I considered his warning. Then, pushing away from the scaffolding, I asked, “Do you trust me?”
“I trust you”—he smiled over at me and opened the door of an elegant sandstone building—“to betray me if you’re told to and to regret it while you do. I trust you to remain my friend while stabbing me in the back. I trust you to be a pain in my neck, a taste of hell on earth, and a bee sting in my side. Yeah. I trust you. What are friends for?”
He held the door wide, and I stepped from the muggy morning heat into the air-conditioned cold.
Blueberry pancakes topped with melting butter. Strawberries drizzled with chocolate. Belgian waffles soaked in syrup. Crisp bacon and golden sausages. Scrambled eggs topped with chives. Chocolate croissants and apricot tarts. Fresh-squeezed orange juice with froth at the top. A bowl of fresh berries dusted in powdered sugar.
In the twenty minutes it took me to shower, scrub the sewer off, and dress in the fresh jeans and T-shirt Luvic had conjured for me, he’d managed to make a breakfast feast.
I’d suspect it was conjured, but it didn’t have the mind-dizzying, giddy effect of Last’s chocolate or the empty-air, hollow-stomach feel of nutrient-less food.
The breakfast, laid out on fancy china and sliver platters, was as real as Rou’s chicken, saffron, and dumpling stew.
I sat at the Bard’s dining table trying not to tap my foot with impatience. I wanted to rush back to Hell Gate to reassure Griff I was okay, to find Rou, and—if possible—avoid Jagger, so I could help any survivors buried under stone and ash.
You might think Hell Gate wasn’t worth saving. In fact, most of the slipshots there had tried to kill or maim me at least once. But faulting a slipshot for violence would be like faulting a scorpion for stinging.
Plus, I wanted to know if the Smiths had left a message, or if the destruction was the message.
“You’ve had an interesting morning,” the Bard said, slowly pouring coffee from a French press into a gold-rimmed teacup. “Pass the sugar, please.” He gestured to a silver bowl full of white sugar lumps with tiny edible flowers capping them.
I handed the bowl to Luvic, and Luvic handed it to his father.
“Thank you. Two, I think.” He dropped two sugars into his coffee and then smiled as if he’d done something spectacular. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” I sipped my coffee—black—and watched him like you’d watch a venomous snake poised and ready to strike.
“No? Hmm. My heir doesn’t care for sugar either. Anymore. He used to, but now he prefers protein.”
The Bard—Dagrid—smiled at Luvic’s plate. It was filled with bacon, sausage, and eggs. There wasn’t a single sweet thing on it.
I didn’t like the way Luvic stilled when his dad mentioned what he was eating, and I especially didn’t like the satisfied, gloating curve of the Bard’s lips. It was like he and Luvic had just played a game of chess and the Bard had checkmated him in two moves.
Slowly, Luvic reached out, grabbed a chocolate croissant, and took a large bite. He chewed and swallowed.
The Bard laughed. “Good. Very good. We’re all actors in this family. Did you know? Try the pancakes. My son makes a wonderful pancake.”
I put a single golden pancake on my plate, and then, at the Bard’s raised eyebrows, I took another. He nodded approvingly.
“It’s been a hard few weeks.” The Bard was covered in illusion. He looked like a Shakespearean actor playing the role of mournful king. Who knows what his expression actually looked like? I only saw what he wanted me to. A powerful man, still attractive and in his prime, who was emotionally wounded from a great loss. But he would prevail, if only for the good of his people. It was a good role for him. He played it well. He cleared his throat, and his eyes misted with unshed tears. “Losing all my children was a blow I never expected.”
“You still have Luvic.” I took a bite of the pancake. It was good.
I think the Bard frowned, but his face was covered in illusion, so I only saw a smooth, sad façade.
“He is a comfort,” the Bard agreed. “And soon . . . grandchildren. I would love a grandchild to soothe the ache of losing my own children. Within a year, I think. We’ll celebrate the happy event.”
Luvic’s knife scraped across his plate as he roughly cut his sausage. His head was down, and he didn’t look at his father or at me.
The Bard was waiting for my response. I think this was his idea of polite conversation. Or he was torturing Luvic, which was much more likely.
“Let’s turn to other matters.” The Bard set down his coffee and leaned back in his chair. He hadn’t touched the waffle on his plate. “There is someone in the city leaving me . . . surprises.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Six of our homes destroyed.”
Six? I’d only burned down the one.
