“What d’you do in the capital again?” My neighbor pivots on his cask-stool.
When his knee grazes mine, I scoot my legs toward Lev, preferring the contact of his flesh over a stranger’s. “I’m a lady-in-waiting.”
“Which lady do you wait on?” he asks.
I’m about to say Izolda, but since her mate is Crow, I go with Ksenia.
Yellow-teeth finally retrieves whatever he was digging for in his mouth—thank the Cauldron—and lowers his hand. “The only decent broad in the Korol coop, f’you ask me.”
“You know her well?” I ask.
“I—”
The barkeep talks over him as he bustles back out from the kitchen. “High Fae don’t mix with the likes of us, so no. Ivan, here, just fancies her, which is why he finds her decent.” He swipes the back of Ivan’s bald head, clearly familiar with the boy. “But she ain’t. None of them royals are.” After a beat, he adds, “I’m afraid we’re all out of stew.”
“That’s all right. I’ll take some eggs,” I say.
The man folds his arms, which causes his bicep muscles to pop. Is he trying to intimidate us? “Out of eggs, too.”
“I’m happy to eat anything your daughter whips up.” I’m hoping my joviality will endear him to me.
It only succeeds in deepening the cagey furrows pocking his face. “Me daughter actually stepped out of the kitchen.”
I can tell he’s lying from the quickening strike of his pulse. He wants us gone from his tavern.
I sigh. “What a shame. Today was my only day off.”
“What did you say yer name was?” The knot of the barkeep’s arms tightens.
“I didn’t. It’s Maria.” I tip my head toward Lev. “And my husband is Prokhor.”
“What’s your job at the capital, Prokhor?”
“I’m a warden in the king’s army,” Lev answers.
“So you work under the Flesher?” the man beside me asks.
Lev’s shoulders bunch. “The king’s not a butcher.”
“Yer right. King’s a craven.” Ivan snorts. “Me friend meant his general. The man he sends to do all his dirty work.”
I bristle in sympathy for Konstantin. I may not know him well, but he doesn’t merit being called a coward.
Ivan misinterprets the nerve flickering along my jaw, because he says, “Did yer husband not mention how many throats the great and almighty general has torn up? If I were you, lass, I wouldn’t be hangin’ around these parts of the kingdom. If Salom gets wind of it, you’ll be out of a job.”
“And out of a head for colluding with us ‘lessers,’” my neighbor quips.
“If yer ask me, it’s a real shame Alyona didn’t off the general at the same time she killed her daddy, but he’ll get his comeuppance someday.”
“Ivan,” the barkeep hisses. “Don’t say such things.” His amber eyes roll over every corner of the Tin Teapot as though on the lookout for a snooping sprite.
“It’s alright. We’re not fond of the pureling general either.” Lev raises his glass while I gawp at him, wondering if there’s truth to his declaration, or if it’s part of the act. “A toast. May our tomorrows be sweeter than our yesterdays.”
“Hear, hear!” The crowd cheers and clink glasses together, won over by Lev’s words.
My fake husband holds out his glass to me. “Don’t leave me hanging,xhina.”
Deeply curious about what could be going on behind his smooth brow, I hold his stare as I tip back my glass. The liquor singes my throat. I cough. Gag. My lungs shrivel. I suddenly worry that my drink was tainted and I’ve been poisoned. When my extremities don’t start to tingle, and the burn subsides, I conclude that there was no foul play…that it was just truly Cauldron-awful.
