The general tenses, surely considering the task beneath him. The white smile that Eponine casts him says she’s singled him out for the job specifically for that reason. Naturally, this makes her leap up in my esteem.
Although I don’t feel like alcohol, I do feel like watching the redheaded Fae do my bidding.
It’s all the more satisfying when the boat rocks and the wine sloshes onto his hand and soaks into his burgundy sleeve. His head whips up, and he lobs an insult at the gondolier, who’s scrambled off the port side of the gondola.
“Serpent.” The air-Fae nods to the rippling water.
I twist around and hinge over the bulwark. In the transparent water beneath us glimmer two scaled beasts—one as blue as my dress, and the other, as pink as Syb’s headpiece . . . andscarred.
Although tempted to fan my fingers through the water, the whole point of our masks is to preserve our anonymity. Since no pureling in their right mind would stick their hands in the ocean, I keep them flush with my cushioned seat.
“Those beasts better not rock the boat again.” Although Tavo says this quietly, the menace in his words rushes through the lantern-lit darkness toward me.
“You lay a finger on them, Diotto,” I murmur loud enough for him to hear, “or touch them with your magic, and I will see that a vital part of you is shortened. With steel.”
Silence follows my threat.
But then Diotto’s mouth curves into an ugly grin. “You strike me with steel, or with a serpent, and I get to strike your friends with obsidian, so I’d be careful about issuing threats. Unless you care to start a war? I suppose that would make the Crimson Crow all too happy. He’d get to raze our kind and call it revenge.”
“Fallon, I carry you home. Please.” Even though the air is dark, I don’t miss the curls of black smoke drifting through the red silk of Aoife’s cape.
“Né.Fás.”No. Not yet.Answering in her tongue makes her eyes widen behind her mask.
After getting over her shock, she grumbles, “Ríkhda gos m’hádr og matáeich lé.”
Although I don’t understand everything, I grasp the essence, thanks to the expression ‘mattock lé’—murder him.
I smile as Tavo walks around the bench to hand me the half-filled flute. Aoife snatches it from his fingers, startling the general who retracts his hand so fast I expect to find bleeding gouges. Unfortunately, his skin is unmarred.
“Gondolier, if I’d wanted to bob, I would’ve invited my friends to join me in my private pool.”
The man jerks at Eponine’s censure, then tentatively steps up onto the port side and, peering over the edge of the boat, dips his oar. Another serpent must’ve glided under the boat because he steps back down into the vessel and uses his air-magic to propel the boat forward.
“Will someone please get the bard to sing songs that do not involve dashing men risking their lives to save silly damsels?” Eponine sips her wine, observing the pop-pop of Tavo’s jaw.
I try to catch Catriona’s stare but the courtesan is staring fixedly at something behind me. I turn to find a vessel, identical to ours, filled with a similar crowd. Here I imagined this would be a quaint affair but apparently, Eponine has more female friends than I presumed.
She leans in to murmur, “They’re all decoys. You’ll notice they have the same-colored headpieces as we do.”
Her comment turns my attention away from the other vessel and the water that stretches between us, frothing over the roiling bodies of the serpents.
“Well . . .” The mouth she painted black to match her headpiece twists. “Except for Catriona’s. She probably paid the saleslady extra to be the only one with a metallic headpiece.”
My heart misses a beat because the platinum wig was supposed to sit upon my head.
Catriona doesn’t seem to have heard Eponine, focused as she is on the glowing Tarecuorin estates we slip past as the thick-waisted bard riding on his very own gondola serenades us with his honeyed baritone.
Although the world may believe the courtesan posturing, she is not. Which raises the question: why did she step under the spotlight destined for me?
Whose attention is she looking to garner?
Forty-One
Sybille glances our way before refocusing on the bard gliding beside us. More than once, she’s joined her voice to the man’s. Although his ears are as round as hers, he wrinkles his hooked nose and hikes up his soft chin as though her singing were the vilest sound he’s ever heard.
Granted, Sybisslightly tone-deaf, but if her participation merits anything, it’s enthusiasm. It takes guts to sing out loud.
As I stare at her, the wordtunnelspirals around my mind. I nudge Aoife in the ribs to get her to bend over and murmur, “News from Imogen?”
