Shock springs my fingers wide, and the blanket falls at my feet. I’ve told her a thousand stories about Phoebus, and she’s met him several times over the years. Well,metmay be a stretch. He and Syb have come over to my house and have hung out with me and Mamma, but her eyes always rolled over them as though they were a motif in the cracked fresco the previous owner, an artist fame propelled into Tarecuori, left behind.
I heard he once sold a painting forfourgold pieces. A singlepainting. Such a shame my drawing skills are as nonexistent as Ptolemy Timeus’s class.
I crouch to pick up the blanket. “Phoebus Acolti cut ties with his family years ago, Mamma.”
“Acolti. Gold.”
My eyebrows draw together as I drop the blanket on Mamma’s bed. Is she telling me to accept his charity? If he’s still willing to lend—
My eyes fly to the wardrobe, and then I stride over and yank it open. The cramped space is filled with mismatched sheets, faded towels, and Mamma’s simple frocks.
No expensive gown shimmers on the rack. Nonna must’ve already collected it. My heart plummets that I didn’t even get to see it, touch it, smell it. I’ve never received clothes that haven’t swathed another body and absorbed its odor.
Oh, Gods . . . my date! With everything going on, I forgot that Dante is expecting me to wear the dress for our date. Not only is that impossible, but I’ll also have to wear boots. I grimace. He’ll never bring me to the palace if I’m garbed like a pauper.
I toy with the idea of borrowing a dress from Catriona. Although her body’s slightly more voluptuous than mine, we’re the same height. I hold on to the sliver of hope she’ll accept to loan me one when I explain it’s for a good cause. Surely, she’ll want to support me. She’s all about forging important connections.
“Acolti. Gold,” Mamma repeats.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll ask Phoebus.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “Can I get you anything before I leave?”
Her lips shut, leaving my question unanswered, as usual.
I fill a glass of water and tip it to her mouth. Most sloshes down her chin, but her throat bobs so I take it some made it inside. “Tiuamo, Mamma.”
I hope that someday, I’ll hear her sayI love youback.
I secure her window with the latch Nonna hammered in herself, afraid Mamma, unsupervised, may get up and climb off the ledge. Although she’s a pure-blooded water-Fae, if she fell into the canal, the Cauldron only knows how and where she’d end up—in the serpents’ lair or in the open sea?
The walk to Phoebus’s apartment takes only fifteen minutes, and although I stick to the shadows to avoid baking in the midday sun, my stockingless feet sweat, and the perspiration makes them chafe against the leather. I can feel blisters forming on the tops of my toes and on my heels. How in the three kingdoms will I get through my shift?
As I cross over the last bridge, I trawl the canal with my eyes, hoping and fearing to get a glimpse of pink scales. For all my desire to see Minimus and make sure he’s healed, I don’t want him anywhere near the surface. Especially in broad daylight.
Although there’s movement beneath the blue, it’s all clouds of silver minnows and a larger fish here and there. Two elegantly garbed sprites dart in front of me, smacking me in the forehead with a rolled scroll they carry between themselves.
“Watch where you’re going, halfling,” one of them hisses.
“Hey.Youran intome.”
Without apologizing—sprites never do—they flutter away.
“Mites,” I mutter under my breath as I turn onto Phoebus’s street.
I duck beneath the branch of the squat fig tree covering the right half of the vermilion house and ease past the perpetually unlocked front door. The wooden staircase that leads to his landing is narrow and groans under each footfall, announcing my presence before I’ve even knocked.
Not that Phoebus swings the door open. Knowing his proclivity for sleeping the day away, he’s probably fast asleep. I knuckle the door and wait. After a minute, I knock harder. This time I hear shuffling and grumbling.
The door creaks open to a squinty-eyed, gnarled-haired Phoebus. He still looks beautiful. Always does. When we were kids, Sybille offered to bear his babies if he desires children someday. Their respective future husbands better be open-minded.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes. “What brings you to my place at the butt-crack of dawn, Picolina?”
I snort. “It’s past noon. As for the reason I’m here . . . Remember how I told you that I’d never accept a loan? Well, I’ve changed my mind. If your offer still stands, that is.”
He lowers his hand to his side, fully alert now. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story, and my feet are killing me. Can I come in?”
“Of course. Come.” He glances down at my footwear. “Whyever are you wearing winter boots?”
