“Why?”
“Antoni,” I say simply.
After a protracted blink, her long throat moves with a swallow, and she shakes her head.
I raise the wine to my lips reflexively. When the sweet taste hits my tongue, it reminds me of the pouch lodged in my cleavage. How will I fish it out without anyone noticing?
The answer comes in the form of an ivory tusk. I’m going to have to entreaty my beast to shake the boat again, anonymity be damned. I grab a miniature cheese puff from the golden platter set between Eponine and me, and lift it to my mouth. Ever attentive, Aoife seizes it and takes a nibble. Once it passes her poison test, she hands it back. I pretend to take a bite before sliding my arm over the side of the boat and spreading my fingers.
For a moment, nothing happens; but then the gondolier hops off his raised platform, cursing a blue streak. My heart beats so frantically that I worry all of Luce will hear the salt crunch between my squashed breasts.
Suddenly, water sprays onto the deck, and the gondola seesaws. Aoife squats just as a gust of water splashes Catriona in the face. The courtesan’s complexion, which was already uncharacteristically pale, grows even whiter until it all but matches her platinum mask.
I palm my pounding heart, fingers creeping toward the seam between my breasts. I freeze because Diotto is staring at my hand.
Merda.
Syb also stares, silver gaze a little strained, a little pained. She shoots back her wine. “My glass is empty, Diotto.”
She holds out her cup toward the general, surely taking immense pleasure in the fact that he’s servingusfor once.
The second he swipes it from her fingers, her eyes cut to Eponine, and she smiles. “Want to hear a story about a certain someone?” She nods to Tavo.
“Always.”
Syb crooks her finger, and Eponine changes position to bring her head closer to my friend. I dash my fingers between my breasts and pinch out the pouch. My hands shake so hard that it tumbles onto my lap. The second I clasp it, my gaze vaults back to the gondola passengers.
Only Aoife catches my lackluster stealth.
Catriona is too busy staring upward, fingers wound so tightly around the stem of her crystal goblet that her knuckles are white. Her distress gives my chaotic pulse and blundered scheming pause, and I consider dropping salt in her glass first, but Eponine is target number one.
I dip a nail under the silk strings and loosen the knot, then spread the pouch open. As Syb spills a long-winded tale into Eponine’s ear, Diotto’s eyes narrow on their bent heads, tapering on Syb’s mouth, which she’s painted the same pink as her headpiece.
I pinch some salt, then envelop the pouch in the gauzy chiffon of my dress, and scoot toward Eponine. “What did I miss?”
“Oh, to have been a fly on the wall of your tavern that night . . .” Eponine muses, lips bent into a smile that is blinding in comparison to the black hue of her mouth.
My gaze surfs between her green eyes and the glass she holds aloft. Syb leans forward again and drops her voice, which forces the princess to tilt her head to offer Syb better access to her ear.
Heart walloping my rib cage, I raise my fingers to the princess’s wine and release the truth-telling flakes just as a laugh booms from her mouth and she swings her arm. Wine sloshes from the rim.
I measure the amount left—three sips—then worry the salt may not have had time to dissolve.
As Eponine reclines back against the throw pillows, her eyes meet Diotto’s, and she smirks. “Not much to shorten with steel, I hear.”
Tavo flinches, and although I positively loathe the male, I cannot help but feel a little bad that the story Sybille chose to relate involved his anatomy.
“I’m not often glad to have been born a woman, what with the automatic lack of consideration that comes with our gender, but at least we’ve no need to worry about what sits between our legs.”
The general’s face turns a shade of vermillion that surpasses that of his hair and eyes, and almost matches the burgundy of his uniform.
To put the man out of his misery, I shoot my glass upward. “I’d like to propose a toast.”
I wait for Eponine and Syb to lift their glasses, then call out Catriona’s name. My voice jerks her, which makes the embellishments in her wig tinkle.
“To the women who deepen our days and brighten our nights.”
“Such a pretty sentiment.” Eponine raises her glass to her mouth.
