Nonna doesn’t. “He may be despicable, but he’s powerful, and we’re not.” After a beat, she asks, “You mentioned coin. Is he asking to be paid for his silence?”
“No. For boat repairs.”
“Boat repairs?” she sputters.
I focus on my rank-smelling drink, which I still haven’t brought myself to taste. “Minimus sort of . . . drove the marquess’s boat into the embankment.”
Nonna’s complexion fills with color. “And we must pay, why?”
“Because Minimus has no savings.”
She narrows her eyes on me, apparently not finding me funny. “I’m serious, Fallon.”
“He claims ImadeMinimus do it.”
“And did you?”
“No. Minimus was trying to protect me because he must’ve sensed Ptolemy Timeus”—I commit his name to memory—“was harassing me.”
Nonna stays silent for a full minute. I can tell she’s livid, but is it with me, Minimus, or Ptolemy?
“He can’t prove she ordered the serpent to attack him, right?”
“I didn’t order—”
The loftiness of her black eyebrows indicates my answer isn’t welcome. She wants to hear Cato’s piece.
“No, he can’t prove it. But he was with three other Fae, and they all saw her throw her slipper at his head.”
I roll my eyes. “It was a cloth shoe, not an iron dart.”Unfortunately.
“You’re not allowed to assault citizens, Fallon,” he says calmly.
“He assaulted my character with his words.”
“Did you miss the shape of his ears and the length of his hair?” Cato drums his fingers against the rough-hewn wood.
“It’s completely unfair.” I don’t usually pout but tonight I do.
“You want fairness, move to another kingdom.” Cato gulps down some of his tea, before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and leaning back into his chair. “I hear they let women into the military in Nebba.”
My grandmother’s eyebrows writhe. “Do I want to know what that’s about?”
“Probably not.” I finally pluck my drink up and shoot it down. It tastes as disgusting as it smells, like warm Racoccin water. Just the comparison makes my stomach heave and almost expel it. I press my hand against my mouth to keep it down. “Are you sure you’re not trying to poison me?”
Nonna disregards my question. “How much is the marquess demanding?”
“One gold piece,” Cato answers, while I take inventory of my organs, checking if any are shutting down.
“One gold—” She chokes on the end of her sentence.
Cato peeks at her. “I have savings.”
I gape at him.
“I can lend it to—”
“No. We’re not taking your money, Cato.”
