I do find myself wondering what sort of dress she’s planning on wearing since a gilding revel necessitates next to no clothes. After all, how are guests supposed to paint the bride’s body if it’s covered? I don’t ask, of course, for that would reveal I’ve never attended a gilding revel, which would in turn reveal I’m not the type of guest invited to such a party.
The owner takes us up one flight of stairs, to a space almost as grand as Ptolemy’s living room, complete with varnished hardwood flooring, aquamarine velvet poufs, and silver wallpaper to match the semicircle of standing mirrors.
“I sent for Sybille and her sister,” Eponine says as she takes a seat on one of the poufs. “Shoes! I forgot to bring the shoes I intended to wear. Catriona, would you mind heading to Francanelli and purchasing the stardust sandals for me, the ones with the tall spiky heels.” It isn’t a question; it’s a command. One that makes Catriona’s jaw clench. Eponine either doesn’t seem to care or doesn’t seem to notice. “They know my size.”
One of the female attendants extends a platter of crystal flutes brimming with sparkling gold wine. “I can go, Altezza,” she offers.
Eponine snatches a glass, paying the woman’s offer no mind. “And, Cati, get yourself a pair and put it on my account. It’s the least I can do.”
Catriona’s eyes flash a brutal shade of green at the nickname Eponine has just flung her way, but she dips her head and abides by her future ruler’s directive.
The platter of drinks is extended my way, but I shake my head.
Once she’s retreated through a door built into the wallpapered wall, Eponine murmurs, “You shouldn’t trust that woman, Fallon.”
I assume she means Catriona. “Why do you say that?”
“Because she’ll doanythingfor coin.”
“Like most people in Luce.”
“I’d still be wary of her if I were you.”
“I assure you, I’m wary of everyone. Even of you.”
A smile quirks her lips, which are painted the same hue as her amethyst circlet. “As you should be. You are, after all, the most loathed person in Luce. Word has it, you’re even more loathed than the Sky King.”
“So I hear.”
She flicks her gaze around the room as though to ascertain that no one stands too near. “But not as loathed as Meriam.” She tips the glass to her mouth and takes a long swallow, keeping her eyes on mine.
I wait for her to say more. When she doesn’t, I ask, “Do you really know where she is, Princcisa?”
“Please, call me Eponine. And I do, but my knowledge comes at a cost.”
My heart pounds so loudly that I can feel it palpitate in my tongue. “I was told of the cost.”
“And?”
“It will be done.” Sure, Lore hasn’t agreed to it—yet—but do I really need him? Obviously, he’ll have a strong opinion on my decision to take this project upon myself, and his opinion will go something like this:You’re not actually contemplating murdering the King of Nebba yourself, my foolish little bird?
“Wonderful.” She downs the contents of her glass, then taps one pointy nail against the etched crystal to indicate she desires a refill.
Something scratches at the walls of my mind. “Who’ll rule Nebba?”
“Why”—the princess’s eyes glitter like the wine being ferried back her way—“me.”
My heart slow-twirls as I picture a woman rising to such a position of power. “What about Dante?”
“What about him?”
I side-eye the pointy-eared female attendant replenishing Eponine’s flute, waiting until she scampers away before asking in a hushed tone, “Will you take him with you?”
“Gods, no. I’ll leave him to Luce and the women who want him.” She wriggles her long, arched brows. “I hear one of these women might be you.”
My heart twinges. “Once upon a time, but Gods, not anymore.”
She tilts her head to the side, which sends her long, silken hair cascading over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, you’re far more interesting than that frigid Glacin scarecrow. If I thought you had any interest in women, I may have invited you to rule at my side, but I sense your heart is already taken.”
