My mouth must gape because Phoebus traipses over to knuckle it shut.
“Did you know?” I hiss, watching mother and son interact.
“Do you really think I would’ve called her a gardener if I had?” He gnaws the life out of his bottom lip. “Thank the Cauldron she doesn’t understand Lucin.”
Arin runs her thumb across the hollow of Lore’s cheek, smoothing the edges of a black stripe.
He has a mother.
Lorcan has a mother he never mentioned—not once—during our voyage through Luce.
He has a mother.
Lorcan Reebyaw has a mother.
A mother?!
“Should I be worried?”
“About?” I finally tear my gaze away from Arin and Lore.
Phoebus’s head is tipped, and his eyes tapered. “About these berries melting my brain and robbing me of my sanity, since clearly, they’ve done away with yours?”
My crossed arms jolt. “The man has a mother, Pheebs.”
“Many men have mothers. Actually,allmen have mothers. You do know how babies—”
“Not you, too,” I mutter.
“Why is this upsetting you so?”
“Because I spentdayswith him. Just him and me. And not once did he mention his mother was alive.”
“And he was supposed to tell youwhy?”
“Because—because—” I toss my hands in the air. “You’re right. He had no need to share anything private with me. He still doesn’t.” I add that last part because I can feel Lore’s gaze on my face.
I pluck Phoebus’s hand and drag him toward the hallway opposite where we came from, energy restored. Since most of my blood is concentrated between my face and heart, I can barely feel my feet, which is quite fortunate considering I plan on putting as much distance as possible between me and the shifter.
If he’d trusted me, he would’ve told me about his mother.
“This isn’t the way back,” Phoebus says as we slip beneath a stone arch and the ceiling slopes violently downward; probably because of the topography of the summit over our heads.
The sky is a deep purple flecked with stars by the time we pass beneath an archway that opens onto a grotto as voluminous as the vertical orchard, except this one boasts communal tables girdled by market stands. Each stand is equipped with firepits atop which are roasted produce, fish, and meats that put the Harbor Market’s wares to shame.
The crisscrossing strings of lanterns trickle as little light as the moon through the cupola carved inside the jagged rock ceiling, but torches have been welded, not only into the uneven walls, but also around each stand.
“Antoni told me about this place. It’s calledMurgadh’Thábhain,which means the Market Tavern. It’s at the epicenter of the kingdom. It’s both a marketplace—the only one for that matter—and a tavern.”
I roll the foreign words over my tongue:Murrgaw Hawben.
Phoebus’s gaze narrows on the openings peppering the rock and the black wisps streaking in and out. “Huh. This must be proletariat housing.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“No doors. Stacked rooms.”
“Or it’s their version of a brothel.”
