I sigh in relief when Justus orders us to stop. Although butter-soft, my slippers chafed my blisters. I don’t dare peer down at the damage for fear the azure silk will be spotted crimson. Instead, I keep my attention locked on the king, who tilts his head to see past the marquess.
My persecutor crowds the dais, thighs grazing the raised gold platform.
“Thisis the girl who’s caused you so much grief, Ptolemy?” Although deep like Dante’s, Marco’s timbre rings with a haughty nonchalance absent from his brother’s voice.
Ptolemy spins, his complexion reddening until it’s a perfect match to the ribbon braided through his hair. “The serpent-charmer,” he hisses.
Since Dante dubbed me with that nickname a decade ago, I don’t hate it, but I do hate the way Timeus articulates it.
Marco tips his head to the side. “Justus, what do you make of the matter?”
“With all due respect, Maezza, the general wasn’t present at the scene.” Ptolemy’s sprite flits over his master’s head, dressed in the same crimson silk as the marquess’s shirt.
Marco flutters his fingers. “You’ve spoken your piece, Ptolemy. And exhaustively at that. Now, I’d like to hear what the girl’s grandfather has to say on the matter.”
“Gran-grandfather?” The blood drains from Timeus’s face.
I’m glad he’s unaware of how profoundly Justus Rossi despises me, because the sight of the marquess quaking in his polished boots is fascinating.
“JustusRossi. FallonRossi.” Marco gestures between my grandfather and me. “I’m surprised you didn’t make the connection, Ptolemy.” After a beat, his gaze slides back over the whitening face of the marquess. “Justus, your opinion?”
“I’ve personally reviewed the damage the marquess’s boat incurred after I was informed of the incident. One gold coin will cover the reparations to the structure and to the garish accoutrements.”
Timeus’s mouth puckers like Syb’s when she sucks on the candied rowan berries her father makes at the turn of the year, a Lucin tradition to sweeten the bitter moments we lived through and the ones yet to come. “What of the immaterial damage the girl has caused me? We haven’t agreed on a price for that.”
My eyes widen in time with my mouth. “Immaterial damage?”
“To my person.”
I scan his body, seeking injuries. When I find none, I level my gaze back on his face. “Oh . . . you meant to your ego?”
“Bite your tongue, child,” my grandfather growls.
The king draws his index and middle fingers across his mouth that’s tipped into a smirk. “You shook on one gold coin, Ptolemy. Since my general deems the amount fair, I cannot reopen the case. It’ll have to suffice for your boat and for your self-worth. You are dismissed.”
I would never have thought it possible, but Timeus’s complexion burns hotter, as though all his fire-magic were converging inside his face. “There’s still the matter of the serpent.”
“Yes. There is.” Marco’s amber irises seem to redden like the marquess’s face.
“What punishment will you—”
“Can you shapeshift into a serpent, Ptolemy?” the king asks.
“Excuse me, Maezza?”
“Unless you can transform into a scaled beast or are related to Signorina Rossi, then the rest of the girl’s hearing doesn’t concern you.”
The marquess’s reedy lips snap shut. “I was there. I can testify—”
“You did that while we waited on the accused. Now,go.” The word resonates through the throne room, skipping over every golden tile.
Cheeks streaked pink, Ptolemy whirls, his braid smacking his trusty sprite in the face. The tiny faerie dips, then swoops upward, shaking his head to clear it.
The incensed lord advances toward me, and although I’ve no illusion of the feelings shared by the two men bracketing me, Silvius takes a step closer to me, while Justus smothers the jewels on the hilt of his sword.
“Expect a visit from my sprite on the first of every month to collect my dues, Fallon Rossi.” Timeus rolls the R and hisses the S in my last name, spittle flying from his mouth. Thankfully, he’s not close enough for it to land.
“Noted.” Relief that he won’t come in person loosens some of the tightness in my bones.
