It will be soon.
I grip his conviction and store it close to my heart, but more than once throughout the day, it drifts from my fingers like crumbling rock because too many lives are still at stake.
What if I don’t retrieve Lore’s fallen crow?
What if he goes ahead with Justus’s mad plan and doesn’t awaken after being staked?
What if I fail at killing Dante?
What if my mother never shifts out of her scaled form?
* * *
Sybille tapsthe rim of my stein. “Liquor her up, Pheebs. Fal’s just crawled back into her head.”
I sigh as he splashes the content of the pitcher inside my metal cup.
“Woe is meis not a good look on you, sweets.” He nods to the brown shirt I wear over brown leggings. “Very much like that outfit.” He shudders.
I roll my eyes at him. “I will have you know that these clothes were in my closet.”
“Perhaps, but they’re surely meant to be worn separately. Together, they make you look like a turd with spindly legs.”
I wedge my index and middle fingers together and flip my blond friend off.
The male settles back in his chair with a grin. “I’ve decided I will become your stylist since you clearly cannot style yourself.”
“I don’t need a stylist.” Elbow on the table, I snatch my glass up and tip it to my lips.
“All queens need a stylist,” Sybille pitches in.
“Not a queen,” I mutter, staring at the tangle of bare branches on the platter Lore’s mother brought to the tavern an hour or so after I joined my friends there.
Arin sat with us for a while, and we conversed through Phoebus, who’s become surprisingly fluent in Crow. After watching me polish off every pink berry with an amused curl of lip, she excused herself to help Connor with the Siorkahd’s meal.
“Yet,” Sybille and Phoebus say in unison, both grinning like loons.
“Arin and I have begun . . .” Phoebus’s lips clamp together.
“Begun?” I ask.
“Growing a lot morebeinnfrhal,” Sybille finishes for him. “I mean, youareback, and you’re like a beaver with that fruit. In whichever form it comes.” She nods to my wine, which I start to lower.
And it strikes me that she hasn’t reached for her cup more than once. “Speaking of drinking, why aren’t you doing any of that?”
“I’m drinking.” Phoebus demonstrates by picking up his cup and taking a large swig.
“I meant Syb.”
My friends exchange a look, one that makes me bounce out of my slouch. Sky wine sloshes over the rim of my cup and drenches my sleeve, but I can hardly feel it over the clamor of my heart.
“Oh my Gods, are you—are you and Mattia—”
The grin that spreads over Sybille’s mouth is so blinding that all her white teeth are on display. “It’s early days still, but yes”—she presses her palm to her stomach—“I’m growing a little halfling.”
Phoebus raises his hand to his mouth and mock-whispers to me, “Let’s hope the babe gets Mattia’s disposition and Syb’s pilosity. The other way around would be disastrous.”
Sybille snags one of the barebeinnfrhalbranches and pitches it at Phoebus’s head. It catches in his shoulder-length locks.
