She tried a different approach. "The palace is beautiful. All those tapestries in my room, the craftsmanship is incredible." She glanced at the death-woven scenes surrounding them now, the sinking ship's passengers frozen mid-scream. "Do you know who made them?"
"Artisans."
Her jaw clenched. She gripped her glass tighter to keep from throwing it at him. "Right. Artisans. Living artisans or...?"
"Dead."
"Of course they are." She took another, larger sip. The alcohol was starting to warm her blood, loosening the control she usually kept on her tongue. Reckless, but at this point, she'd take reckless over this excruciating silence. "This is delicious, by the way. The wine. Do you make it here, or do you import it from somewhere else?"
He set down his utensils slowly. Those dark eyes fixed on her across the length of the table, seeing too much. The armrests curled tighter, though surely that was just the flickering light.
Her breath caught.
"Are you always this talkative?" he asked.
The words held an edge—irritation, or possibly amusement. With him, it was impossible to tell.
"Are you always this charming?" she shot back before she could stop herself.
The crash of a dropped plate echoed from somewhere near the wall. One of the servants had fumbled their tray in the quiet hall. A bone-handled serving knife clattered across the floor.
Shadows wrapped tighter around his chair. Responding to his mood. The same way it had in the throne room when he'd been suspicious of the Mourned Court's representative.
He gave her a measuring look down the table's length, and she could have sworn she saw his lips twitch. "Yes."
The admission was so unexpected, so bluntly honest, that she let out a slightly shaky laugh. "Well, at least you're consistent."
He picked up his glass and took a sip, studying her. The candlelight caught in the crystal, refracting through the wine. Behind him, the tapestry showed the dying king's crown rolling from his head, though she was certain it had been firmly in place a moment ago.
"You're nervous."
Not a question, but she lifted her chin anyway. "I'm not used to dining with Death royalty."
"I'm not royalty."
"What are you then?"
"A Death Lord." He set his glass down. "Nothing more."
Nothing more. As if that wasn't impressive enough. As if beingone of five beings who ruled over all of death was somehow mundane.
"Right," she said, hearing the skepticism in her own voice. She took another sip, warmth spreading through her chest. Feeling just bold enough to push. "The representative mentioned my 'special talents.' What talents is she talking about?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers tapping silently against his glass. His shadows shifted with each tap, keeping time. In one of the bone-framed mirrors, she caught the tapestry behind her—the lovers had turned to look toward the approaching shadow. They hadn't been looking before.
"The tools you stole reacted to you," he said finally. "Word travels between the courts."
Her pulse jumped. "What do you mean they reacted to me?"
"They responded to your touch. Grew warm, glowed." His dark eyes met hers from the far end of the table, pinning her in place. "Death artifacts don't typically do that for mortal thieves."
The way he said it made it clear that was exactly what he thought she was. Nothing special. Nothing important. Just someone who'd stumbled into something she didn't understand.
"So what does that make me?" She kept her voice level even as frustration built in her chest.
"Useful."
She set her fork down with more force than necessary, the clatter echoing in the vaulted space. He'd gone back to his meal as if the conversation was over. As if reducing her to a single word—useful—was sufficient.
