I snort until—Wait. You’re plotting a war?
How are empires grown and thrones seized?
Which throne are you plotting to steal?
A beat passes, then:Your princeling is safe. For now.
My bedroom door opens so vigorously that the studded wood smacks the wall.
Phoebus teeters beneath the weight of the platter he holds. “I brought you everything you could possibly desire.”
What I desire is my freedom, and no one but the Crow King can hand that to me.
Nine
Istand on the threshold of my closet, stomach so full it juts through the green fabric of my borrowed shirt. I contemplate the row of hangers and the line of shoes. Lorcan has seemingly planned for any and all occasions. There are as many gowns as there are pants and blouses, all of them running the monochromatic gamut.
After opening and shutting every drawer, Phoebus trails his fingers along the skirt of a dress made entirely of black feathers. “Stunning.”
“Ghastly. Birds must’ve been plucked to make it!” I add with a hiss. “Lore may consider his Crows superior to Fae, but Fae don’t weave clothing from their own people’s skin.”
Phoebus’s nose wrinkles as he releases the gown. “You have an unprecedented manner of ruining a good thing.”
“Why are we in here anyway?”
“Because you have a sauce stain over your right boob.” He pokes the spot as though I may have forgotten about it. Considering how hard I scrubbed it, it hasn’t slipped my mind. “It’ll draw attention during our excursion.”
“Attention to what? How clumsy I am at eating?”
He smirks. “That, too.”
I shrug. “Don’t much care what people think about me anymore.”
“How blasé you’ve become, Picolina.”
“Disillusioned, not blasé.”
On a sigh, he turns back toward the racks, grabs a black shirt, then pinches a drawer open and hooks something peach and shiny.
“Pheebs, I’m not—”
“The shirt’s for me. Wouldn’t want to give complexes to your kinfolk.” He gestures to his lean torso that’s packed with tight muscles—not quite as large as he’d like, but which he’s still proud of. Especially since he was the kid with the concave chest and toothpick legs.
However often Syb and I told him he was handsome, until he stopped growing like a reed and started packing on weight, he just wouldn’t believe it.
“This, though, is for you.” He tosses the scrap of satin at my face. “It can get quite drafty around the castle. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”
“I wasn’t aware one caught colds through their nether regions.”
He snickers, but I indulge him. In case there are stairs or drafts that blow up the hem of his shirt.
“Maybe wear slippers?” he suggests as he adjusts the drapey black blouse that’s a tad short, what with hitting the waistband of his slacks, but which he, somehow, makes work.
I eye the row of shoes. That would be one more concession. I’m not ready to wave a white flag in Lorcan’s face, even if it’s just to thwack him with it. What I am ready for, though, is to make the most of my confinement.
“New shoes mean new blisters. My feet are still recovering.” After poking my legs through underwear that feels woven from warmed oil, I head out into Lore’s realm.
* * *
