“That she was all over Marco.” She wrinkles her nose.
I frown, because Sybille’s never judged the courtesan before. “That’s her job.”
Sybille flops onto her stomach and hoists herself up on her forearms. “Yes, but it was his betrothal ceremony. His poor bride-to-be was so crestfallen, I sort of wanted to hug her, and you know how much I abhor hugging strangers.”
“I didn’t mean last night, but agreed, that’s rather tasteless.” I suppose Marco’s intended needs to get used to it. In passing, I wonder if Dante would ever cheat on his betrothed, but that sours my stomach, so I push the contemplation away.
“I have to give it to Eponine. She stayed stoic the entire time.” Sybille sighs, gaze riveted to the cloudless blue sky. “To think women dream of marrying kings. What a miserable life that would be.”
“Not if it’s a marriage of love.”
She side-eyes me. “Since when do monarchs marry for love?”
They don’t, but that’ll change.
Maybe.
I square my shoulders.
No maybes. Itwillchange when I become Dante’s queen.
She rolls her eyes. “You read too many books.”
“And you read too few.”
A hummingbird zips in front of my window to quench its thirst on our wisteria, wings pumping so fast its body appears suspended. It reminds me of my life-changing iron crows.
“Ilive; you dream.”
Because dreams are safe, and life . . . well, life isn’t. And it’s about to become a whole lot less safe if I have to gather relics that have the power to dethrone a king.
“Syb, if someone gave you a key to open a door you’ve always fantasized about opening, would you open it?”
A small vertical groove appears between her thin black eyebrows. “I’d knock first.”
“It’s a hypothetical door.”
“Then I’d hypothetically knock.”
I’m uncertain how to apply her advice.
Find out more about the iron crows?
The only way to access the Great Library on Tarecuori is by pricking your finger on the spindle at the entrance and pressing your finger into a ledger to leave a record of your passage.
I may be angry with Nonna, but not to the point of breaking my promise to her about leaving traces of my strange blood.
Thirteen
I’m drying glasses when Catriona waltzes intoBottom of the Jug, garbed in a new ocean-hued dress with cap sleeves that drape off her shoulders. When she notices me gaping, she does a slow twirl.
“Courtesy of our highness. Along with these beauties.” She pushes her blonde hair to the side to reveal ear cuffs pavéd in sapphires. Her new jewels taper to a point over the rounded shell of her ear, giving the illusion of peaks.
I don’t ask what she did to deserve such gifts, since I already know, but she tells me anyway, without leaving out a single detail. A fly on Marco’s wall wouldn’t be as well-informed about the king’s anatomy and kinks.
Speaking of walls . . .“I’ve always wondered, what does a monarch’s bedroom look like?”
Her eyes sparkle as vividly as her earrings. “Oh, it’s a thing of beauty. His ceiling has a glass dome that gives onto the sky and his walls are paved in mirrored tiles, which makes you feel suspended in the sky. And his bathing room. Gods, I’m in love with his bathing room. He has running water that comes out of pipes.”
