22. Isla
22
ISLA
M y father arrives for supper a few days later— alone .
Intent on uncovering the reason for my mother’s absence, I suggest we dine, just him and me. Nothing like a tête-à-tête to squeeze information from a person.
Mádhi hates what I’ve done, doesn’t she? That’s why she’s staying away, I ask, as we fly toward a restaurant located on the southernmost tip of the Voshnan Peninsula.
The establishment is operated by pure-blooded nobles, who didn’t attend the Jubilee, even though—according to Izolda’s guest list—they were invited.
No, mo khráach.
She’s Shabbin, Dádhi. Shabbins don’t get ill. Or if they do, they don’t stay ill for very long. Certainly not for a fortnight.
My father remains tight-beaked.
You know what? It’s fine. Since emotional blackmail works best on him, I lay it on extra thick. I understand.
It takes a full minute, but, as expected, he bites. What is it you understand?
Why you don’t want to tell me. I don’t inspire much confidence, seeing as I’m not the cleverest of girls.
His blazing stare veers toward me. That’s absolutely—I never want to hear you say that! Never, you hear?
Just don’t tell my betrothed. He still believes there’s a glimmer of intellect inside my head.
Isla Mara Ríhbiadh, stop this nonsense! he bellows, guzzling down my theatrics, hook, line, and sinker. You are the brightest, cleverest ? —
You’re my father. You’re obliged to love me no matter my flaws. I modulate my voice to make it sound strained and watery. Mark my words, though: someday, I will make you and Mádhi proud ? —
We are proud! We are so fucking proud! It’s just that your mother wanted to tell you herself, my father thunders.
Tell me what herself? I ask, my bogus sadness a thing of the past.
A beat of silence slicks by, followed by several more, before my father finally says, How fast your tearducts dry, ínon…
I don’t even feign remorse, too busy running through all the possibilities of what my mother would want to— I swerve, knocking right into my father, before dropping so close to one of the chimneys that the smoke blisters my belly.
Holy spriteballs, I’m getting a sibling!
Another grumble comes from my favorite feathered king. I can’t believe I fell for your performance.
You always do. Happiness multiplies the beats of my heart.
Do you know how few people are as adept at manipulating me as you are, Isla?
I learned from the best.
Yes, your mother is rather talented at prying everything she wants out of me.
I am so excited! Is it a boy? A girl?
My father shakes his head. Although his beak cannot curve, I sense his smile through the bond connecting us. We’ve decided not to find out this time. Hopefully, no prophecy will spoil the reveal.
The mention of the divinatory spoiler uproots my excitement. Here I was genuinely worried she was angry about the betrothal deception.
His wing tip brushes my cheek. She’s the opposite of angry, Isla. She thinks it’s brave of you to stay in Glace—in spite of the fact that it’s unnecessary at the moment… Oh, the side-eye I receive.
I know you want me to go home, but now that we know who I kill, I want to help find her. And her father.
You’ll find the father in the castle morgue.
He’s dead? Does Konstantin know?
According to Vance and Imogen, yes to both.
Hurt. That is the sentiment my father’s news provokes within me. Konstantin and I are supposed to be a team. What about Mestyla?
She’s truly missing. Caught any interesting chatter off the sigils you and Naeva have been painting around Voshna and the capital? Is he asking to reorient the conversation, or to remind me that I, too, keep secrets from Konstantin?
Aren’t you well informed? I grumble as we swoop over a plaza cloaked in snow and hemmed in with stone dwellings swathed in eternal frost roses—Konstantina Roses. They’re the only variety that can strive in this ice-bitten land.
According to Izolda, my fount of knowledge on all things Glacin, Vladimir had this floral genus bred in one of the Glacin greenhouses in homage to his late wife. He’d never grown any for his second wife, but she and Ilya were working on having a variety made for their mother’s upcoming one-hundred and fiftieth birthday. To think Milana was younger than her stepson…
With a sigh, I say, Only what we already know. That they hate our kind. Konstantin thinks only the poor are antimorphs, but the rich really aren’t fans of us either.
Dádhi twirls over the square, which should really be called an octagon considering it’s shaped like my ring. Which I recently learned isn’t a coincidence, since Konstantina grew up in one of the manors below.
Come back to Luce with me, he says.
Don’t tempt me…
Vance and Imogen will stay. They’ll help Konstantin find Mestyla and uncover who’s blowing up his train tracks.
You have hard evidence that these are premeditated attacks?
Yes. Colm and Fionn found a Zaslofsky-made bomb strapped to the rails. They managed to pull it off the tracks and toss it into a ravine before it detonated.
People are disgusting, I mutter right before dissolving into my shadows.
Although the courtyard is large enough for us to land in Crow form, Glacins get spooked when they see us plunge toward land.
“That did away with my appetite.” That , and Konstantin’s secret-keeping.
“Well, I’m starving,” he says as he weaves into his two-legged shape. “So, tell me about this fine establishment.”
I look up at the two-storied stone edifice that’s almost as grand as Zia Syb’s restaurant back in Isolacuori. “It has a superb view on the bay.”
“Naturally, the reason you chose it.” Could he sound anymore caustic?
“Naturally, not.” I wind my arm through my father’s and rest my cheek against his shoulder. “The owner—Mr. Morozov—didn’t attend the Jubilee. I thought that if he saw us eat like regular people, he’d realize we are regular people.”
“Are you saying I can’t use my talons as utensils?”
I laugh. “You’re terrible.”
A brazen smile kinks the corners of his lips.
As we start up a set of curved stone stairs, I ask, “If it’s a boy, do you think he’ll be able to bloodcast?”
“Your mother’s Shabbin, not Serpent, so probably not.”
Cutlery drops in time with mouths when diners catch sight of us.
“Do you know that most Glacins still believe Shabbins drink blood?” I murmur in Crow.
“Is that what they’ve offered you during your friendly visits?”
“Yes.” With a devilish smile, I say, “I did accept a glass once, but only because the couple was insufferable.”
Dádhi laughs, and although the resonance is beautiful, it must sound villainous to the diners, for everyone—and I do mean everyone —bunches their shoulders.
“Table for two, please,” I tell the pointy-eared host standing behind a gold podium overflowing with roses and artistically-melted candlesticks.
“I’m afraid we’re packed solid tonight,” he says without peering at the large ledger before him.
A peek around his shoulder does reveal the dining area is bursting. It also reveals that the owners have an unhealthy addiction to the color gold, which is everywhere, from the coffered ceilings, to the wainscoted walls, to the shimmery tablecloths.
“Surely Mr. Morozov could find us a solution?” My father is alarmingly calm. “After all, I flew from quite far to dine at this fine establishment.”
“Mr. Morozov is not in at the moment,” the host says, cheeks pinkening.
“A shame. I was so looking forward to making his acquaintance.” My father rolls his shoulders, which strains the leather. “Anyway, do find us a table, for I’m so ravenous I could eat a fully-grown Faerie right now.”
The man balks.
I elbow Dádhi. “My father’s jesting. We don’t have a taste for human flesh. We do, however, love cheese blintzes, and we heard you serve the very best in the kingdom.”
A gulp agitates the Faerie’s throat. “Um, I, um…” He jerks his gaze toward the ledger and runs a shaky finger over the inked lines, before thumbing through the pages. “We have an opening at three a.m.”
My head rears back, sending my high ponytail swishing. “That’s in seven hours! Also, who sups at three in the morning?”
“No one, khráach.” Dádhi slouches against the podium, idly drumming his iron talons against the mirrored gold. “Which is why this kind gentleman is offering us the slot. Isn’t that right?”
“You do know who we are, right?” It isn’t that I enjoy throwing around our status to get things; I’m genuinely wondering whether he knows who he’s turning away.
Oh, he knows… my father murmurs through the mind link. Why do you think he’s perspiring? A shame I cannot hurt him a little for wasting our time. “You know what I detest more than snow? Disappointing my daughter. So I’ll ask nicely once more: find us a table before I find one myself.”
The Fae swipes his velour sleeve over his forehead and backs away. “Let me see what I ca-can do.”
I rub my palms together to remove the lingering chill of our flight. “You detest snow?”
“Loathe it.”
“How did I not know this?”
“You never asked,” he says, just as the host returns to tell us that we’re in luck, that Bohdan Zaslofsky’s son won’t be coming, so he has room at his table.
I’m about to ask my father what he thinks of dining with Bohdan when an icy draft brushes the side of my neck. I turn, my shoulder blades pinching at the sight of the new arrival.
“Mind me crashing your tête-à-tête, Ríhbiadh?” Konstantin asks as he treads deeper into the establishment, bracketed by Salom, Borat, and two high-ranking Faerie soldiers.
I spot a few more in the courtyard.
“You should ask my daughter not me.” Does my father say this because he knows my primary reason for coming, or because he wants this to be my choice?
What sort of choice is it anyway? Not only is Konstantin my fiancé, but he’s also the ruler of Glace. I can’t exactly refuse. The lapse in my response upsets Konstantin’s poised demeanor.
“How could you even wonder whether we’d mind?” I coo, before adding a nonchalant, “We’re dining with Bohdan Zaslofsky, by the way.”
“ Why ?” I don’t miss the wrinkle pleating the bridge of Konstantin’s nose.
“Because there were no free tables available to us,” my father says, effectively casting the host and Mr. Morozov onto very thin ice.
The host’s eyes open so wide, his green irises drown in a sea of froth. “I-I-I?—”
Remembering that I’m supposed to ingratiate myself with antimorphs, I add, “In his defense, the venue is packed.”
“Salom, go fetch Morozov.” Konstantin’s fingers twine around mine, pliant but firm. “Tell him the king requests his own fucking table. And tell him I’m giving him the honor of serving me and my future queen tonight.”
The corners of Dádhi’s mouth flatten. At first, I think it’s because of Konstantin’s tone, but then he says, Just because it’s pretend, it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Oh, Dádhi…
The host, who looks about to perish, stammers for us to follow him. My father goes first.
As we start after him, Konstantin’s breath brushes along my cheekbone, causing a little shiver to scamper down my spine. “What’s wrong?”
“Absolutely nothing,” I say stringently.
My lie isn’t lost on Konstantin, who scours my face without cease throughout dinner. One we still end up sharing with Bohdan Zaslofsky after he pulls up a chair without invitation.
A few minutes in the male’s presence, and I understand why Izolda isn’t a fan. The Faerie’s odious, self-absorbed, and oily. I’ve lost count of how many times his russet gaze has strayed over my breasts. I don’t take his interest personally, though, since he’s ogled every female diner.
At some point during our meal, Konstantin leans over and murmurs something inside Bohdan’s broad ear that makes his visage contort with annoyance. A moment later, the male’s standing and wishing us a pleasant evening. None of us return his farewell.
Once he’s gone, my fake fiancé looks at my father and says—in Crow, “If he does take you up on your invitation to visit Luce, would it be too much to ask that you keep him, Ríhbiadh? Or sink his ship somewhere in between our two lands? Preferably, not too close to any shore.”
My father’s lips curl. “Whyever would you want to get rid of such a magnanimous member of society?”
Konstantin’s gray stare scrolls over the residual patrons. “The only magnanimous thing that buffoon’s ever done is sustain my kingdom’s brothels, thanks to all the coin he spends on doxies.”
“Buffoon’s too nice. He’s a narcissistic pervert,” I mutter.
My father tosses his gold napkin on the table. “He told me he’s also a great patron of the arts and has single-handedly been keeping Volkov & Sons in business by commissioning more sleighs than you have railcars.”
“Only because the Volkovs are distant relatives of his, and the coin he spends is Ekaterina’s,” Konstantin mutters.
My father nods slowly, absorbing the information. “On that note, I must take my leave.”
He stands and drops a kiss to my forehead, reminding me that he loves me through the mind link. As he buttons his leather jacket, he levels Konstantin with a stare that must be accompanied by a choice few images, considering how it creases my fake fiancé’s lips.
After my father vanishes in a cloud of smoke that wins him several gasps, I begin to zip up my own jacket.
“We haven’t had dessert yet,” Konstantin points out.
“You don’t eat dessert.”
“But you do.” And then he turns toward Morozov, snaps his fingers to wrench the Faerie’s focus off the half-blooded cupbearer, and asks for one of everything.
As the red-faced proprietor stalks away, the Ice King wraps his elegant fingers around his golden teacup, dwarfing a vessel that isn’t small to begin with.
“Interesting choice of venue,” he drones.
“Izolda mentioned it served some of the best fare in Voshna.” I carve a hand toward the panoramic window overlooking the ocean. “And the view’s spectacular.”
Konstantin nods to the marble statue at the heart of the restaurant. “It’s made of solid stone. In case you were wondering.”
A shiver sweeps down my spine. “I wasn’t.”
He smiles, which sets his irises ablaze and my heart aflutter.
Does he know about the list I’m going through, Faerie by Faerie? And if he does, by commenting on the statue’s material, is he sending me a subliminal message that my clandestine operative of planting listening sigils has his seal of approval?