“I see the way you look at the prince.”
The copper mug I’m washing clinks against the basin and gets lost beneath the suds.
“I see the way he looks at you.”
I peek at Catriona past my lashes.
“I could help you get him. And not just for one night.”
My heart palpitates so fast it vibrates my tongue. “I’m a halfling.”
Her eyebrows, so much darker than the golden hair curled around her neck, writhe. “So am I.”
Heat stains my cheeks as I realize she wasn’t referring to marriage.
“Luce may not allow us to rise above the curve of our ears, but marriage isn’t everything, Fallon.”
“How would someone like you know?” My tone is brusque.
Catriona doesn’t flinch, inured to people’s opinion, but her expression sharpens. “I’ve seen many things during my century of life, but never a loving marriage amongst the nobility. If you want loyalty and affection, then avoid pure-bloods.”
I’ve no illusions that winning Dante’s heart will be a feat, but if I go into this battle already defeated, then what chances do I have of winning?
Seven
The stars are already fading when I return home, and the house is so quiet I can hear our fishmonger neighbors brewing tea next door, readying to trawl the placid sea before the wind awakens.
After a fruitless search of my kitchen for a golden ribbon or a letter with an official seal, I tiptoe up the twisted staircase, wincing at every squeak. What little hope I harbor of unearthing an invitation shrivels at the sight of my bare bed and empty desk.
Both Sybille and Giana received a ribbon earlier, as well as their parents, and of course, Phoebus. He may reside in Tarelexo and trim his golden hair in solidarity, but as long as his family hasn’t disowned him, he will remain a Tarecuorin, and all Tarecuorins, from what I heard in the tavern, have been invited.
I fall into bed fully dressed and curl onto my side. Although I refuse to shed tears, they rise and spill onto my pillowcase. I’m angry at my mother. So angry. All of this is her fault.
I have no prospects because of her, only an abysmal reputation.
It’s a wonder we haven’t been transferred to Rax with the heathens.
“You’re home late.” Nonna stands in my doorway, a shawl covering her black nightgown. “Or rather, early.”
“It was a big night, what with all the excitement surrounding the ribbons.” I keep my back to her and my eyes on the window overlooking the pearlescent sky. “Have we received any?”
Silence settles so thickly in the room that I think Nonna has gone back to bed, but her lemon and wisteria scent wafts toward me, spiraling around my rib cage like vines.
“No.”
“Of course not.” If there’s a list of halflings forbidden to set foot on Isolacuori, the Rossi women are on it.
“Royal revels are overrated, Goccolina.”
A shard of sorrow sharpens inside my throat. “Guess I’ll never find out.”
“Mi cuori . . .”
I don’t feel like beingher hearttonight, or her raindrop. I don’t even feel like being Fallon Rossi. “Good night, Nonna.”
She pads over to my bed and sits, and then her palm lands on my hair, brushes it off the damp tracks on my cheeks.
“I said good night.” I shift so that her hand slips off.
