House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(80)

As I listen to her rising excitement, I roll the salt pouch between my thumb and forefinger. Syb and I have always menstruated at the same time, and my monthlies haven’t come yet. What if Nonna’s drink, the one that smelled and tasted like Racoccin water, wasn’t effective?

I drop my eyes to my stomach and pray to every deity that it’s as barren as the Selvatin desert because if—

No. My grandmother knew what she was doing. Faeries and humans came to her from far and wide for herbal decoctions.

For the first time in my life, I wish to bleed.





Thirty-Nine





My stomach hasn’t stopped churning since Syb left to get ready.

Although I insist I’m not hungry, Aoife has gone downstairs to fetch me food. That was her one stipulation: that I eat before leaving, so that she didn’t have to worry about anyone slipping me poison. The platter of food she returns with turns my stomach some more.

At my grimace, she says, “Please say you having thoughts about going tonight, Fallon?”

The only things I am having thoughts about is Catriona’s strange behavior and the possibility that I may—

No.

I will not let my mind wander there.

I eat six measly bites of food. Each goes down like plaster. I drink a full glass of water, but that does little to wash down either the food or my nerves.

I spend several minutes struggling with where to stash the pouch of salt, electing to squash it between my breasts since pureling clothing doesn’t include pockets, and although I know my way around a needle and thread thanks to Nonna, it’s too late to create a secret pocket in this dress.

I suppose I could add a cloak, but that may raise eyebrows and spur a search of my person, and my person does not want to be searched. My person wants to toss salt into the princess’s wine, learn her secrets, then either storm my grandmother’s hideout with Aoife and my guards, or go to Lore with the information and watch his view of me change.

It shouldn’t matter, but I hate that he finds me impulsive and na?ve; I want to prove him wrong. I want to prove the world wrong.

I jump when someone knuckles my bedroom door but relax when I catch sight of Syb in her fluorescent wig. “Ready, babe?”

I stick the orange wig on my head, readjust my breasts, then the shoulder piece Syb insisted I wear. It’s an odd thing, fashioned from indigo lace and fringed with sapphire-colored beads. According to my friend, shoulder accessories are an incoming trend in pureling fashion.

“I know tonight isn’t for fun, but Gods, we make hot spies. We’ll have to do a masked evening with Phoebus. He’d absolutely love it.”

Cauldron, how I miss my friend. Selfishly, I wish he’d been here because life is just not as bright without him.

He’s safe, I remind myself as I link arms with Sybille and head down the stairs.

I expect to find Catriona but only Giana stands there.

“Aoife”—she tenders her sky-blue wig my guard’s way, and is it me, or is her arm shaking?—“something came up. I know you were thinking of flying but I’d feel better if you stayed right beside these two.”

“These two?” Syb scoffs. “Gods, why must you make us feel like children?”

“Because you are children.” Gia runs her palms down the sides of her face and expels a long, long breath. “To me, you will always be children. That’s just the way chronology works. Wait till you have almost a full century on someone.”

I suddenly cannot wait to turn one hundred, not to be older than everyone else but because if I do reach that number, then that means I wasn’t killed off by some Shabbin or Crow hater.

What will Luce look like in a hundred years?

What will Luce look like next year?

Giana’s lips bend but the curve vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared. “Please, Aoife.”

My Crow guard pinches the wig as though it was deeply-soiled underwear.

“She’ll need to wear a dress”—Syb gestures to my guard’s leather and iron armor—“or everyone will know what she is, which will alert Lucins to Fallon’s presence amongst us. We’re supposed to be anonymous.”

Aoife scowls at the blue hair. “No dress.”

Taking pity on her, I head to the coat closet beneath the stairs and unearth a red silk cape that must’ve belonged to Ptolemy because, firstly, it’s huge, and secondly, I cannot picture any of the boys wearing such a garish garment. Yes, their wardrobes have improved, but their preferred clothing palette remains basic—white, black, navy, and gray.

Although Aoife grumbles, she dons the cape and wig. As we exit through the living room, she looks at the sky and mutters many words. Crows may worship Mórrígan, but they don’t pray like the Fae, so I assume she’s verbally flipping off her fellow guards.

The terrible friend that I am cannot help but laugh at her irritation.

“I will revenge for this,” she huffs under her breath, shooting me a very Imogen-like glare, which is hard to take seriously considering her lurid accoutrement.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper between more puffed laughter. “It’s nerves. Just nerves.”

She hoists her chin a centimeter higher. “You lucky I like you, Fallon.”

My hilarity turns into a gentle grin. “I am lucky.”