House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(59)

The Nebban King glances away from his arm, one eye a little squintier than the other. “Except I’m unfamiliar with the worth of your word.”

“Isn’t the worth of my blood what matters anyway?”

Fallon, for Mórrígan’s sake, stop baiting the male. We’ve no need for him.

I pay him no mind. “The faster we find Meriam, the faster my veins will bloat with magic.”

Syb wheezes as though she’s inadvertently swallowed a large insect. Dante and Lore are both as silent and still as the stone pillars surrounding us. And Eponine . . . she’s blinking at me with eyes as large as Minimus’s.

“Mademoiselle Amari”—Pierre rests his forearms on the mosaic table—“what is your friend’s word worth?”

Syb startles at being called upon to testify to my character a second time.

I shoot her a pleading look that I hope screams: Play along. We need Meriam.

“Fallon has never reneged on a promise.” I’m about to blow out a sigh of relief when she adds, “However, do you really wish to marry a woman who will, one day, be capable of shifting into a bird with iron appendages? If I were you, sire, I’d leave her to Lorcan.”

What.

The actual.

Underworld?

“Ríhbiadh?” Pierre snorts. “He’s marrying Vladimir’s daughter, is he not?”

“He certainly is,” I say perkily.

Syb holds my stare. “What I meant to say was, I’d leave her to whichever Crow wants her. Or Shabbin, since I hear iron doesn’t affect them.”

A curl of Lorcan’s smoke slithers across my collarbone. “You’d require Priya’s approval to marry her great-granddaughter, Pierre. And the approval of Fallon’s father.”

I brush the shadows away, smooshing down the goosebumps they’ve carried along. “The only approval he’ll need is my own, Mórrgaht.”

“Tell you what, Mademoiselle Rossi, I’ll have a contract drawn up for your approval. Once I’ve collected your signature—in blood—I’ll put my best trackers at your disposal, and we will scour the three kingdoms for your grandmother. Does that suit you?”

“It does.”

Lore’s shadows slink over my skin again, but this time they press down so hard, they feel like palms. “I cannot wait to inform Cathal of your desire to marry the man who is poisoning our oceans, Fallon.”

I was about to break my vow of using the bond in order to yell at him for touching me, but his words freeze the roar before it can roll from my mind into his. “What does Lorcan mean by that?”

Eponine picks up her glass of wine. “I believe he’s referring to the substance that counters the salt in our waters.”

A memory worms itself to the surface of my mind. Dante once told me that the Isolacuorin canals were treated daily with a chemical manufactured in Nebba that thins out the salt density.

She tips her metal goblet to her maroon-hued lips and downs the contents. With a hiccup, she adds, “Father’s lead scientist has managed to make the chemical self-regenerating.” She presses dainty fingers topped with matching lacquer against her spasming lips.

Pierre’s jade eyes harden along with his expression. “Take away my daughter’s wine. She’s had enough.”

Because she’s shared sensitive information, or because he deems her too inebriated?

“I thank you for your consideration, Father, but I will keep my cup.” Eponine no longer hiccups. “And full at that.” She taps the rim. “More.”

The carafe-toting halfling hesitates.

“You are my servant, Liora; not his. Now serve.”

Dante keeps quiet as though he knows better than to intercede in the Nebbans’ conflict.

Pierre leans over the table and whispers something in Nebban to Eponine that makes the fine hairs along my nape stand to attention.

I fold my napkin and place it on my decorative presentation plate that is painted over with grapes. “How exactly does this salt-blasting compound regenerate?”

Pierre retracts his gaze from his daughter’s and turns it back toward me, but it’s Lore who answers, “The chemical feeds on the salt instead of merely destroying it.”

Eponine readjusts the jeweled headpiece that graces her forehead. “At the rate the compound is being dumped, our oceans will be salt free before Yuletide. Can you imagine? If I were you”—she taps the side of her nose as though to impart a secret—“I’d start designing swimwear, as every Fae and their great-grandparent will take up swimming.”

I frown. “There’ll still be the matter of the serpents.”

She snorts. “Because you think serpents can—”

“Eponine, can you go check on what is taking the cooks so long to deliver our food?” Dante’s tone is ice.

Silence stretches like boiled sugar between the two—scalding and tacky.

Finally, her chair is pulled back and she gets up. “Why certainly, micaro.” She wobbles, which elicits a grumble from her father. “Got up too fast.”

I’d heard rumors Eponine was a bit of a ship wreck. Although I don’t much care for gossip, the future queen seems to live up to her reputation.

“Signorina Amari, accompany me to the kitchens, will you?”