“You have magic, no?”
“I’m a halfling. Which means that my magic is half as potent as a pure-blooded Faerie’s. What good will twigs and flowers do if I’m attacked by a ball of fire or drowned on dry land?”
“What good will knife do against fireball or water in lungs?” Aoife counters.
She has a point, but so does Catriona. I understand her need to wield something sharp.
“You can put that knife back, Catriona. No ill-willing Fae has penetrated Antoni’s domain.”
“Then what was all the shouting about?”
“Nothing.” The briskness with which I say this hikes up one of her eyebrows. “I just had a disagreement with Antoni over something.”
“I’m glad. Not about your disagreement, but that we’re all safe.” Her arm falls back alongside her body as though the knife suddenly weighs a ton.
For a long second, none of us move or speak, but then Aoife slices through the thick silence. “You should put knife back before you injure someone.”
“How clumsy do you believe me to be?”
I decide to defuse the tension by bringing up the reason I came down to the basement in the first place. “Would you happen to know where the cellar is?”
“I do, but we’re not allowed in there.”
“Says who?”
“Giana and Antoni.”
“Are they afraid we’ll drink all their wine?”
Catriona snorts. “There aren’t only bottles of wine behind that armored door, micara.”
“What else is there?”
“Do you really think they trust me?”
I look toward the stairs, debating whether to seek out Antoni or Giana and ask them point-blank what lies behind the door. Which one would be more likely to tell me the truth without the use of salt? I want to earn their secrets, though, not muscle them off their tongues.
“I’ve wine in the kitchen, if that’s what you’re after?” Catriona turns her attention toward Aoife. “I was headed back there to put away this knife.”
“Lead the way.”
I follow, and so does Aoife, even though my Crow guardian looks like she’d rather eat worms. Actually, she probably enjoys worms very much.
My nose wrinkles until Aoife murmurs into my ear. “Careful, Fallon. She acting suspicious.”
I nod. “I’ll be careful.”
We finally penetrate a room covered with creamy white tiles and outfitted with massive, blackened hearths. Copper pots in all shapes and sizes fringe a high rack, glimmering orange in the dimmed lantern light. The space is tidy—vegetables tucked into wicker baskets, eggs piled high in a wire one, cheese wheels wrapped in cloth, and jar upon jar of oils and spices aligned in neat rows.
If only Defne and Marcello could see this kitchen . . . how they’d love it.
The pop of a cork carries my gaze back to Catriona.
“What drives you to drink?” She pours out two glasses. “The words you had with the sailor?”
Aoife seizes one of the glasses and tastes it before handing it to me.
“Something like that,” I mumble as I raise my glass.
