“Crows and Shabbins are capable of bargaining,” he says. “Any magical being is.”
Huh.Well, that answers one of my many,manyquestions. “Then it’s because my magic is bound. But you’ve my word.”
The Nebban King glances away from his arm, one eye a little squintier than the other. “Except I’m unfamiliar with the worth of your word.”
“Isn’t the worth of my blood what matters anyway?”
Fallon, for Mórrígan’s sake, stop baiting the male. We’ve no need for him.
I pay him no mind. “The faster we find Meriam, the faster my veins will bloat with magic.”
Syb wheezes as though she’s inadvertently swallowed a large insect. Dante and Lore are both as silent and still as the stone pillars surrounding us. And Eponine . . . she’s blinking at me with eyes as large as Minimus’s.
“Mademoiselle Amari”—Pierre rests his forearms on the mosaic table—“what is your friend’s word worth?”
Syb startles at being called upon to testify to my character a second time.
I shoot her a pleading look that I hope screams:Play along. We need Meriam.
“Fallon has never reneged on a promise.” I’m about to blow out a sigh of relief when she adds, “However, do you really wish to marry a woman who will, one day, be capable of shifting into a bird with iron appendages? If I were you, sire, I’d leave her to Lorcan.”
What.
The actual.
Underworld?
“Ríhbiadh?” Pierre snorts. “He’s marrying Vladimir’s daughter, is he not?”
“He certainly is,” I say perkily.
Syb holds my stare. “What I meant to say was, I’d leave her to whicheverCrowwants her. Or Shabbin, since I hear iron doesn’t affect them.”
A curl of Lorcan’s smoke slithers across my collarbone. “You’d require Priya’s approval to marry her great-granddaughter, Pierre.Andthe approval of Fallon’s father.”
I brush the shadows away, smooshing down the goosebumps they’ve carried along. “The only approval he’ll need is my own, Mórrgaht.”
“Tell you what, Mademoiselle Rossi, I’ll have a contract drawn up for your approval. Once I’ve collected your signature—in blood—I’ll put my best trackers at your disposal, and we will scour the three kingdoms for your grandmother. Does that suit you?”
“It does.”
Lore’s shadows slink over my skin again, but this time they press down so hard, they feel like palms. “I cannot wait to inform Cathal of your desire to marry the man who is poisoning our oceans, Fallon.”
I was about to break my vow of using the bond in order to yell at him for touching me, but his words freeze the roar before it can roll from my mind into his. “What does Lorcan mean by that?”
Eponine picks up her glass of wine. “I believe he’s referring to the substance that counters the salt in our waters.”
A memory worms itself to the surface of my mind. Dante once told me that the Isolacuorin canals were treated daily with a chemical manufactured in Nebba that thins out the salt density.
She tips her metal goblet to her maroon-hued lips and downs the contents. With a hiccup, she adds, “Father’s lead scientist has managed to make the chemical self-regenerating.” She presses dainty fingers topped with matching lacquer against her spasming lips.
Pierre’s jade eyes harden along with his expression. “Take away my daughter’s wine. She’s had enough.”
Because she’s shared sensitive information, or because he deems her too inebriated?
“I thank you for your consideration, Father, but I will keep my cup.” Eponine no longer hiccups. “And full at that.” She taps the rim. “More.”
The carafe-toting halfling hesitates.
