Ain’t he a looker.
I’d whistle at him meself if I hadn’t lost all me teeth in that bar fight.
Enough of him! My son is here! The red bow tie! Stella, I need to tell him I’m sorry!
I squint, because somehow, squinting helps me tune them out, like turning down the volume on a radio. A twisty curl falls over Pax’s forehead. “Are you well?”
You have no idea, Prince Pax, how far I am fromwell. “Sure. Yes.”
Pax tilts his head. “Why is your leg bouncing?”
“My leg isn’t—”Shit. I still my leg.
Pax is studying me, dissecting me, and I don’t care for it one bit. I widen my eyes at him. “What?”
My directness amuses him. He lifts his chin at me. “Where did your pin go?”
“My what?”
“Your pin. Your brooch.” He leans forward, his hand reaching over the delicate table settings. As his pointer finger gets closer, I feel it again: that odd pull. It’s not unlike the pull I feel when the Dark Trio are near—powerful and urgent. Deeply compelling. I gasp slightly and lean back.
I look down at my dress, draped above my rapidly beating heart. There are two tiny pinholes there. I myself have never noticed them.
“Mymaman’s brooch,” I say with a shrug. “Hard times mean you sometimes part with things you love.”
It is my expectation that this will shock him, or at least rattle his calm façade. But he nods. “I understand that.”
Interesting. “How did you notice that?” I pinch my dress near the two tiny pinholes and look at them closer. “They are no bigger than a pair of fleas.”
Pax laughs, and Spirit places the image of coffee in my mind’s eye again. “Fleas?”
I grit my teeth. “Like I said. Hard times.” I refuse to let this slick playboy get the better of me.
The waiter comes with flat, wide bowls full of water, a thick slice of lemon floating atop. It’s odd, this bowl. I reach for a drink.
No, Stella! Don’t drink it!
It’s a finger bowl, girl.
Watch him.
Pax gently pushes up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt and his cuff links flash. These jewels of his are interesting. Wing-shaped, encrusted with diamonds. He dips his fingertips into the bowl. I exhale. ThankgoodnessI didn’t drink this.Thank you, Spirit.
My fingertips sink into the warm water. It is delicate, refreshing.
“I’m a trained artist,” Pax says, pulling the thought from the ether, it seems.
“Pardon?”
“Those pinholes. I noticed them because I’m an artist. Have been since I was a kid. I’ve been trained to note the tiniest of details. The smallest of discrepancies.”
“Details aren’t the same as discrepancies.”
“They are in my line of work.”
This person keeps surprising me. “An artist?”
He grins like a schoolboy. “Yes. A painter. Oils, mostly. The colors, the textures, the smells… there is not a scent on earth that matches linseed oil. I love it.” He inhales deeply as if he’s smelling an art studio now.
