As I stand in front of the mirror propped against my closet wall, my heart performs merry little pirouettes. The clothes Sybille filled my closet with back at Antoni’s had probably never been worn, but they’d clearly been bought off a rack. These were handstitched just for me. They’ve never graced anyone else’s body, not even a mannequin’s, not even a potential customer’s.
Thinking of Antoni’s home frays the edges of my delight because I cannot think ofitwithout thinking ofhim. I shut my eyes when I begin to picture him bleeding in some dank tunnel. Is he alive? Wouldn’t the Fae have tried to ransom him if he were, though?
I blink back the heat that creeps up into my eyes. Antoni is strong and cunning. If anyone can survive the impossible, it’s him. “Be alive,” I whisper as I head toward my bathing chamber.
After unsnarling the mess atop my head with the boar bristle hairbrush beside my sink, I eye the block of black charcoal and hesitantly pick it up. Although I believe Lore may appreciate to see my face painted, I worry it will attract unwanted attention and unkind whispers.
I can already hear his people murmuring that the girl who spreads her legs for their monarch doesn’t merit warrior stripes. My face grows as hot as my chest. Gods, why must I care so deeply about other people’s opinion of me?
I set down the block and wipe my palms on a towel, then set out toward Sybille and Mattia’s bedroom.
“Syb?” I knuckle the wood gently so as not to disturb her boyfriend.
I stand and wait. And wait. Then try the handle, but there’s no give.
“Syb?” I say it a little louder this time, and I hear footfalls.
The lock clicks twice before the door sweeps open, and for a second, my breath catches and I think Gia is standing before me because the woman who greets me sports a halo of kinky curls. But then she steps into the beam of torchlight, and I expel my trapped hope because this woman’s skin is blacker and the shape of her face, softer.
I smile as Syb attempts to pry apart her squinty eyes.
“Is it morning?”
I nod.
“Is Gia—do you have any news?”
I don’t want to raise my friend’s hopes until the transaction is done and her sister is handed over, so I shake my head. “I expect we’ll have some in no time, though. Still up for breakfast?”
She stares down at her bare, shapely legs as though to check whether she’s wearing appropriate attire. “Would it be very odd if I went to breakfast wearing Mattia’s shirt? I really don’t want to don that red dress again.”
“I’ve done it before. It got me looks.”
“His shirt it is, then. Let me just get some shoes and—” She’s running her fingers through her hair, or attempting to; they get stuck at the root. “Oh. My. Gods.” She rolls her eyes as though to cop a look at her hair. “Fuck . . . I slept on wet hair. Fuck.” She tugs on the strands to force them to straighten.
“Syb, I know you hate your curls, so you may not care about my opinion, but I’m still giving it to you. You look gorgeous.”
She narrows her eyes as though she expects me to break out into a fit of giggles. Except I’m not because I meant what I said. “I’m glad my curls appeal to you, but they do not appeal to me.”
“Syb . . .”
“Is there anyone in your rooms? Like, a slumbering king?”
I smile. “No.”
“Fantastic. Can I borrow a shower and a dress?”
“Of course.” My stomach gurgles so loudly that it hitches the downturned corners of Syb’s mouth.
“Go to the tavern. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can tame my Giana-hair.” The mention of her sister’s name makes a swallow jostle her throat.
I grip her hand and give it a squeeze. “Lore will get her back. I swear he will.”
She nods, then glances over her shoulder at the large shape burrowed beneath her covers.
I drop my voice. “Is he still asleep?”
“Yeah. I suspect he’s going to try and sleep his heartache away.”
