“Your mother’s Shabbin, not Serpent, so probably not.”
Cutlery drops in time with mouths when diners catch sight of us.
“Do you know that most Glacins still believe Shabbins drink blood?” I murmur in Crow.
“Is that what they’ve offered you during your friendly visits?”
“Yes.” With a devilish smile, I say, “I did accept a glass once, but only because the couple was insufferable.”
Dádhi laughs, and although the resonance is beautiful, it must sound villainous to the diners, for everyone—and I do meaneveryone—bunches their shoulders.
“Table for two, please,” I tell the pointy-eared host standing behind a gold podium overflowing with roses and artistically-melted candlesticks.
“I’m afraid we’re packed solid tonight,” he says without peering at the large ledger before him.
A peek around his shoulder does reveal the dining area is bursting. It also reveals that the owners have an unhealthy addiction to the color gold, which is everywhere, from thecoffered ceilings, to the wainscoted walls, to the shimmery tablecloths.
“Surely Mr. Morozov could find us a solution?” My father is alarmingly calm. “After all, I flew from quite far to dine at this fine establishment.”
“Mr. Morozov is not in at the moment,” the host says, cheeks pinkening.
“A shame. I was so looking forward to making his acquaintance.” My father rolls his shoulders, which strains the leather. “Anyway, do find us a table, for I’m so ravenous I could eat a fully-grown Faerie right now.”
The man balks.
I elbow Dádhi. “My father’s jesting. We don’t have a taste for human flesh. We do, however, love cheese blintzes, and we heard you serve the very best in the kingdom.”
A gulp agitates the Faerie’s throat. “Um, I, um…” He jerks his gaze toward the ledger and runs a shaky finger over the inked lines, before thumbing through the pages. “We have an opening at three a.m.”
My head rears back, sending my high ponytail swishing. “That’s in seven hours! Also, who sups at three in the morning?”
“No one, khráach.” Dádhi slouches against the podium, idly drumming his iron talons against the mirrored gold. “Which is why this kind gentleman is offering us the slot. Isn’t that right?”
“You do know who we are, right?” It isn’t that I enjoy throwing around our status to get things; I’m genuinely wondering whether he knows who he’s turning away.
Oh, he knows…my father murmurs through the mind link.Why do you think he’s perspiring? A shame I cannot hurt him a little for wasting our time.“You know what I detest more than snow? Disappointing my daughter. So I’ll ask nicely once more: find us a table before I find one myself.”
The Fae swipes his velour sleeve over his forehead and backs away. “Let me see what I ca-can do.”
I rub my palms together to remove the lingering chill of our flight. “You detest snow?”
“Loathe it.”
“How did I not know this?”
“You never asked,” he says, just as the host returns to tell us that we’re in luck, that Bohdan Zaslofsky’s son won’t be coming, so he has room at his table.
I’m about to ask my father what he thinks of dining with Bohdan when an icy draft brushes the side of my neck. I turn, my shoulder blades pinching at the sight of the new arrival.
“Mind me crashing your tête-à-tête, Ríhbiadh?” Konstantin asks as he treads deeper into the establishment, bracketed by Salom, Borat, and two high-ranking Faerie soldiers.
I spot a few more in the courtyard.
“You should ask my daughter not me.” Does my father say this because he knows my primary reason for coming, or because he wants this to be my choice?
What sort of choice is it anyway? Not only is Konstantin my fiancé, but he’s also the ruler of Glace. I can’t exactly refuse. The lapse in my response upsets Konstantin’s poised demeanor.
“How could you even wonder whether we’d mind?” I coo, before adding a nonchalant, “We’re dining with Bohdan Zaslofsky, by the way.”
