“Happy?”
“Yes. Happy. Are you happy to sit on a throne and marry a princess?”
“I would rather marry another princess.”
The memory of the pallid Glacin shrivels my heart. “Perhaps it’s not too late to swap with Lore.”
Dante’s forehead puckers before smoothing. “Fallon, I’m not speaking of Alyona.”
“One of her sisters, then?”
He halts. “I’m speaking of you.”
My heart holds as still as the both of us. “I’m not a princess.”
“Your great-grandmother sits on the Shabbin throne.”
“Last we talked, you called Shabbe an island.”
He shrugs. “When you have a common enemy”—his gaze wanders over my shoulder—“you find your views shifting.”
“Are you speaking of Meriam?”
He nods.
“How did she escape?”
His attention returns to my face before wandering up the shell of my ear to the little hoop outfitted with the ochre crystal. “I believe Lazarus let her out, even though Lorcan refuses to hold the healer accountable.”
Twenty-Eight
Lazarus?!As we traverse gold bridge after gold bridge, Dante’s absurd theory runs on a loop inside my mind.
The giant Faerie wanted Marco gone, not Lorcan. By freeing Meriam, he’d be dooming Lore’s reign, and he seems to appreciate Lore, so that makes no sense.
“What is being done to retrieve Meriam?” I ask.
“I’ve tasked Dargento and several legions of sprites to sniff her out.”
I swing my gaze off the olive tree grove. “You must be kidding. Silvius?”
“Yes. Silvius.”
“The male wants me dead.”
“The male also wants to be reinstated in my regime. He will not harm you.”
I snort.
“What?” Dante’s jaw stiffens in annoyance.
“He may not harm me himself, but if he does find Meriam, he’ll assuredly lead her to my door and hand her a dagger.”
“I’ve sprites watching over you, and I’ve granted Lorcan permission to send some more birds into my lands. I fathom you are currently better guarded than I. Not to mention that it’ll keep Dargento busy and away. Isn’t that what you want?”
“What I want is for him not to exist,” I mutter under my breath.
If Dante hears me, which he must—not only is he a pure-blooded Fae, but he also stands mere centimeters from me—he doesn’t ask why I want the man dead. Either he does not care or he does not want to get involved.
