House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(75)

She probably came to discuss the gilding revel and find out if Lore is willing to do the deed.

“You’re not too busy to come shopping with me, are you?” Eponine stares between Catriona and me, her gaze lingering on the golden-haired beauty whose arm is still wound through mine.

“Not busy at all, but I’ll need to stop by my house to fetch my purse.”

“Nonsense. This dress will be courtesy of the crown. It’s the least Dante can do after all you’ve done for him.” Eponine casts a conspiratorial smile my way that makes my spine prickle—is she referring to helping him seize the throne?

I shudder as the memory plays out behind my lids.

Eponine misinterprets my shudder for a refusal. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

“I won’t say no, then.” I paste on a smile I try terribly hard to feel and decide to purchase the most expensive fabrics so Dante’s purse takes a beating.

“Will you be coming as well, Katya?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Katya?”

Catriona flinches at her butchered name but doesn’t correct the future queen, so I do.

“My apologies, Catriona. So many women have warmed my former fiancé’s bedchamber that I have a hard time keeping your names straight.”

“No harm done, my lady. It is, after all, just a name.”

“But I should’ve remembered yours.” Eponine tips her head to the side, one finger running over the sequined edge of a petal. “You were Marco’s favorite.”

Catriona’s arm stiffens, or perhaps it’s mine that stiffens.

“I doubt that man had any favorites,” she ends up saying.

“Well, he talked about your talents all. The. Time. Thank the Cauldron I’m not the competitive sort, or it would’ve greatly vexed me.”

We gather quite the mob as we linger in the middle of the street. Usually my presence outside Antoni’s home is noted with a mix of disgust and fear that drives most Faeries into whichever shop they stand nearest. Today, all linger in the open, eyeing their future queen and the birds outfitted with iron appendages that darken the broad, sunlit stretch of cobbles.

“You saw Marco often?” I ask as Eponine turns to have a word with the head of her guards.

Catriona’s glossy lips thin. “You don’t turn down a king.”

“You turned down a prince.”

“Because you cared for him. Had you cared for Marco, I may have pretended to be busy.”

“So you didn’t like him as more than a customer?”

“No.”

The swiftness with which she answers eases the knot forming in my chest. I don’t want to doubt our friendship. I’ve enough doubts about everyone else. Am I still tempted to slip her salt at dinner tonight and reiterate my query? I’m ashamed to admit that, yes, I’m very much tempted. Since Faerie households don’t stock the seasoning, I’ll have to dip my hand in the ocean and collect the residue once it dries, or purchase some off a vendor on the sly.

“Shall we?” Eponine nods to a lemon-yellow boutique that I’ve only ever walked past even though Sybille has tried time and again to coax me inside.

Originally, I hadn’t dared enter because I hadn’t come to the Fae lands to shop. But then another reason kept me on the sidewalk—the sneer of the pointy-eared Faeries running the boutique.

Today they don’t sneer.

Today they gape.

The Tarecuorin whose family has owned the shop for centuries keeps rolling her lips, clearly bothered by my presence . . . or is it my guards that make her uncomfortable? Although they all shift, they are just as frightening in skin as they are in feathers. Except for Imogen and her sister, Lore has saddled me with gruff males who look as though they pick their teeth with Faerie bones.

A chorus of “Buondia, Altezza” rings throughout the tailor’s as every attendant and their customers drop into curtsies, expensive dresses rustling and tinkling as they do.

Only Eponine is greeted. Apparently, Catriona and I aren’t worthy.

“We’ve come for our fittings,” the future queen announces, even though I doubt anyone requires an explanation.

I do find myself wondering what sort of dress she’s planning on wearing since a gilding revel necessitates next to no clothes. After all, how are guests supposed to paint the bride’s body if it’s covered? I don’t ask, of course, for that would reveal I’ve never attended a gilding revel, which would in turn reveal I’m not the type of guest invited to such a party.

The owner takes us up one flight of stairs, to a space almost as grand as Ptolemy’s living room, complete with varnished hardwood flooring, aquamarine velvet poufs, and silver wallpaper to match the semicircle of standing mirrors.

“I sent for Sybille and her sister,” Eponine says as she takes a seat on one of the poufs. “Shoes! I forgot to bring the shoes I intended to wear. Catriona, would you mind heading to Francanelli and purchasing the stardust sandals for me, the ones with the tall spiky heels.” It isn’t a question; it’s a command. One that makes Catriona’s jaw clench. Eponine either doesn’t seem to care or doesn’t seem to notice. “They know my size.”

One of the female attendants extends a platter of crystal flutes brimming with sparkling gold wine. “I can go, Altezza,” she offers.