A splash makes me whirl back toward the canal. Just a man emptying a bucket.
As I lift my gaze, I catch movement on the Racoccin shore beyond the military barracks. A lone figure stands on the black sand, a skirt snapping around her legs. She lifts a hand to her turban, as though to keep the wind from unraveling it.
Even though the distance is great, I don’t miss the odd sheen of her skin and eyes. For a full minute, I scrutinize her, and not once does she blink. Is she blind? I hear humans often suffer from such afflictions, since their bodies are frailer than ours, but it’s unsettling nonetheless.
Bronwen watches.
Mamma’s whisper brushes the rounded shells of my ears as though she stands right beside me. I jump and glance over my shoulder to make sure she doesn’t.
I find only darkened air.
When I look back toward the shore, the woman is gone.
Three
Ifill a jug of sparkling faerie wine to the brim for Commander Dargento, the male I hate as much as doing laundry.
No. That’s untrue. I loathe him far more.
Giana, Sybille’s older sister, slides her platter onto the wooden bar. “I can take it to him after I check on room vacancy.”
Like Sybille, Giana has the palest silver eyes, made even paler set against her deep-brown skin. Although six decades apart, the sisters have the same parents, a rare occurrence in Luce where fidelity isn’t required. Especially considering pure-bloods live six to seven centuries, and half-bloods, half as long. If I were alive that long, I’d probably tire of my partner.
I stare at where the commander sits. “I can contain my repugnance long enough to drop the jug on his table instead of on his lap.”
Sybille trundles out of the kitchen carrying a big pot that spits out thyme-scented steam. “Whose lap do you want to soak with wine?”
“Silvius’s,” I murmur without moving my lips.
Sybille snorts. “Imagine how rich you’d be if you charged him a copper for every time he touched you.”
Giana glares at the round table where the commander, Cato, and three other high-ranking officials are destroying the slabs of boar meat she just placed between them. “Does he still do that?”
I seize the jug by its handle. “If I started charging your patrons for touching me, I’d be off buying a manor in Tarecuori.”
Sybille snickers but Giana doesn’t. She’s still glowering at the commander, who’s wiping grease off his pointed chin.
“It’s fine, Gia.”
“It’s absolutelynotfine.” Her gaze snaps to mine. “Caldrone, how I hate this place.”
“No, you just hate its patrons,” Sybille says before zigzagging around the rowdy diners.
Giana scrubs down her platter. “Our patrons are animals.”
“Animals are kind.”
She peers up at me, and I want to pinch myself. Although Giana has never judged me, the only way halflings like their animals is roasted and slathered in sauce. “You’re right. Our patrons are worse.”
“Don’t lob us all in, Gia. Some of us are remarkable specimen.” Phoebus props his forearms on the bar.
I smile at my favorite blond Fae. “Haven’t seen you all week, Pheebs.”
He links his fingers together and places them on the back of his head to stretch. He’s probably just rolled out of bed. My friend lives for the night. “Been busy with my family.”
I frown because Phoebus detests his family. He moved out of Tarecuori into Tarelexo the minute we graduated school. “Why?” I wrap my fingers around the jug and heft it.
“Flavia just got betrothed.”
