7. Isla
7
ISLA
I lya’s head whips between Konstantin and me so many times that he makes me think of a weathervane caught in a squall.
“ You punched my brother?” Since he doesn’t back away from me, I surmise he’s more shocked than appalled.
“In my defense, he tried to strangle me,” I say.
Ilya gapes.
I nod to Konstantin’s lip. “A sigil would reduce the inflammation.”
“Are you offering to heal me, Miss Ríhbiadh?”
I’m about to confess that I’d only make it worse, but sharing one’s flaws with a stranger is like handing them a weapon. Until I understand where Konstantin’s loyalties lie, I will pretend to be as formidable as my parents.
“You don’t want my magical blood anywhere near your mouth, Vizosh.”
His pupils shrink in the firelit pools of gray as he recognizes my evasion for the threat it is.
Ilya gapes some more, batting his lashes almost as aggressively as the Faerie female standing nearest us. The one who speaks in hushed tones with a woman who must be Milana Korol, given her resemblance to Ilya and the twins—same flaxen hair, same limpid blue eyes, same spray of freckles over the nose and cheekbones.
“Though I’d love to hear the full story, I’m dying to learn one thing—how the Cauldron did you land a punch?” Like a needle, Ilya’s question pricks the bubble of tension that has ballooned around us. “I haven’t managed in years. Not even during our sparring matches. Were you invisible or something?”
“Or something…” Konstantin’s lips barely move over the murmur.
“Kostya, dearest.” The blonde, who I’m fully convinced must be Milana, since she wears a crown-like tiara, bustles up to us in a dress the same shade of cerulean as her irises. “I’ve seated my?—”
She gives me a cursory look at first, but then her attention catches on my feather tattoo and striped, violet stare, and her brow ruffles.
I stick out my hand politely. “You must be Milana Korol.”
She nods, not yet lifting her fingers to mine, as though uncertain whether I’m worth greeting. The instant I offer up my name, though, her hand pokes out of her wide sleeve and enfolds mine. “I’d heard you couldn’t make it.”
“Didn’t want to miss the party of the century. I have terrible FOMO.”
“…FOMO?” Milana repeats.
Ilya smirks. “That means ‘Fear Of Missing Out,’ Matsi. It’s an affliction that you, Izolda, and I suffer from.”
“Felicitations, Kostya.” The redhead with the bushy lashes pops out from behind Milana.
She tries to touch him, but he takes a step back.
“Thank you for coming, Sofiya.” His curt nod and aloofness snuffs out her delight.
Milana grabs the redhead’s arm. “Oh, look, it’s the new Lucin designer you love. Let’s go say hello.” Before Lashes has a chance to respond, Milana steers her toward Phoeppa, tossing a reproachful glare Konstantin’s way.
“Can’t believe Matsi’s still trying to matchmake you with her sister,” Ilya mutters under his breath.
Konstantin binds his hands behind his back. “I doubt Miss Ríhbiadh is interested in our family dynamics.”
“She’s a royal, Kostya. I’m sure people are trying to pair her up all the time.”
“Have you met my parents?” I reply with a smile that grows in intensity as I picture my father’s expression should anyone attempt to matchmake me. “Not to mention I’m a Crow. We usually hold out for our true mate.”
Ilya tilts his head. “I heard you don’t all get one.”
“I believe we do. However, I also believe we don’t all manage to cross paths, and if they happen to be mortal…” I shrug, not giving voice to the rest of my sentence.
I doubt the ending’s lost on the Korol brothers. After all, they’re both Faeries. And, yes, they’re purelings, but even full-blooded Fae eventually expire.
Skies, I really hope Behati was lying about my mate’s mortality. Whether he dies soon or in eight centuries, the end result will be the same—it’ll gut me. My mood plummets like the temperature in Monteluce at sundown, and I shudder.
“Anyway…” I pull away from Ilya. “Thank you for the sleigh ride.”
I paste on a smile I’m no longer feeling and walk away. For a moment, I meander aimlessly, but then I hear my name…well, my nickname, and my mood instantly brightens.
Elio’s mouth grows slack with shock as I wind myself through the thickening crowd, careful not to brush up against any column of fire.
“Isles?” he repeats with little volume, as though worried I were some mirage he may dispel with a puff of breath.
“I heard the news that someone’s getting a pretty, emerald crown. Is it official?” When all that moves are his lashes, I cant my head. “Naeva said your aunts named you Crown Prince.”
He smooths a hand over his springy black curls as though utterly perplexed, which leads me to wonder whether Naeva was pulling my leg.
He takes another pass at his short hair. To think that back in the day, hair length determined one’s status, but not anymore. Or at least, not in Luce and Nebba. I hear Glace still upholds that law.
“Is your little, perfect, round head not getting bedazzled by the Nebban crown?” I ask.
He finally snaps out of his daze to grouse, “My head is neither little nor round, thank you very much. Also, you’re here?”
“I am.”
“How?”
“I flew.”
“No, I meant—I thought—Arin?”
“She was feeling better.” Not quite a lie, but granted, not quite the truth either. “So, was Naev lying, or are you the new, official Crown Prince of Nebba?”
“I never lie,” Naeva says, strolling over to us, red drink in hand. It’s probably juice, considering her distaste for alcohol.
“You do lie, mostly to yourself, and not well, but you do.”
Elio cocks an eyebrow. “What did I miss?”
She skewers me with a look. “Nothing.”
Before my cousin’s tusk can surge from her forehead to impale me, I turn the conversation back to Elio. “Heard you were getting hit on left and right since the announcement, and that your virginal body needed guarding.”
The grin that overtakes his lips is so wide it puts all his teeth on display. “I didn’t miss you.”
“Liar.” I fold my fingers around his. “You totally missed me.”
“We totally did.” Arms wind around me from behind and wring a breath from my lungs. “Foursomes are way more fun than threesomes.”
A laugh puffs past my lips at Lachlano’s antics.
“Shit. I think your father just heard me say that,” he murmurs.
“Someone’s about to get plucked,” Elio singsongs.
“If you’re attached to your cock, Lach, I’d let go of Isles right about now.” Naeva drowns her smile in her drink.
Lachlano releases me but doesn’t run off. He does resituate himself next to Elio, though. “Evening, Mórrgaht.”
“Lachlano.” My father’s tone is cordial but entertainingly tight.
“I was jesting…” my friend says.
“About?” Dádhi asks.
“Um. About…”
“Yeah, Lach, whatever were you jesting about?” I taunt him.
He narrows his blue eyes and mouths words that make me smile extra-wide.
Lachlano’s saved from answering by my mother conveniently beckoning my father away to meet a man, short in stature, but lofty in status, given the number of medals weighing down his lapel.
“Good evening, my little loves.” Mimi draws closer on Bisnonno Justus’s arm, resplendent in her gown sewn from the same navy velvet as her husband’s uniform.
Though my great-grandfather, the illustrious General of Luce, wears the Crow feather beneath his right eye, he hasn’t striped his face tonight. Then again, he doesn’t often wear makeup, grousing that it gets on all his shirt collars.
Mimi lets go of Bisnonno, then proceeds to cup our four faces and press a kiss to each of our brows while whispering her maxim of the day. It’s never the same and always eerily apropos.
Like mine, tonight: “ True love can save a life .”
Granted, it could mean a number of things and have nothing to do with my mortal mate, but still, it glides down my nape like a cool finger.
“You look positively radiant tonight, Mimi,” Lachlano says.
“Why, thank you, sweetheart.” Her rubellite eyes cycle over the four of us before perching on Bisnonno. “Bliss will do that to a woman.”
My great-grandfather smiles at her. Some say they make an odd couple, but I love their relationship—born from necessity but fostered by true affection.
Bisnonno wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Thanks to you, my little island, I am now six gold coins and two favors wealthier.”
I tilt my face. “Thanks to me?”
“I may have wagered whether you’d find a way to attend the Jubilee.” His blue eyes shimmer with mirth. “Funny how so many believe you to be less impetuous than your mother.”
I snort.
“So, what are we going to do with all that gold?” he asks.
“Shingles.”
“Cure the human affliction?”
“No. I mean, we should, but… While flying over Selvati the other day, I noticed that the sandstorms did a number on the rooftops. People have heaped old crates covered in carpets to plug the holes. That cannot be sanitary or waterproof.”
After mirth comes pride. Bisnonno loves how invested I am in Luce’s betterment.
“Shingles, it’ll be.” He utters a protracted hum.
“What?” I ask.
“The building material Nebbans use for their vessels. I was just thinking that perhaps it could be made into roof coverings.”
“That’d be brilliant, Bisnonno!”
“I’m going to go discuss this with Giana right this minute.”
“Tell me what she says.”
“Naturally.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m glad you came.” He turns but then looks past his thick, silver-orange braid at me, his expression serious. “Just promise not to venture over Glace without an escort. We’re not in Luce, Isla.”
In other words: Luce is safe; Glace isn’t. Also, he’s used my Crow-given name, which he only does when something is of the utmost seriousness.
My gaze skips over the swanning crowd. Many are foreigners, but many are also from here. I wonder whether they sense the unrest and fear it, and then I wonder what they think of their king.
Across the twinkling sea of bejeweled dignitaries, guards, and nobles, I catch sight of Konstantin. Not quite a feat considering his hair is as blinding as the snow swirling outside and he lords over most, thanks to his tall build.
He must feel my stare, because his face pivots my way. The ambient chatter dims as we boldly take the measure of the other.
What sort of king are you, Konstantin Korol? One whose heart can be manipulated?
Dádhi likes to remind me to love wisely, for misguided adoration can doom not only the lover but the entire world. When I was younger, I assumed he said this to keep me from falling in love with someone other than my mate. But then I grew up and learned about Dante Regio, and I understood the reason for the recurring warning.
Naeva winds her arm through mine. “I can’t decide whether I’m more shocked by the fact that you did that to Konstantin’s lip, or by the fact that he hasn’t had it healed.”
“He’s probably too proud to have a healer tend to his injuries.”
“You think?”
“What other reason would he have?”
“Perhaps he wants everyone to get an eyeful of what a Crow has done in case he decides to retaliate.”
When I balk, she shrugs.
“Faeries are cunning. Especially royals.” As we trail the boys, who are intent on locating libations and canapés, she says, “I doubt he’d dare retaliate. After all, most Faeries now prefer to have shifters as allies than as enemies.”
We not only gather stares as we move about the room, but also rib-crushing hugs from Phoeppa and Zia Syb. Those work wonders on quelling my Konstantin-deliberations and refocusing my attention on revelers. There are so many that soon my lids and ears begin to ache.
After refreshing my glass of Faerie wine, I leave my friends’ side and escape onto the wrap-around porch for a few minutes of silence before the dinner commences. The snowfall is so dense that the air is opaque, but at least, there’s no wind. Or perhaps, there is and the overhanging ceiling has been magicked to keep it at bay?
I sidle up to the log balustrade and stretch out my fingers—no wind.
“I wasn’t lying about the weather.”
I startle, not having anticipated to run into anyone else out here.
Especially not the star of this evening’s celebrations.