Caolán held up a hand to quiet her.
“Merula might be harsh, but she isn’t wrong. We’re here because of Yule’s interference in one of our—”
The woman shoved herself to her feet. Her fingers dug into the table, long, perfectly manicured nails sharp enough to gouge splinters out of the seasoned wood.
“Interference?” she spat. “That witch’s bastard violated every treaty and agreement forged between Yule and Winter when he walked into my fort. Or has Yule written new laws and we, now, are the supplicants?”
She looked around as if she expected someone to answer, her face twisted into an ugly approximation of innocence.
Somerset leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. He caught the quick sidelong look that Dylan gave him, the flicker of his gaze from Somerset’s shoulders down to his chest. It probably wasn’t the ideal time, but Somerset still let himself appreciate that, since this meeting was about to get ugly.
“Is this about the changeling?” he asked.
Merula’s mouth twisted, her lips folded in as they caught on her teeth. Her hands, still braced on the table, clenched, and the skin split. It was her eyes that gave her away, though. The quick, shifty glance at Caolán that clearly didn’t want him to hear the answer.
“He is valued,” she said. “Useful. How long were you gone, Saintmaker, and what catastrophe fell on us in those times?”
It was Dylan who flinched at that, with his soft, mortal heart.
“That is—”
Somerset twisted the corner of his mouth up as he interrupted. “Santa did die,” he pointed out, then glanced up the table at his brothers. “No offense.”
It was Stúfur who snarled and lunged at him, Jars who grabbed his sleeve and dragged him back.
“Not in front of the nice people,” Jars said.
Stúfur yanked his arm away, ripping the seam of his shirt open, and stepped back
“And I didn’t break any treaty,” Somerset said once he was sure he wasn’t about to get sucker-punched. “I had every right to be at Demre and Hill’s. I had an invite.”
The Court representative with the lush red lips leaned forward. When he blinked, a sliver of a membrane flicked sideways across his eyes. He didn’t look much like Enid, but he hailed from the same place. His fingers were soot-black too, the nails cracked and red from the forge, but the stain ran all the way up under his sleeves.
No Irish Spring soap for him.
“Just because you bank there,” he said. The words were crisply enunciated, even though the red lips never parted. “Doesn’t mean you are welcome.”
“Demre?” Somerset asked.
“Hill.”
“Ah.” Somerset paused for a second as he considered his next words. He’d told Dylan he didn’t have time for a war, but what he was about to do could start one if he phrased itwrong. “They flew Yule’s standard and raised our regalia. By the treaty between Summer and Winter, where the wreath is hung and the effigy laid out is Yule’s.”
Hill’s mouth parted briefly. The tongue that poked out briefly was blackened and pocked.
“He lies,” Merula scoffed. She threw her bloody hands up in exasperation. “And if about this, about what else. He was the one who brought news of the red man’s death, and had his suckling pig replacement on a leash.”
Her eyes flashed to Dylan, and she smiled.
“No offense,” she mocked with cloying sweetness.
Dylan shrugged. “I’ve been called worse,” he said.
Somerset went to touch his knee, to remind him of their standing agreement not to smart mouth the wrong people, but quickly stalled the gesture when he caught Jars watching. He curled his fingers into his palm, nails sharp against calloused skin, and hoped he’d picked the right threat to fend off. While he did that Dylan turned to Caolán.
“I don’t know what all that means,” he said. “But it was a Christmas party. There were decorations, a tree, and some guy dressed like…well…me, I guess. Why does that matter?”
Caolán looked grim. He bit his thumbnail, caught himself, and pulled his hand away from his mouth.
