“Or that.”
“We do not have brothels in the Sky Kingdom because we deem the act of coupling sacred.” Lorcan materializes out of a shadowy pocket.
I wonder how long he’s been there, andwhy?
I make sure to wipe all traces of wonder from my expression and turn, pretending he isn’t present. Perhaps if I pretend long enough, he’ll vanish.
“Who lives here then?” Phoebus asks.
I glare at him for engaging Lore.
“The younglings.”
One of Phoebus’s blond eyebrows quirks up. “You separate children from their parents?”
I was about to traipse away but linger to hear the answer.
“No. Chicks, as we call our very young children, reside with their parents until they decide they’re ready to leave the nest. Then they’re given a lodging here or in the north, where they live for free until they pick up a craft and become contributing members of society.”
Phoebus’s other eyebrow pops up. “Any caste member gets access to free housing?”
Lorcan gazes around at his people, eyes gleaming like faceted stones in the darkness. “Crows do not have castes.”
“You have a king,” I toss in, incapable of keeping my mouth shut. My self-control is pitiful, which is probably why Lorcan has such easy access to my brain.
The edge of Lore’s jaw ticks. “So very observant, Behach Éan.”
His sarcasm makes my lips pinch.
Our discussion—or shall I call it what it is?—altercation doesn’t go unnoticed. The noise level has greatly decreased as most Crows stare openly in our direction.
A young boy approaches and extends a stein toward Lore, arms shaking a little. Liquid sloshes out and plops onto the smooth, shiny stone beneath his feet. He inclines his head in a diminutive bow and says something that ends with Morrgot.
“Tapath,” Lorcan says before taking the metal goblet from the boy and drinking.
Unlike our kings, he doesn’t have someone else taste it for poison or salt or the Cauldron only knows what people have tried to slip our rulers.
Believe it or not, Fallon—his golden eyes find mine over the lip of his cup—you are the only Crow who desires me dead.
I don’t respond, neither out loud nor through the mind link. Instead, I steel my spine and walk away.
You never asked about my mother.His words slow my retreat.
Without turning, I say,And you never asked about my chafed nipples, yet I told you all about them. Tell me, will I be meeting your father next?
My father passed before the Shabbins gave our clan magic.His timbre has turned so grave that I regret having asked. I hear him swallow.Mother would like to sup with you.
I’m supping with Phoebus.
The invitation was for the two of you.
We’re not hungry.I mutter at the same time as I hear Phoebus say, “Starving. We’d love to join you and your mother for dinner.”
I glance over my shoulder, hoping my friend was agreeing to dine with someone else’s son, but sure enough, he’s nodding at Lorcan, who must’ve tossed the question out loud at the same time as he tossed it into my head. Never mind.Phoebus can have dinner with every Crow in the kingdom for all I care.
I keep going, exhaustion be damned. Unfortunately, when I swivel my head back around, my escape is cut short. I collide into a woman toting drinks, all of which spill over me before clattering onto the stone, creating a din that echoes against my eardrums long after the last metal goblet has finished rolling about.
Even though the lighting is dim, I don’t miss how the woman blanches.
