A blush scampers across my cheeks at her perspicacity.
She places her hand on my knee and squeezes my leg, then raises her glass. “To the future queens of this world, Signorina Rossi.” With a wink, she adds, “To us.”
My spine prickles at her toast.
Is she referring to our agreement to remove her father from power, or to me sitting upon a throne of my own?
“Eponine, you swear to never poison our oceans?”
“On my life, Fallon.”
I suddenly wish bargains could adhere to my skin, for I want this one inked in magic. As an ebullient Syb bursts up the stairs, sallow-faced sister in tow, I begin to plot how I will go about murdering a king.
Gods, who have I become?
My mind whispers: “King-killer.”
I hush it, choosing another qualification for myself.
One that doesn’t make my stomach convulse: “Queen-maker.”
Thirty-Eight
Afamiliar Crow finally shows up the next day.
That Crow isn’t Lore.
Still, I’m glad to see Aoife, especially when she brings me a bottle of Crow wine to make up for her prolonged absence. Although she owes me nothing, neither wine nor her company, I’m glad for both.
Asking her about Lorcan’s whereabouts is on the tip of my tongue, but I swap my query with one that won’t make her wonder why I care that he hasn’t come to visit. Just because he hinted that we were due for a talk doesn’t mean he’s in a hurry to have one.
He’s a king with much to do.
Of course, my mind hops right over the missing Crows and goes straight to Alyona. I catch myself hoping that he isn’t doing her. If he is, it would make our talk very short.
I close my eyes and attempt to steady my thrashing heart. I may be Lorcan’s mate, but I’ve no claim on him, especially since I rejected him.
“Adh fin,” Aoife says as she scratches the sheet of vellum between us with the tip of her feather-tipped fountain pen.
I give my head a rapid shake to bring myself back to the here and now.
“Aww fion,” I repeat, trying my best to mimic her pronunciation.
“Sky.” She points to the wordadh, then underlines the wordfin. “Wine.”
Of-bloody-course, it’s not pronounced the way it’s written. What would be the fun in that when one can pepper vowels at random with accents and declare that the coupling of two consonants create an entirely new one?
“Crows are such devious creatures, Aoife.”
“Why say that?”
“Because . . .” I tap my own pen over the vellum, sprinkling it with ink. “If anyone comes across a written note, there is no way they’d make heads or tails of the contents since Crow doesn’t sound like it’s written.”
She smiles, and there’s pride in that smile. “I do not know if that was intent, but I hope it was.”
Although far from fluent, my knowledge of Crow has expanded thanks to Colm, a bear of a man who happens to be as sweet as cotton candy. When Aoife didn’t show, I asked if he’d dispense the lessons. Thanks to him, I can now compose short sentences. Syb, too, since she usually stays for my daily lessons.
Unless Mattia is home. Then she deserts me. I suppose I would desert me, too, considering the quiet sailor is apparently a god in the sack, caring more about her pleasure than his own.
