“Showing up isn’t a talent,” Gwinifer replied, her jet-black sleeveless dress with a high collar concealing her neck—and the fish gills beneath it.
He huffed, his eyes darting to me as he had a good number of times that night, taking in everything—the hair I’d let down, the copper strands pairing nicely with my dark emerald dress. It was crafted from light velvet, the fitted bodice smoothly contouring my figure. The sweetheart neckline dipped low, framed by slender straps that rested lightly on my shoulders, while the skirt pooled at my feet.
I had looked my fill, too, noting how his broad shoulders filled out the sleek navy-blue jacket perfectly, the velvet-lined lapels catching the light with a subtle sheen. Beneath it, he wore a black button-up shirt, and his pants were tailored to fit him exactly.
Bad idea, I reminded myself.
“Well, whatdidyou do?” I asked, lifting a shoulder.
I knew what he did, as did his sister, who was present at the meetings when they discussed security measures, the food, warding, spells for prepping the temperature, lights, and entrances. He might not have decided on the presentation—that was all Cerridwen—but he did spend hours discussing and deciding with the parties involved.
“Godric damn you all,” he muttered, taking a long gulp of ale while the rest of us laughed.
“You seem to be in a good mood,” Finnegan quipped as he approached us, resting a hand on Reagan’s shoulder. His blond hair was swept back neatly, the waves concealing the pointy tips of his ears, his suit the usual light grey he favoured, with darker lapels.
“Finnegan.” Coriander beamed, pulling Finn into a hug. “I haven’t seen you in a while. If Reagan is overworking you, Erisea still needs an emissary with your skill set.” He glanced between Finn and Alameda. “Maybe we can talk. We’re currently in need of your diverse connections.”
“Tell me what you need,” Finn answered as they moved on to a private conversation.
I watched as Reagan and Gwinifer greeted some of the citizens. The last time I had seen him among his citizens was at the Audience, when he had seized a man who attacked his second-in-command. I had expected tension or resentment over that incident and the estate’s troubles, but there was none. Not from the guests who attended the Rite. They greeted him with smiles, many repeating the same phrase:Zara stirs in our favour.
Reagan nodded, addressing most by name. Politely. Lordly.
The words were familiar, but I couldn’t remember when or where I’d heard them.
I spotted Finnegan heading towards the food banquet as other guests passed by, and I made my way to him.
“What does it mean?May Zara stir in our favour?” I asked him.
He glanced in my direction while sorting through the plentiful spread. “It’s a wish for the end of the sentence,” he replied, bringing a shrimp pie to his mouth.
“So it’s just a prayer then?” I asked and received a confirming nod.
After biting into a shrimp pie, my eyes rolled at the pumpkin and cream flavour. “What does Coriander mean by yourdiverse connections?”
Finn swallowed the last bite of his frostberry tart before answering. “I have relationships with other lands besides mage estates. Lands that are ruled by other folks, so the Barrows asked for some help approaching one of those. They want to start some kind of trade with Banfgaard, and I happen to know its ruler...quite well.”
“Hm, what kind of folk live in that land?” I asked, picking a large strawberry with chocolate and deciding whether I should bite or eat it whole.
He simpered. “The elvenborn.”
My eyes bulged, the huge berry lying halfway chewed in my mouth, and someone interrupted us before I could ask more.
“Where did you go?” Reagan asked, and both of us spun around to find him settling next to me.
I lifted a hand to cover my mouth. “Eating.”
Reagan dipped his chin, eyeing something on my face. Without warning, he brushed his thumb on the corner of my lips and cleaned a smudge of chocolate, which he then brought to his own mouth and licked. He tasted the drop, nodding in approval while his tongue swept any remnants from his lips.
Heat sparked through my body in response.
Finnegan’s eyes darted between us when he said, “You know, we do have napkins.”
Reagan glanced at him with a smirk. “You’re more than welcome to take one for yourself.”
The emissary lifted one of the sand-coloured papers from the table, brought it to his grinning lips, and walked away.
“I can use a napkin too,” I said, after finally finishing the strawberry.
