Harold pauses in dusting a single glass slipper. “No, no, my pet. No more windows. Very bad for inventory.” He tosses the slipper behind him, and it inexplicably lands atop an ice-blue cushion.
Arion’s wings halt at that. The breeze dies, the bees return to pollinating flowers in branches along the ceiling, but Arion—he doesn’t cease glaring at me. Apparently, I amnotforgiven for Harold and Gerald recognizing me and potentially upending our entire plan here, and apparently, diverting an army of angry bees doesn’t count as saving his life either, as the silver cord still gleams ever present between us.Typical.
“Come, Zephyra. This…garbis nowhere near fit for such a darling young woman.” Gerald whacks me on the hip with his umbrella. “Your face is too exquisite to ever forget. Though, the hair is different.” He wrinkles his nose, thwacking me again, and I think I’m going to bruise. Arion’s jaw clenches tight enough to snap. “I don’t love the color. You are certainlynota natural redhead. Perhaps consider black again. Really brings out those ocean blues.”
I swallow hard, trying not to think about the last time I came here. Trying not to remember. All that matters is the disguise is working. That, and Arion undoubtedly gifted me horrid hair. The latter should piss me off, but at least it’s a distraction—unless Gerald ends up impaling me with this umbrella.
“Andyou,” Gerald snaps, pointing said umbrella at Arion. “Get inhere. You can’t strut around the isle with those oiled-up abdominals, tempting every married woman in the marketplace. I daresay my own husband will leave me if we don’t hurry.”
Arion hesitates in the doorway. The men don’t seem to notice those massive wingsorthe veins of black coiling over his chest, and it must cost Arion a decent amount of focus to hide them because he remains silent. As though he’s afraid to speak, to engage, and potentially lose control.
Decimated armies, my ass.
Harold plants both hands on his hips. “Well?” he says to Arion. “Do you often make it a point of ignoring people’s husbands?”
“He does not seem to be a fan of marriage,” Gerald says.
Harold nods in quick agreement. “He seems to enjoy sowing romantic discord.”
“Such a shame,” Gerald says.
“A shame,” Harold echoes. “Should we kick them out?”
I tense, but Gerald barks an immediate laugh. “And sic him on the rest of the isle? I think not.” He throws his umbrella to the floor and grabs my hand. “Besides, our darling Zephyra deserves a dress as stunning as the rest of her, not these old, wrecked rags.”
Arion grimaces at that. Or perhaps it’s because Gerald called mestunning.
If this were any other time or place, today would actually be pretty fantastic. I allow Gerald to lead me to a tall wooden mirror encircled in thorns and delicate pink roses while Harold leans forward like a swan, standing on tiptoes to pick seaweed and seashells from Arion’s hair. Mumbling about shampoo and the necessity of traveling with soap.
“Beautiful as you are, Zephyra”—Gerald circles me now—“I must say, the tunic isn’t the only thing looking worn. The last we saw each other, you radiated vitality, and now…” He clicks his tongue in disapproval, plucking at my hair, my shoulder, my hand. “Well, you’ve wilted like a flower.”
“A beautiful flower!” Harold calls from the doorway. “Like a bright red poppy, or perhaps a dahlia…”
My gaze slides past him to Arion, who still watches me throughnarrowed eyes, a frown twisting his lips. When Harold licks his thumb to smooth a lock of his hair, however, Arion jerks away and grumbles like an insolent boy.
And, despite myself, despite the ache in my chest, I almost smile. It’s the first time the warlock has seemed almost human in the days I’ve spent with him.
He’s much easier to tolerate when he isn’t being an arrogant dickhead.
And this shoppe—I glance to the gently humming bees, to the pink flowers dripping overhead—I can catch my breath here. I can escape the nightmare of my life, just for a moment, and distract myself with ethereal gowns and bumbling, lovable shopkeepers. After all, Gerald doesn’t seem to remember anything of importance from my last visit to the isle. Only my face. My name. For now, we might actually be—safe. It feels foolish to even think the word, but the inside of this tree feels very far away from Mortia.
From the sorcerer.
Even Arion seems to relax, if only a little, as Harold dresses him in sheer white linens that do very little to cover up his chest. I snort at the lecherous old men.
Gerald slips wispy pink gossamer over my head and begins pinning it around my chest, my waist. While he works, threading gold and iridescent pearls and abalone shells into a barely there bodice, I decide to use this detour to our favor.
The more I speak—the less I’ll be tempted to remember.
“Do you two know anything about Abysses?” I blurt, then cringe. Okay, perhaps Arion isn’t the only who struggles with subtlety. He glares daggers at me behind Gerald’s back.
“Abysses?” Gerald looks up at me with three pins clenched between his teeth, his words muffled and almost incoherent.“Nerbinmysil.”
“Never been myself,” Harold translates. He folds the sleeves of Arion’s shirt up past his infuriatingly impressive biceps. I mean, really—it isn’t like the warlockexercises. “And I wouldn’t want to. The hospitality must be awreck.” He blinks between Arion and me, then laughs at his own pun seconds late. “Humor is wasted on the youth.”
“Wasted,” Gerald agrees. “Beauty, on the other hand…” He threads strands of pearls from the bust to cuff my upper arms as a type of sleeve, leaving my shoulders bare. As well as a good deal of my chest.
As with Arion’s outfit, it’s not a particularlywarmoption, but I glance at my reflection and don’t mind.
