She adjusts the black velvet gloves she’s matched to her black dress, a number which seems to have been created from a single bolt of fabric someone unrolled around her neck and crisscrossed around her body. “Fine. There was no more work to be had atBottom of the Jug, and my roster of private customers held me accountable by association, so they stopped calling. Since I loathe silence and cannot live on air, I came here.”
“You said you planned on helping. May I ask how?”
“I made supper.” She gestures to a table laden with platters of food.
“You made—” I gape between the table and the courtesan. I’ve never seen Catriona lift a finger in the kitchen. “You know how to cook?”
“I am not entirely incompetent.”
“Yeah.” Syb releases my arm and walks over to the table, filching a paper-thin slice of fried zucchini. “Should’ve seen my face when she offered to cook.” She puts a crisped vegetable on her tongue and her eyelashes flutter. “Wow. Catriona.”
Catriona hikes up her chin and beams, then bustles toward the table.
Syb seizes a pitcher of wine and fills a glass. “Who else wants wine? Fal? Aoife?”
Aoife shakes her head.
“I’ll take a glass,” I say, and Syb carries one over.
“Catriona?” She offers her the other glass she’s carried back from the table.
As Catriona takes it from her, I start lifting mine to my mouth.
“Fallon, wait.” Aoife snaps out her hand and seizes the stem.
I jerk and some wine splashes out of the rim, dribbling down my arm.
“Sorry. I am to taste your food and wine.”
I balk. “Why?”
“For protection.”
“Protection from who?” My gaze hops between Syb and Catriona before arrowing toward the double doors through which Antoni, Mattia, and Riccio are striding, all three sporting embroidered tunics and tapered pants ending in polished cavalier boots.
I’ve never seen the fishermen trio garbed in anything other than sunbleached shirts and loose pants, so the sight of them in High Fae regalia is jarring. All they’re missing are points to their ears and tresses that reach past their wide shoulders.
Antoni comes to a stop mere paces from me. His gaze slips over my coral dress in a way that makes Aoife tense beside me. “Do you have everything you need?” Although his tone doesn’t drip with warmth or gentleness, it’s not as biting as it was when I showed up earlier today.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Aoife slips the wine into my hand. “Is fine.”
That snaps Antoni’s attention onto her. “We’ve no intent to poison Lorcan’s precious curse-breaker. Please relay that information to your king.”
Aoife doesn’t nod, merely glances toward one of the sitting areas, and a small smile warps her tense expression. “He hears, Antoni.”
My heart fires off a series of quick beats when I spy Lorcan lounging in one of the armchairs like a king on his throne, one ankle hooked over his knee, the opposite elbow digging into the armrest, two long fingers supporting the smooth edge of his jaw.
Since I don’t remember seeing a throne room during my trek through his realm, I wonder if the shifter king even owns a throne.
No.His golden eyes burn a path straight for me.For I do not believe that a kingdom is best ruled by sitting on one’s ass.
That spreads a grin onto my mouth.A bird swing, then?
His lips bend with the ghost of a smile.
“Not that we’re not honored by your presence, Mórrgaht”—Antoni sounds anythingbuthonored—“but what brings you here?”
