“I know for certain you’d have Lore’s backing,Maezza.” I wonder if Lorcan’s listening. “Come to think of it, it would make for great alliance-building.”
Eponine coughs, and since she’s setting her wineglass down, I imagine the bubbly liquid went down the wrong pipe.
Pierre slings one arm around the sculpted back of his armchair, swiveling more fully toward me. “We’ve got a real little diplomat on our hands, Dante.”
I glance toward Dante, whose jaw is slow-ticking. I wonder why my suggestion perturbs him. Shouldn’t he be enthusiastic for any and all help in finding the runaway witch who surely wants him dead by proxy? He may not have imprisoned her himself, but like Mattia suggested last night, she must have a bone to pick with every member of the Regio line.
“But I have to wonder”—Pierre tilts his head—“why go through all this trouble when Priya’s great-granddaughter sits at my side?”
Twenty-Nine
Pierre’s words stiffen my posture to the point where, when I shift on my seat, my skeleton creaks like old floorboards. “Oh, you don’t want me, Your Highness. I’m out of order.”
Pierre’s attention falls on my palpitating carotid. He better not be imagining slicing it open to harvest what runs in my veins.
“I’ve zero magic.”
When he doesn’t look deterred, I plant my elbow on the table and hunch, then seize the flaky bread roll beside my plate and squash it between my fingers as I carry it up to my mouth. “And I’m horribly uncouth. Unfit for any and all regal events.”
Before I can take a chunk from the bread, Imogen seizes my wrist and takes a bite. Since she doesn’t drop dead, I sink my teeth into the roll.
“Just ask Sybille,” I say around my mouthful of bread. “She claims I was raised by a den of serpents.”
Is it me, or have Syb’s eyes grown so round they’ve spread to other parts of her face?
I make sure to add spittle. I personally find few things more disgusting than spittle. “Meriam, however, would be a great match.” I slug down a loud gulp of water—afterImogen tastes it—then pound down the rest of my bread and wipe the buttery flakes down the front of my dress. “She’s had training, what with having been Dante’s grandfather’s concubine.”
Although he’s watching me eat, Pierre Roy’s face doesn’t contort in repugnance. “Delightful, aren’t you?”
Eponine coughs again. This time, since she’s not gulping down wine, I think she may be coughing to cover up her horror that her father would find someone like me delightful.
A smile tightens Syb’s features. “She has her moments.” Clearly, she doesn’t believe this is one of them.
Pierre’s smile only firms up.
I drain my water, then set the empty goblet back down beside my wineglass, which is being filled by the same halfling who tucked my chair under the table. “No wine for me, thank you.” I need my wits about me.
The halfling pauses mid-pour and glances at Dante as though to get his take on my liver’s fate. When he flaps his fingers, she backs up and circles the table toward Syb.
“What a change you’ve brought upon our world, Mademoiselle Rossi.” Pierre’s gaze flicks between Imogen and the giant black birds dotting the stone veranda. “I’m surprised, though, not to find Ríhbiadh at your side.”
“He’s a busy man.”
“We areallbusy men.”
I’ve hit a nerve.Finally.I persevere on my streak. “Except you, sire, haven’t been dead to the world for five centuries and twenty some years.”
I expect the male to scowl and hoist his chin as the high and pointy so love to do, but instead, Pierre grins again, teeth as white as his ship’s hull. “Lucin women are so delightfully spirited in contrast to the proper dullards we raise in Nebba. Apologies, Dante. I did try my best with Eponine, but her mother, rest her soul, tried harder.”
My head rears back at how he’s just insulted his daughteranddead wife in the same sentence. Granted, Eponine has yet to say a word, so she could very well be dull, but Pierre’s her father. Fathers have a genetic obligation to find their offspring extraordinary.
He turns toward Dante and nods. “You were right.”
My attention volleys between the two kings. “About?”
He tips me a smile that makes me want to scrub my skin raw with salt. “That I’d enjoy meeting you, my dear.”
“Why in the world would you enjoy meeting ascazzalike me?”
