Is there history between them? Or is Aowen merely reacting how any woman would in the presence of the handsome, towering knight?
And why do I care about any of it when I’ve just learned my life is at stake?
While I pretend not to eavesdrop, Sir Cathal slips into the room behind Aowen and a periwinkle blur zooms out.
A small creature thumps to the carpet, then patters toward me. She’s the size of a raven with fathomless black eyes, ears rounded like a human’s, and pale lavender skin and hair. Two translucent, segmented wings—similar to a fly’s—sprout from her back.
She crouches, sniffs my bare legs, then smiles through a mouth filled with concentric rows of pointed teeth. “Food?”
“Not food,” Aowen calls over, her voice robust but dry. Bored. “Friend.”
The tiny creature glues her nose to my ankle. “Foodandfriend.”
“No, Vesper,” Aowen commands. “Just friend.”
Vesper looks up at me with baleful eyes, her too-wide mouth turning down at the corners. “Just friend.” Her fluttering wings produce a clicking far too insectile to be anythingotherthan petrifying. “Just friend,” she whispers rebelliously before licking my calf.
She flits up to Aowen’s shoulder, and her tongue darts around her lips as she stares at me. Probably wondering which of my limbs to sample first.
God, she’s adorable. Reminds me a bit of Esmeralda. I might coo over her if I wasn’t still in shock.
Aowen raises a hand, and I grip it as I execute a shallow curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duchess Macán.”
“Duchess.” She spurts a laugh. “If only.”
Embarrassment sears my cheeks, and Vesper whimpers.
“She’s mostly harmless.” Aowen slides her gaze toward her pet? Companion? Familiar? “Pixies have voracious appetites. They think every hot-blooded creature they encounter is food. Even their own kind. But she’s more entertaining than most ofthe bores in this House. And a master tailor to boot. Tiny fingers make for intricate threadwork. Her creations are worth a little sacrifice of flesh every now and then.”
“Whose flesh?” I ask as Vesper grins wickedly.
Sir Cathal strides back into the hallway.
“Is it up to your exacting safety standards?” Aowen asks in a teasing lilt.
“It’ll do, Wen,” he says, low and intimate. He bends down to press a kiss upon her cheek and some strange, hot thing coils in my chest.
Aowen turns to me. “Well, praise Danu. You are quite the beauty.” She steps back, her eyes dragging down my filthy, sweat-stiffened chemise. “We can do better than that, though. What do you think, Vesper?”
The little pixie’s wings chirrup. “Food. Pretty food.”
“Shewillbe pretty food,” Aowen says, her eyes never leaving me. “Pretty bait, at least. The amount of skin you’re showing is appropriate, but it would work better if it looked a bit more purposeful.” She places a hand at her shoulder, and Vesper hops onto her fingers. “Go to my quarters and fetch some gowns in”—she pauses to study me again—“soft peach or salmon or pale blue. You’ve a spring coloring about you, I’d say. What a stir you will cause.”
Something inscrutable tightens Sir Cathal’s features as he stares at me. For perhaps a beat too long. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, he returns his attention to Aowen. “Don’t go overboard.”
“Off with you,” Aowen dismisses him then plucks up my hand. “Fret not, Sir Cathal, she will look the perfect quarry when we’re done with her. Innocent with a hint of juicy allure. Those beasts Áine and Cernunnos won’t be able to resist her tomorrow.”
She pulls me into my quarters to begin my transformation.
I want to tell her not to bother.
I am already plotting my escape.
Chapter
Ten
It’s minutes before midnight, and I’m inside my bedchamber clutching the door handle.
