I suddenly see how that is inappropriate, but it does beg the question: “What she call me sound same.”
Like those marauding barracudas that taunt the smaller fish, his lips part and then shut, part again before shutting again.
“What mean Mádhi in Crow?”
The spike in his throat jostles. I noticed only males have it. I heard they were called after a fruit that doesn’t grow in Shabbe.I’ve yet to understand why males store fruit in their necks and not females.
“So?”
“It means”—he rolls his neck, making it crack—“favorite older female.”
I can feel my brow crinkle. “I old?”
“You’re, um…” He hooks a finger in his shirt collar and tugs. “Older than my daughter.”
“How old me?”
“Your serpent was born a few moons before Fallon.”
“So I almost same age as daughter…”
“You’re—you’re—I suppose that yes, you are.” Is it me, or is his jaw crimson?
“Why you red?”
“I’m not red,” he grumbles, snatching his hand away from his shirt and smacking his leather pants. He winces as his fingers connect with his thigh, springing that ripe, stomach-churning scent into the air between us.
“No heal?”
His eyebrows slant, so I gesture to his leg.
“Want me try?”
His chin lowers. “Try what?”
“Heal you.” I tap my lips. “With magic tongue.”
Although it seems impossible, his flush intensifies. “I—” He clears his throat. “No. I’m a Crow. My body will repair itself.”
“But I repair fast.” I begin to kneel when he fractures into smoke and reappears beside the farthest hedge.
“Get dressed.” His tone is as cold as his stare. “You’re late for the farewell supper.”
I cock an eyebrow as I straighten. “You odd male, Dádhi Cathal.”
He grumbles something about how I shouldn’t call him Dádhi because he’s not my father.
I glance at him over my shoulder as I head to my bedchamber. “But you say I same age as Fallon, so possible.”
“No. It’snotpossible.” His skin now resembles a berry. “You’renotmy daughter,” he all but snarls.
His reaction strikes me as disproportionate. “I sorry I no understand word.”
He cuts his gaze to my shimmering hedge. “Supper will start in thirty minutes.” Even though his tone is flat, the throbbing vein at the base of his neck betrays his jagged mood.
With a sigh, I climb up my balcony’s stone stairs, my hair still dripping seawater into the runnel of my spine, and I think about what he confessed before he got angry: that he isn’t leaving. Surely another Crow can relieve him of his loathed guarding duties. Perhaps the one named Aodhan who doesn’t hate me on sight.
As my bath fills, I practice the question I will ask the queen tonight, then practice it some more as I massage nut oil into my skin and hair. I speak it aloud one final time as I slip into the backless pink sheath that feels like water against my skin.
