Zendaya
“The Glacin galleon just pulled in. It’s time,” Fallon says. “Will you both come stand by my side?”
“Yes.” The answer rushes from my lips at the same time as Cathal says, “We better not, sweetheart.”
“But no one will know who she is since sheisconcealed.”
“They’ll wonder—like you did—why I’m standing beside a stranger.”
“They’ll assume you fell for a Shabbin during our month-long stay.”
“I would never.” Cathal balls his fingers, which makes the leather he’s wrapped around his forearms creak.
Fallon rolls her eyes. “I know this, but the Fae don’t understand much about our customs, Dádhi.”
“I will not risk it.”
As Fallon’s smile slips, I say, “Cathal, you go. I stay on ship with Taytah.”
“I—” He stares at our daughter, then at me, then back at our daughter. “I?—”
“Important to Fallon. Go.” I squeeze her hand once more. “I hear Taytah call me.”
I don’t. I imagine they both know I lie since their hearing is as sharp as my sense of smell. I sidestep the beast with the sad eyes and our beautiful, grown-up child to join my grandmother. She’s chatting with a woman on a neighboring vessel that’s as white as my tusk. When I approach my grandmother, the Faerie’s gaze slides over me. I can tell she wonders who I am. The Shabbin Queen does not make introductions, but the Faerie’s identity is easy to guess from the ornate crown she wears, a composition of cut emeralds as green as her eyes arranged around a crest depicting a maple leaf—the Queen of Nebba.
She must be Eponine, the sympathetic daughter of the monster who recently lost his life. Fallon despised him but likes her, so I like her by default. I like her even more when I spy Fallon’s friend Sybille aboard the white ship, bracketed by an older male and female with brown skin and gray irises. Her parents, I presume? And the woman with the halo of dark curls standing in Eponine’s shadow must be Sybille’s sister, the one Eponine chose as her foreign advisor. Her features and stare are as sharp as Eponine’s ears, a stark contrast to her younger sibling, who’s all curves and laughter.
I’m trying to recall her name when my gaze clocks a mammoth vessel pulling in beside us, flanked by a myriad of other ships. All of them fly pale blue flags adorned with the Glacin crest—a white snowflake. Its sight steals my breath for it represents what past-me had apparently adored: snow.
Asha arches her eyebrows and snorts. “Did the northerners’ invitation mention a war instead of a wedding?”
“They come fight?” I murmur.
The queen clasps my hand. “No, emMoti. King Vladimir merely enjoys having an entourage.”
“Andthe largest ship,” Asha says. “Probably to compensate for what rests between his legs.”
I squint to make out whatrests between his legsbut spot only something resting on his shoulder—a slumbering white-furred beast.
Wait…does legs mean shoulders? Did I confuse the words?
As I contemplate this, I study the monarch whose hair is the same white as my grandmother’s, the same shade as the male standing right behind him. I imagine it’s his son, just like I imagine the two young females framing him must be his daughters. I’m struck by how much the girls resemble one another. It’s as though they are one and the same.
Music suddenly rises from the ocean. Well, notfromthe ocean, but from little boats garlanded in roses in full bloom where males in great regalia are stroking instruments made of wood and strings. The melody is lovely, delicate, like a warm, lulling breeze that dances through leaves and flutters petals.
It casts a deep tranquility over Lorcan’s land. One that is only disturbed by the swivel of heads as everyone looks between the sky and a large wooden raft shaded by an arbor festooned with black ribbons and crimson roses in full bloom. Next to one of the four slender pillars stands Cathal and a woman with silver-black hair wearing Crow stripes—Arin.
When I’d first met her at my “rebirth,” I assumed she was Phoebus’s mother from how affectionate they were, but then Fallon had explained that Arin wasLorcan’smother, and that she and Phoebus had bonded when he’d moved into the Sky Castle.
A deep voice suddenly rolls over the string music, matching the subtle notes, before strengthening and overpowering them. Though I don’t grasp the words, their unctuous beauty coaxes little bumps over my skin and carries Arin’s hand to her lashes.
Two more people join Arin and Cathal on the floating platform—Justus Rossi and…and Ceres.
I turn toward Priya. “Why Ceres and no you, Taytah?”
“Because I’d rather watch over them from here with you, emMoti.” She squeezes my fingers, drawing them to her lips for a kiss.
The gesture catches Sybille’s sister’s eye, who seems to be the only one not waiting with bated breath for the arrival of the Lucin King and his mate. I can feel her giving me another long once-over. Will she figure out who I am or will she assume I’m one of the Shabbin Queen’s lovers? I realize I don’t much care, for I like Sybille and she loves her sister. I’ve nothing to fear from them.
