It seems he’s more daring than anyone else.
Keeping his eyes on us, he dashes onto the main path.
Within seconds, he’s scooped up the fallen plums, but instead of running away with them, he sprints to the young woman’s side.
Offering her the fruit, he speaks barely above a whisper. “These are yours, Mariann.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Yes, they are.”
She sweeps them out of his arms and back into the basket, quickly covering it again.
Her focus drops to the final piece of fruit, half-squashed, resting on his open palm.
“I’ve seen you salvage worse,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on us.
She tips up her chin as she accepts the mangled piece and places it carefully on top of the others. “I’ll use it for jam.”
At that moment, a broad-shouldered man appears in the doorway behind her. “Mariann, what’s keeping—” His focus lands on me and his speech strangles. “Fuck.”
Meanwhile, the whispered conversation between Lilis and the nameless man has continued with the nameless man delivering a warning.
“Iker’s dying.”
Lilis’s whisper carries disbelief. “What?”
“The healer called itcarcinosand said the sickness is in his blood. Nothing has helped. Iker believes the Oracle can foresee a cure. He’ll do anything to get a hold of her.”
Lilis gives a heavy sigh. “Even sacrifice his heirs.”
It doesn’t surprise me to hear this. If it’s true that he’s dying—and I can’t take that information at face value—Iker will kick and claw against his doom, no matter how much blood is shed.
“Iker will use every lever at his disposal, Lilis,” the nameless man continues. “Including coming afteryouso he can force your king’s hand.”
While I listen to that conversation, back here on the street, fae are starting to shuffle where they stand.
Thyra and I have remained unmoving.We haven’t threatened anyone. Haven’t said anything or made any startling moves. The opposite, in fact.
A perplexed crease has appeared between the broad-shouldered man’s eyebrows.
More bravely than I would have anticipated, he raises his voice to the fae along the street. “Back to work, the lot of you! Leave the king be.”
At his shout, motion resumes around us, although conversation remains hushed.
The young man gives the broad-shouldered man a quick nod and then hurries to the other side of the street.
Thyra has remained tense in my arms.
While her Oracle vision seems to continue, my focus shifts to Mariann as she follows the older man inside the building.
“Father—” she begins.
“Yes, yes.” The man huffs from within the front room. “If that boy can keep his cool in front of the king, then he might be worthy of you. I’ll give him permission to court you—oomph!Okay… No time for hugs. Get back to work.”
I picture Mariann squeezing her father for another second before her footfalls skip toward the rear of the building. Then back again, because she clearly forgot the basket she’d put down when she hugged her father.
“Back to work,” she sings, her voice fading again.
In the distance, the whispered conversation comes to an end.
