Syb tilts her head to the side and gives me a look. “You can lie to everyone else, Fal, but not to me.”
I study the pleats of an indigo chiffon gown so hard I’ve no doubt my forehead becomes just as pleated as the dress.
“What happened with Lore, Fal?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“Yes. Nothing.”
“So it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s in Glace?”
“How do you know where he is?”
“I heard Antoni mention to Mattia that Lore couldn’t help because he was visiting the Glacins.”
More like visiting a certain Glacin . . .
“What I can’t wrap my head around is why in the world he’s marrying Alyona when, clearly, he’s—”
“She has a kingdom to offer him.” My fingers have grown so tight that the dress slips off the hanger and puddles at my feet.
“And you, a queendom.”
I hinge at the waist and scoop up the feather-soft cloth. “What do you think of this dress?”
Syb sighs. “So we’re really not discussing the serpent in the room?”
“Not tonight.”
“But tomorrow?” In a hushed voice, she asks, “Tomorrow you’ll finally stop lying to me, and to yourself?”
I neither nod nor shake my head.
“I really wish salt would work on you,” she grumbles. “Oh, the truths I’d pry from your stubborn tongue.”
“Speaking of salt . . . Did you buy some?”
“Obvs.” She fishes a small pouch from in between her breasts and drops it into my open palm.
As I close my fingers over the truth serum, my bathroom door flaps open and Catriona barges in. “I’ve changed—” Her palm lies flat against her heaving chest as she comes to a stop in my closet. “My mind!”
Syb’s eyebrows hook up. “About . . .?”
“I want—the silver headpiece.” A sheen of sweat glosses the courtesan’s forehead. “Orange—doesn’t match—my dress.”
Syb snorts. “You gave yourself heart failure over a headpiece?”
Catriona’s green eyes meet mine in the mirror. There’s something large and almost possessed about them. “You don’t mind, do you, micara?”
I turn toward her, raising a soft smile that does nothing to blot out her anguish. “Of course, I don’t mind.”
She jerks up her hand that’s strangling a tawny masterpiece. “Here.”
“I left mine on the writing desk.”
A single bead of sweat travels down her bobbing throat and stains the high collar of her dress.
