Thirteen
Ijolt awake to the sound of thunder.
I groan and turn into the warmth of Phoebus’s body, attempting to fall back asleep. My neck creaks from having spent the better part of the night being propped on a hard bicep.
I reach for my pillow and stuff my face against it, but I know there’s no going back to sleep. My heart is up and racing even though my body has yet to pare itself from the sheets that smell a lot like a distillery. I realize, with abject horror, that the smell is coming from me.
With another groan, I walk my carcass over to the bathroom, each step sending needles of pain inside my heels and bone-deep aches inside my calves and thighs. The temptation to spend the day holed up in bed is strong, but my desire to accomplish something useful is stronger.
Not to mention, I fought hard for my freedom, so it would be nonsensical to delay it. What if Lorcan reneged on his deal? Unlike the Fae, Crows aren’t held to their bargains with rings around their arms and marks over their hearts.
If he went back on his decision because I failed to jump on the opportunity to leave, it would ruin more than my mood. It would ruin my fledgling plan that grows and grows as I scrub every corner of my body with scented oil.
When I smell like a rose dipped in cream and honey, I turn off the shower and walk to the closet. Giana’s pants have not reappeared and neither has her blouse, but I wouldn’t have worn them anyway.
Today I feel like wearing something that fits, something that was made—apparently—for me. I select gray suede leggings which I pair with a blouse that could almost double as a dress. I cinch the breezy white material with a belt studded with silver coins. On closer inspection, they look like Lucin coin, what with the emblem of the sun stamped onto the surface.
I wouldn’t put it past Lorcan to have clothes woven from actual Fae money.
The outfit is different than what is fashionable in Luce, but I’m different, and as hard as I once tried to fit in, I’ve no desire to anymore. The girl who left Luce isn’t the one who’s returning to it. I comb my hair, then plait it and secure it with a black ribbon I steal off one of the dresses.
Ready for the next chapter in my life to begin, I wake Phoebus, who mutters for me to go away. So I do. I give him one extra hour of slumber while I go off to find us some breakfast.
The tavern is mostly deserted at this time. Either Crows sleep in, or they’re off, flying around, gathering small prey to warm their bellies.
I wrinkle my nose at the memory of the rabbit Lorcan tried to feed me when we were ascending Monteluce, before I explained I couldn’t stomach meat or fish of any kind. I didn’t ask if it was a Shabbin trait. I haven’t asked many questions.
Someday, I will, becausesomeday, Luce will be at peace, and Shabbe will be free of Meriam’s yoke.
As I take a seat at the table where I ate with my friends, my mind strays to the news that Lorcan delivered last night—the one about Meriam. Did the Queen of Shabbe torture her location from one of the Fae castaways or did Lorcan’s people find her using their own methods? And if they found Meriam, then why is my father looking for Daya? Why isn’t he interrogating the Shabbin sorceress who started this whole mess? I thought Meriam was holding her prisoner.
Connor comes over, and although he doesn’t smile, he mumbles good morning with such a strong accent that it takes me a moment to realize he isn’t speaking Crow.
“Buondiaindeed,” I say with a smile. “Can I please have a platter of cheese, fruit, and brown bread? Oh, and a jug of coffee?”
Connor nods and retreats toward the bar set against one of the curved walls. I see him exchange a couple words with a fellow Crow server whose light-brown hair strikes me as odd. Not everyone has black hair, but as far as I know, none possess hair so pale. The same way none have eyes any other color than deep brown. Well, besides Lore.
The brown-haired Crow lifts his eyes, which are black, and stares at me, and although I may be misreading his expression, his features seem stamped with disgust.
Sure, I’ve not been as sweet as gelato since my arrival, but I doubt I deserve such loathing. Peeved, I draw my attention away from him and his condemnatory mien.
Sybille would roll her eyes and tell me not to give his mood a lick of thought. I concentrate on the fact that I’ll see her soon. And Nonna and Mamma, wherever Giana has hidden them. They’re probably out of hiding by now. After all, Marco is dead. Perhaps I’ll even visit Antoni’s new lodgings. A house on Tarecuori must be so grand.
In spite of the storm raging outside, rainbows begin to tinge my mood anew. By the time Connor brings out the food, I am buoyant.
I grip the edge of the table to drag the bench closer. As the wood creaks against the stone, my fingertips sink into shallow grooves. I think they may have been carved by iron talons, but the furrows are rounded and vary in size. I don’t bend to look under the table, but I press my fingers deeper into the wood before carrying them to my face.
My tongue palpitates with heartbeats when I make out three letters on the tip of my middle finger.
Someone’s whittled words onto the underside of the table!
I suck in a breath as I realize I sit where Antoni sat during the one and only meal we shared. The poem still tucked beneath my mattress pricks the backs of my lids. Although I don’t remember it word for word, I recall him saying something about aknife scoring words into his heartand his injunction tosit at his table.
It was no love poem!
It was a missive to lead me here!
The wood is so dark and the light so dim that unless I slide underneath the table with a candle, I won’t be able to read his clandestine message. But crawling under the table would attract attention, and I don’t need anyone reporting my odd behavior to Lorcan. Not only would he keep me locked up, but he’d also surely go after Antoni.
