That sparks a protective fire inside me as I assess Daphne and Conrad’s first verbal exchanges. She asks a few rehearsed-sounding questions, which he answers with a lopsided grin. Her posture is tense, her fingers tightly knit at her waist, cheeks burning crimson. My annoyance flares at seeing her blush for Conrad. Why the hell should she blush for him? He should be the one blushing—well, he too is getting a bit pink in the cheeks, especially when he addresses her by her first name.
My gloved fingers curl into fists at the sound ofDaphneon this stranger’s tongue. I make a mental note to convince her to take a surname before our next lesson, just so fuckers like Conrad don’t think they’re special in being allowed to address her so casually.
The man’s gaze suddenly flicks to me. “How are the two of you acquainted? Are you…”
That’s when I realize I’m hovering a little too closely for someone who is supposed to give the impression Daphne is unattached.
Daphne pulls her chin back. “Us? You mean me and Monty?”
Conrad’s expression flickers with disappointment, probably at hearing her refer to me as Monty and not Mr. Phillips. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling smug about that. Yet I can’t let my pride interfere with our lesson.
“We’re merely colleagues,” I say, forcing a disinterested drawl into my voice. “I’m a columnist at theCedar Hills Gazettewhile Daphne works at Fletcher-Wilson Publishing. We’re currently working on separate projects in a similar field.”
“Are you writing an article on the carnival?”
I give him a mirthless grin. “Something like that.”
He turns his gaze back to Daphne. “And you? What kind of work brings you to the Wandering Trees Carnival today?”
“I, uh…” Her cheeks flush all over again and she tucks a strand of her dark hair behind a pointed ear. “I’m an editorial assistant. And sometimes I illustrate book covers. With bodies on them. There are so many…bodies around us, aren’t there?”
Conrad’s grin turns a bit perplexed. He opens his mouth, but Araminta speaks first.
“Shall we play some games?” she says, her arm linked through David’s. “I read all about the carnival in theGazetteyesterday when I was browsing obituaries, and apparently games arefun.” She says it with the enthusiasm of someone who doesn’t realize most of us already know what carnival games and fun are.
Daphne wrings her gloved hands, the only other person not acquainted with the subject matter. “I’ve never played a carnival game.”
Conrad’s eyes brighten. “Oh, we simply must play.”
We.
He saidwe.
That paired with the hope in his eyes as he stares at Daphne tells me one thing.
He’s interested.
Fuck.
“Yes,” I say, extricating a cigarillo and lighting it. “Let us play.”
Conrad isabsolute shit at carnival games. Either that or he’s using his ineptitude to draw Daphne closer. She’s maintained a polite distance from him while I’ve done my best to edge as far from the couple as I dare. Whenever I stray too far, Daphne reels me closer with a panicked glare. So I must stay close enough to appease Daph yet distant enough to allow Conrad to flirt with her. Which means I have to hear every inane word that comes out of his mouth.
“How do you think I should position this?” he asks Daphne. He holds a mock rifle in his hand, one made from thin twining vines. It’s a toy modeled after a hunting rifle, and it’s tethered to the stall’s counter. Behind the stall stand several rows of tall panels, one before each shooting station. Each panel is covered in moss interspersed with bulging green bubbles of varying sizes. The objective of the game is to pop the bubbles with the burst of air that shoots from the toy rifle. The bubbles are so dense that only a direct hit at the center will pop them. For every bubble that pops, a green vine grows vertically from the counter beside the rifle. The smaller targets are worth more and grow the vine faster. It’s a group game, and whoever grows their vine to the stall’s brightly colored awning first wins.
There is still a minute or so before the game begins, so the players are still settling in. I hover at the far end of the stall, near a pair of open seats, not intending to play.
“Should my hands be here?” Conrad asks. “Or perhaps here?”
I clench my teeth. He’s asking her how he should grip his fucking gun. If I had even the slightest inkling the innuendo was intentional, I’d haul him behind the stall and punch him in the dick, but I honestly think he’s just that stupid.
Daphne shrugs from the seat beside him. “Maybe like everyone else is doing.”
Bless Daffy Dear for her complete ignorance of his poor attempts at flirting. To be fair, up until now, she’s been brilliant at discovering the trick to most of the carnival games we’ve played. Orthey’veplayed, I should say. I’ve merely watched Conrad fumble balls, rings, and darts while restraining my desire to show him up. Even David and Araminta are better than he is.
“I’ve never held a gun before,” Conrad says with a boyish grin. “It’s rather intimidating.”
I roll my eyes and take a long drag of my cigarillo. Of course he hasn’t held a fucking gun before. While guns are generally forbidden on the isle, hunting rifles are permitted for temporary use under strict guidelines, and only during scheduled hunts on approved grounds that don’t put unseelie fae creatures at risk. It’s rare to see even a toy rifle, which gives credence to his lack of familiarity with the weapon.
