Page 17

I start down the stairs, blinking against the glare. Sigurd falls into step beside me, his broad frame blocking enough of the sunlight to make the descent easier.

“Is the entire mountain made of emerald?”

“The core is granite,” he says. “Most of what you can see is an emerald crust several hundred feet thick.”

I slow for a step. Several hundred feet of emerald apparently qualifies as a minor architectural detail in his world.

Sigurd glances down at me. “Don’t let the architecture intimidate you, Valerie. It’s just rock.”

“Several hundred feet of emerald.”

“Very expensive rock.”

I laugh, and by the time we reach the bottom, my eyes have adjusted enough to take in the airfield properly. The place is crowded without feeling chaotic. Security teams direct arriving guests toward separate entrances while uniformed staff collect luggage before anyone has to ask.

Somewhere overhead, something enormous passes across the sun. I catch the underside of a vast pair of wings disappearing beyond one of the towers and leave the question for later.

We’ve barely crossed half the distance to the private terminal when a sharp clatter of heels cuts through the surrounding noise. A human woman in a severe black blazer and enormous designer sunglasses comes straight toward us, typing on a tablet as she walks. She narrowly avoids a baggage handler without looking up, then points her stylus toward a row of insulated crates.

“Those go to the west staging area!” she calls. “If the orchids spend another ten minutes in direct sunlight, I’m billing someone personally.”

The nearest porter changes direction immediately. She reaches us seconds later and finally lowers the tablet.

“Sigurd.” Her tone suggests his name is also an accusation. “You’re late.”

Sigurd doesn’t so much as blink. “Hello, Camille. We decided to take the scenic route.”

“The scenic route.” She pushes her sunglasses higher on her nose. “Of course you did. Nothing says wedding weekend like improvising the arrival schedule.”

Then she turns to me, her gaze traveling briefly from my face to my clothes before stopping at my shoes. She looks like an event planner deciding whether I’m about to create another problem.

“My name is Camille Thorn,” she says. “You must be Valerie. Sigurd’s plus-one.”

Mt. Qaf may be a floating city made from gemstones and populated by creatures I’ve only encountered in books, but Camille is treating the whole thing like an overbooked hotel with an orchid emergency. Event planners, apparently, remain event planners at every tax bracket. It’s more reassuring than it should be.

“Valerie Priest.” I offer her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you. The venue is incredible.”

“It’s a logistical nightmare.” Camille taps her stylus against the tablet. “But if nobody drops anything expensive off a cliff before Sunday, I’ll consider it a success.”

She looks down at my feet again. “I already approve of the shoes.”

I glance at my sensible flats. “That makes one decision I’ve gotten right this week.”

“You’d be amazed how many people arrive here in six-inch heels and then act personally betrayed by stairs.” Camille turns and gestures for us to follow. “Leave the luggage. Staff will take it to your suite. You two are with me.”

Sigurd starts after her without argument, and I follow.

Camille leads us out of the private terminal and into one of the residential wings. She keeps answering messages on her tablet as she walks. The corridors are broad enough for monsters several times Sigurd’s size, with arched ceilings and polished stone floors. Every few minutes, someone intercepts Camille with a question about flowers, seating, security, or catering. She answers without breaking stride.

“I have you both in the east wing,” she tells us as we turn down another corridor. “Rakan upgraded your suite.”

Sigurd’s mouth tightens. “I specifically asked him not to do that.”

Camille looks over the top of her sunglasses. “And you’ve known him how long?”

“Long enough to know better.”

“Exactly.”