Sybille grins. “You should’ve seen them at the revel the other night. They were so—”
“Once you two are done gossiping, I’d appreciate some assistance.” Giana swipes her glistening brow with her wrist.
“Sorry, Gia. Tell me who needs what?” I dry my hands on my pretty skirt.
“Table ten wants a pitcher of wine and the commander wants a platter of prosciutto.”
The commander’s here? My gaze zips toward the pointy-jawed man in white, sitting with another man dressed in uniform, not one I recognize.
He’s not here to spy on you, Fallon. He’s here for food.
“I’ll take table ten.” I return to the bar and snatch one of the ready-to-go jugs lined up on the counter, then swing around the bar toward the six Tarecuorins playing cards.
As I refill their cups, Catriona, who’s just descended the stairs, bustles toward Silvius. The tavern is rowdy and the commander’s table is along the far wall, so I don’t hear their exchange, but I’m guessing she’s gauging his interest in a rendezvous. I pray he says yes, because when I make my grand escape, I prefer for him not to see me off.
I pour out the last droplet of fizzy Fae wine just as his gaze slithers off the courtesan and zeroes in on me. Catriona glances over her shoulder with a little sigh. Does this mean he refused her advances? And if he did, is it because he’s ‘working’ or because he’s finally decided that sleeping with other women won’t win him the respect of the one he wants?
As I wind my way back toward Sybille, I debate whether to tell her about Silvius’s desire to marry her or her sister, but that would require a long-winded explanation about how I learned this, and I haven’t yet informed her of my unfortunate date with the king. In truth, I’m somewhat surprised she hasn’t heard about it. The Lucins do so love to gossip and what better fodder than a halfling getting arrested for serpent-charming?
“Pappa needs help plating something.” Giana motions to the kitchen.
I shoulder open the swing door and am about to offer to help when I notice Marcello butterflying pigeons on a chopping board. The birds are featherless, but their heads are still attached. My stomach heaves and I swoon. I clutch the doorframe and wait for my vision to color and my insides to settle before even attempting to take a step forward.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen Marcello prepare a roast, but for some reason, for a fleeting moment, it reminded me of the crow. And yes, admittedly I tried to skewer it earlier, but only to turn it back into a gewgaw, not into someone’s supper.
“Fallon, are you all right?” Defne is at my side, arm laced around my waist in support.
“Sorry. Yes. I, uh . . . forgot to eat today.” It only strikes me then that I have, indeed, forgotten.
She leads me to a wooden stool too close to the chopping board and unwraps a block of pecorino. After slivering it, she unscrews the lid off a jar of pickled vegetables and sets both in front of me.
Keeping my gaze on the grimy floor beneath my stool, I shovel down my meal. I don’t feel any better once I’m done, probably because I ate too quickly, but I’m glad for the sustenance.
As I scrub my plate in the sudsy basin, I tell Defne and Marcello that I have to make an impromptu trip, andno, nothing bad has happened to anyone, but I won’t be able to work at the tavern for the foreseeable future.
Defne’s lips curve with a soft smile. “It’s about time. Marcello and I were wondering when you’d fly the nest.”
How appropriate . . .
“You should encourage Syb to do the same.” Marcello’s counsel shocks me into silence. “Maybe she could come with you. You girls have the grandest of times—”
“I can’t.” The words shoot out of my mouth, much brasher than intended. “I cannot take her with me right now. Once I’m settled, though . . .”
They look at each other, brows pleated.
“Settled?” Defne repeats.
“I’m meeting a friend. And, well, I want to see where it goes, but I haven’t told Syb about him.”
“Ahh . . .” Defne’s forehead smooths. “So this is about some boy. The one we spoke about the other night?”
“Yes,” I lie.
Marcello’s wariness doesn’t fade. If anything, now that he hears I’m going off to meet a man, he seems downright disappointed in me. I briefly wonder how he’d feel if he learned this man had wings and feathers, and quite possibly, isn’t male at all.
“Has Ceres met thisfriendof yours?” His tone is strained.
“Do you really think he’d still want to rendezvous with me if he’d met Nonna? She just may be more frightening than Justus.”
