Even though his nostrils are slimmer than my beast’s, Silvius pulses air as loudly as Minimus. “The one to disembark.”
“Oh. I did hear that one but wasn’t certain whether I was, in fact, welcomed onto Isolacuori.”
My grandfather’s pupils constrict to dots no larger than the gold and ruby studs skimming the shells of his ears.
“Did you expect to be trialed on the pontoon?”
“Right. My trial. It slipped my mind there for a moment.”A mighty pleasant one.
Both men’s jaws flex, while the soldiers around them side-eye each other or me. Doing my best to hide my satisfaction at triggering such agitation, I finally stand. The boat captain holds out his arm, but I don’t take it, don’t even glance at it. Everyone else got off the boat without assistance, and so will I.
I hike up my skirt, glad to have worn something elegant and expensive, in spite of the circumstances, and climb onto the golden quay. “General Rossi, I’ve heard so much about you.”
His Adam’s apple glides up and down his long throat. “I would’ve been surprised if you hadn’t.”
His voice is so . . .ordinary—neither particularly deep nor acutely shrill—that his answer doesn’t immediately register. But when it does, I wonder if it was born from conceit or humor. Word on the canal is that he’s as arrogant as Marco.
His gaze lowers to the bandage beneath the gossamer white sleeves on my gown, before turning toward Silvius. “Why does her arm bleed?”
Is he expecting Silvius to answer or does he believe the male mutilated me? What would he do to Silvius if he was to blame? Punish him or congratulate him? I’m tempted to insinuate I was manhandled to see what would befall the callous commander, but I won’t risk Minimus’s life.
“Clumsiness.” I shrug. “A wretched halfling predicament.”
He remains perfectly stone-faced. “Fetch Lazarus. I want her wound mended before her audience with the king.”
For a moment, I think Justus may care about my well-being if he calls upon the healer, but his next words blow the fragile prospect from my mind.
“We wouldn’t want her tainted blood to soil Luce’s most sacred soil.”
Touché, Nonno. Touché.How delusional must I be to believe that a father capable of ear-culling could be capable of grandfatherly affection?
The general unbinds his hands from behind his back and rests one on his sword’s hilt. “You do not resemble Agrippina.”
A simple observation, or is it his way of pointing out my lack of Faeness? “I must take after my father.”
The healer arrives, his long black robes snapping in the languid, citrus-scented breeze. It’s the same man who healed Dante after his swim across the channel. “You called, General Rossi?”
Justus gestures to me. “Heal the girl’s arm.”
The . . . girl?
Even Silvius seems stunned by the way my grandfather has addressed me, but his rounded eyes quickly taper back to their usual thinness.
The Fae healer nods to my arm. “May I?”
Focusing on the row of hoops adorning the man’s ears instead of on Justus’s glacial blue gaze, I lift my arm and pull my sleeve up. Thankfully, the fresh blood hasn’t leached onto the flowy sleeves.
Lazarus’s brow furrows as he uncoils the bandage, the grooves deepening once my wound is exposed. “What did you cut yourself on, child?”
“A fishing hook.” When one of his salt-and-pepper eyebrows rises, I add, “A very large one.”
After handing the soiled strip to one of Silvius’s soldiers, Lazarus raises my arm and sniffs, then skims his nose down my wrist and over my knuckles, freezing a beat too long for my comfort.
Can he smell the crow on my fingers? Fae senses are keener than humans, but can pure-bloods truly distinguish the scent of feathers from a mythical being to that of a duck’s?
My pulse quickens, vibrating my neckline. Since Fae ears are sharp, and not just in appearance, I cloak my trepidation beneath snark. “Will I perish, healer?”
As he straightens, Lazarus’s amber irises flick up to my face. “Not today, Signorina.”
