“’Er blindness giv’er the saight.”
So I wasn’t just imagining the odd sheen to her eyes . . . “She’s made predictions that came true?”
What little color remains in Flora’s cheeks leaches out. “She predicted my cousin’s wee lil one would drown on Yuletide. We all took turns watching’im, ’fraid’ee’d fall through the ice in the canal. Two minutes to midnight, we were celebrating her mistakenness when we found’im floatin’ face first in the bath ’is seeblings forgaht to drayn.”
“Oh, Gods, I’m so sorry, Flora.”
“If yee aysk me, she’s wicked.” Her face grooves with bitterness. “So sty ahwhy from’er, Fayllon.”
Flora lumbers out before I can hand her my note. As I make my way back down into the dining room, I turn all I’ve learned over and over.
My foot catches at the same time as a thought. I clasp the handrail tight, my heart beating out of rhythm. How can Bronwen watch if she is blind?
Is it my future she’s watching? Is that what Mamma means? And if it is what she means, then the woman who gave birth to me is aware of Bronwen’s clairvoyance. How?
My mood sours at being left with more questions than answers.
Six
Isneak yet another glance out the small tavern window, at the human marshes beyond. Although the panes could do with some scrubbing, and the moon is veiled, I can make out the Racoccin shore.
Thedesertedshore.
Chair legs screech across wood, and a hiss rises from the Fae I’m serving wine to—or rather, on.
“Oh, Gods. I’m so sorry, Signore Romano.”
The elderly Fae is kindly enough not to yell at me or demand a free jug of wine for my incompetence. Then again, he’s been coming to the tavern since it opened two centuries ago and shows up every evening without fail, so he knows I’m not always this clumsy.
“It’s all right, Fallon. No harm done.” As I sponge away the mess, he smiles. “I’d be distracted, too, if I were in your shoes.”
My spine straightens until I’m as stiff as the weathered boards beneath my feet. “You . . . would?”
Did he hear Flora and me talking? He is Fae after all, and he was already seated when I came down the stairs.
A smile tinges his warm amber eyes. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be receiving a ribbon.”
I blink. “A . . . ribbon?”
His wrinkled brow ruffles like the water in a ship’s wake.
“Oh. Right. The ribbons.” I slap my forehead, pretending I’ve just remembered what he’s referring to, even though I haven’t the faintest clue why I’d be preoccupied over bits of silk.
My act must be convincing because he winks conspiratorially at me.
I scurry back to the bar and sidle in close to Sybille as I rinse the wine-soiled rag. “Syb, do you know anything about ribbons?”
She stops filling a row of carafes with water to cock an eyebrow so high it almost touches her hairline. “How doyounot know about them?”
“Um . . .” I shrug. “My mind’s been on other things lately.”
“You don’t say.” A smirk clings to her mouth because she assumes my other things are Dante and more Dante.
She leans her hip against the wooden counter she keeps immaculate even though it’s out of sight from patrons. Like her father, Sybille is obsessive about neatness. Phoebus often jokes it’s an affliction, but I think he’s secretly jealous, what with him being the biggest slob. Wherever things land, they stay. His apartment on the next island over is absolute chaos.
“The royal family is ferrying gold ribbons in guise of written invitations for the King’s betrothal revel. Dante’s idea, apparently. All of Luce is waiting with bated breath for one, but not all of Luce will get one.”
Will I? The prospect of attending a royal ball blows away the sullenness, which has clung to me like cobwebs.
