I shake my head. “Antoni would never take me back.”
“The same way I don’t believe in choosing, I don’t believe in the wordnever.”
Except, if I’m to be queen, Antoni cannot be my future. How I wish I could confide in Phoebus, but this secret is one I’ll have to take to my throne.
“What will you wear?”
“To what?”
“To your coronation,” he deadpans.
I blanch. Did I speak out loud?
He rolls his eyes. “To your date, silly.”
I twist my lips. “I was thinking of asking Catriona for a gown.”
“I have a better idea.”
When he starts removing dresses from hangers, I hiss his name and swivel my attention to the entryway, expecting to find a scowling Gwyneth.
“Calm your tits, woman. I’ll bring everything back before my family returns from their trip.” He tosses a gown that looks woven from sky and clouds—the silk is dawn-blue and the sleeves, white and gauzy.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Ever touched.
It’s not gold, though. Dante may take offence I’m not wearing his gift.
As I hold it up to my chin in front of a floor-length mirror, I untuck my hair and let myself dream that my ears have points, that my auburn locks fall to my waist, and that this is my closet.
“Earth to Fallon.”
I spin away from the mirror to find Phoebus holding out two pairs of shoes—ones with heels and ones without. I nod to the ones without, then hold my breath as I slip my feet into them, praying they’ll fit.
The soft leather molds around my swollen toes, and I sigh. “I didn’t know shoes could feel this good.”
“The trappings of wealth.” Phoebus spears his hand through his blond hair. “Once you go rich, that life is near impossible to ditch.”
“And yet youditchedit.”
“I brought all I could fit into my flat.”
“Speaking of . . . How am I supposed to walk out of here with a dress? I can’t exactly bundle it in my arms.”
He pinches the handles of a large leather bag propped on a shelf and drops it at my feet.
“That’s even worse, Pheebs. Gwyneth will think I’ve robbed your home.”
“Relax. I’ll carry it.”
I don’t relax, but I do fold the dress and settle it inside the bag, then lay the shoes on top. The mere idea of lacing my boots makes my skin break out in hives and my toes in additional blisters. I decide I’ll walk barefoot to the portico, then don my borrowed slippers.
“And now, the vault.” Phoebus slings the bag over his shoulder and signals for me to follow.
We return into the vaulted belly of the manor, turn down another wing full of closed doors which Phoebus explains leads to his parents’ and grandparents’ quarters. His great and great-great grandparents have made Tarespagia their permanent residence, like most of the older Fae who prefer tropical temperatures year-round.
I have only one great-grandparent left, the three others having perished during the Magnabellum, or right after, in Nonna’s mother’s case. The remaining one resides in Tarespagia with my aunt Domitina, the formidable Xema Rossi whose tongue, according to Nonna, is as sharp as her ears. I’ve never met the elderly Fae, nor do I particularly care to from Nonna’s accounts, but I’m guessing our paths will eventually cross, unless her eight-century-old heart stops ticking.
Phoebus pulls me into an oval sitting room decorated in creams and whites, with gold wall panels representing flowering vines. It’s sumptuous.
