“You’re right. I don’t give a flying fuck about Lucin law.” My tone is so clipped that it yanks his gaze back to mine. “The towel, Maezza.”
“You’ve lost a lot of weight. Did Ríhbiadh not feed you?”
I hope my jutting bones repulse him. “May I please have the towel?”
He grows still. Only a nerve along his jaw ticks.
I don’t know what game he’s playing but I thoroughly dislike it. I’m about to ask for the towel—again—when he finally hands it over.
I snatch it from him and wrap it around my body. “Why are you here? Did you forget something?”
“I wanted to invite you to sup with me.”
“I’d rather get basted in blood all over again.”
Dante’s eyes flare.
He raises his hand, I imagine to strangle me, but the door hinges squeak, making his arm freeze in midair.
“Ceres was much too lax in your education.” Justus enters, gold taffeta and sparkly tulle draped over one arm. “You’ll need to be taught manners.”
“Are you volunteering to be my etiquette tutor?”
“Why, yes.” He grins, and not with mirth. “It’ll give us time to catch up on all those years apart.”
I try to read his true intent but I’m not yet familiar with his facial expressions. Does he truly plan on disciplining me, or is his plan to educate me in all things Shabbin?
I shrug. “It’ll be your sanity’s funeral. But whatevs, Nonno.”
“Whatevs?” His ruddy eyebrows bend.
“What-eh-ver. It’s colloquial speak in Tarelexo.”
“You attended the finest school in Luce. A school for which I paid a small fortune.”
“Should’ve invested your money someplace else.”
“I see that.”
“How about Meriam gives me my etiquette classes? She was—is—after all, a princess.”
“No,” Justus says.
“Why not?”
“She cannot teach you”—he spaces out each syllable as though I were a toddler with an elocution problem—“for not only is she a disgrace to the crown, but she’s out of sorts. I’m afraid even your lessons will have to wait, Maezza.”
“How long?” Dante asks.
“Several days.”
“Days!”
“After she bound Fallon’s magic, she was dead to the world for an entire week.”
My pulse quickens as our eyes meet and hold.
“A week?” Dante’s pitch cleaves my eardrums.
