisped vegetable on her tongue and her eyelashes flutter. “Wow. Catriona.”

Catriona hikes up her chin and beams, then bustles toward the table.

Syb seizes a pitcher of wine and fills a glass. “Who else wants wine? Fal? Aoife?”

Aoife shakes her head.

“I’ll take a glass,” I say, and Syb carries one over.

“Catriona?” She offers her the other glass she’s carried back from the table.

As Catriona takes it from her, I start lifting mine to my mouth.

“Fallon, wait.” Aoife snaps out her hand and seizes the stem.

I jerk and some wine splashes out of the rim, dribbling down my arm.

“Sorry. I am to taste your food and wine.”

I balk. “Why?”

“For protection.”

“Protection from who?” My gaze hops between Syb and Catriona before arrowing toward the double doors through which Antoni, Mattia, and Riccio are striding, all three sporting embroidered tunics and tapered pants ending in polished cavalier boots.

I’ve never seen the fishermen trio garbed in anything other than sunbleached shirts and loose pants, so the sight of them in High Fae regalia is jarring. All they’re missing are points to their ears and tresses that reach past their wide shoulders.