House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(55)

“Morning has come and gone, Fallon. Just like your grandmother.” He’s replaced the gold studs lining his peaked ears with graduated black diamonds . . . or are they chiseled obsidian?

“So I hear.”

He neither edges closer nor does he proffer his hand. Then again, why am I expecting Dante to offer me a hand? He’s king now, and kings offer nothing to no one.

I can just imagine Lorcan grumbling that my judgement is harsh, but the Sky King does not complain. He does not speak a word, which reminds me of the night in Tarespagia when his voice disappeared from my mind for excruciatingly long minutes. Terror that something had happened to him had seized me then. Anxiety seizes me now.

What if I’m here because Dante has staked his enemy and is looking to do away with me next? I should’ve listened to my friends and stayed tucked away in Monteluce.

What am I going on about? If Lore had been immobilized, his people would be as well, and none have turned into statues.

Still, I try to sense his heartbeats but I do not know how to tune into his pulse. I’m about to ask Imogen, whose body steams as though she were about to burst into her bird form, before remembering what asking would reveal. Unless all Crows can sense their king’s heartbeats? I decide to assume he’s all right since no bird-shaped stone is plummeting from the sky.

“That is some crazy-ass ship.” Syb gestures toward the giant white vessel flying the Nebban flag. The hull is so shiny and white, it seems crafted from polished marble; but stone would sink, even if a whole fleet of air-Fae blasted air against it day in and day out. “I wonder how many coats of paint it takes to make it so white.”

“No paint.” Gabriele ogles the ship like Tavo eyed the doxies at Bottom of the Jug. “It’s fashioned from a material manufactured in Nebba.”

“What sort of material?” Syb asks as she steps onto the pontoon.

“A mix of different things.” He lists them all but the only two that stick are the pulped wood and heated natural gas.

Again, he offers me his hand.

Again, I don’t take it as I shuffle past Syb toward the Fae monarch who seems to have grown taller. Surely an illusion caused by his crown.

His eyes slowly drop down my body, tracing the panels of shimmering fabric that wrap around my slight curves—sheer around my collarbone, arms, and legs; opaque everywhere else. “I’m honored you wore my gown.”

“Your gown?” I cock an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you owned dresses, Maezza.”

His pupils shrink before distending, like his mouth. “I see your stay in the Sky Kingdom hasn’t done away with your sense of humor. I was afraid you’d be returned as stern as the rest of Ríhbiadh’s flock.”

“Returned? I’m not some abject present Lorcan is sending back.” Not that I’ve been much of a gift.

“That’s not—” The fragile smile that lifted a corner of Dante’s mouth tips back down. “Not how I meant it, Fal.”

“Fallon. You lost the right to use my nickname the day you left me behind on that mountain and stole my horse. Which I want back. Where is my beautiful stallion?”

An entire minute slips by before he murmurs, “On the Barrack Island.”

“Please arrange that he be brought to Antoni’s house.”

Dante grinds his jaw at my demand. “Gabriele will see to his safe return.”

The king and his commander exchange a look that makes me add, “Alive and well.”

“The fact that you believe me capable of sending you a dead horse out of spite makes me wonder what brainwashing you incurred in Lorcan’s realm.”

“Unlike in Luce,” I say, “Crows do not brainwash their people, Maezza.”

Syb stares at me with eyes so wide they’ve usurped a full third of her face. “Fal . . .”

Dante interrupts whatever she was about to hiss at me. “I invited you here to make amends for how we parted and what was done to your house. I did not convene you so you’d spit on my kingdom and call me a monster, Fallon.”

My ribs clench at his rebuke, and I lower my gaze to his tall boots that have been waxed to a high shine. “You’re right. That was unfair.”

For several breaths, we just stand there—me gazing at his feet, and him gazing at my downturned face. How far we fell when he rose.

Dante must forgive me because on a sigh, he crooks his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the stone veranda.”

I glance up to check that it is me he’s asked. When I find his blue eyes leveled on my violet ones, I feel even worse for my earlier scathing comment. I dislike this girl I’ve become, so bitter and sour, who seeks the bad in people before rummaging for the good.

As I thread my arm through his, I murmur, “You really hurt me, Dante.”

He turns quiet for almost a full minute. “The gown I was alluding to earlier was the one I bought you for Marco’s revel.”

My lashes reel high.

“The one you wear resembles the one I had sewn.” His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he tracks the flutter of fabric that parts around my bare legs with each step. “I thought—hoped—you’d remembered, and that it was the reason you wore it, the same way I hoped you’d come back”—he licks his upper lip and lowers his voice to add—“for me.”