Chapter 28
Iput more care than usual into my appearance tonight, rubbing a hint of floral perfume on my wrists and brushing my hair until it’s silky soft.
I braid it, but frame my face with wispy strands.
Then I secure the end with a tie and a small pearl-studded comb I raided from a tomb.
Until now, I’ve been too wary of pickpockets to wear it. The irony.
There are cosmetics in the armoire. I’ve never seen Min wear them, so I assume they were meant for me. The beeswax lip balm is tinted rose red and gives me a flush of color that reminds me of the nobles in Mythos. So does the rouge. The elderberry charcoal liner darkens my light lashes.
The woman staring at me in the mirror doesn’t look like me. I touch my face as if I need to convince myself that my reflection is real.
I dress in a long indigo velvet skirt, its seams lined with golden thread.
Then I put on a matching velvet corset top with off-shoulder bell sleeves.
The top of the corset dips immodestly low, squeezing my breasts together.
It hugs my waist, the pressure tight enough to be stimulating.
My breath catches as I trace the golden laces.
Back home, our clothes were sewn to cover our bodies from the elements. I’ve never worn anything like this before, and it’s too lovely to belong on me.
What will the thieves think? What if I look like a peasant costumed as a noble?
“It doesn’t matter what they think,” I whisper to myself. I should enjoy this lavish lifestyle while it lasts. Maybe with the treasure from Olin’s tomb, I could commission a dress like this. And if I wore it often enough, one day I’d feel at home in it. At least, I hope so.
Looking in the mirror, I wonder what Desmond would think if he saw me. Would his breath catch? Would he swallow hard? In the Hollowlands’ courts, he’s surely met fae as beautiful as the dawn. I can’t compete with that.
Banishing the thought, I head to the kitchen and find Nikolai already waiting. “Why are we here?” I ask, looking around. No one else is here.
“Perhaps you should bring your tart de bry,” he says. Then he opens a wide lower cabinet, revealing a secret tunnel. Light spills out, and laughter echoes through the passage. He winks at me and crawls through.
Of course thieves would have a secret tunnel. I grab my tart de bry from the ice box and follow, anticipation drumming through me.
“Nikolai!” Finnian’s shout echoes. “You’re late.”
“Are you really so surprised?” Brandur asks.
At the tunnel’s end, I pause to gawk.
Flickering candles on wagon wheel chandeliers cast golden swaths of light, just enough to leave the room darkened and cozy.
Shields and crossed swords gleam on the walls.
Kegs are stacked in the corner, an extravagant leather sofa beside them.
As if that wasn’t enough ostentatiousness, fur rugs stretch across the floor, one a taxidermied bear with the head still attached.
I’d bet my pearl comb that they stole it.
It’s the paragon of decadent luxury, fit for a nobleman’s manor. My father would ramble in awe at the sight of it all.
Then I emerge from the tunnel, and everyone falls silent.
Maeve and Min are seated at a high table, each nursing a mug, and Finnian and Brandur stand before a dart board. Finnian pinches a dart, but he stares at me as if he’s forgotten about it.
“What is she doing here?” Brandur asks, glaring at Nikolai.
Nikolai raises his hands, placating. “Each of us is allowed one guest a year. I’ve chosen Cyn as mine.”
Brandur grunts. “You would waste your pick on the woman who almost spoiled our heist?”
“If I recall, she’s the reason you have the map,” Nikolai argues, but his voice is level and patient.
Enough of this. “I didn’t mean to get us caught. And I brought an apology tart.” I levitate it to the table where Maeve and Min sit.
Maeve snatches a slice, bites into it, and moans. “Mm’not mad at you, Cyn. And this is so good that I’d forgive you for anything.”
“She does not belong in midnight blue,” Brandur argues. “She has not taken the pledge, and why Finnian let her come on the heist is beyond me.”
“Then don’t take it out on her,” Finnian says. He throws the dart at the board. “Take it out on me, because I’ve won again.” He smirks.
Brandur eyes the board and growls. “A rematch is in order.”
“Yes, let’s stop bothering Cyn and watch you lose again,” Maeve says. She takes a long sip of her ale’s foaming head and slams it down.
“Or we test out the skills of our newcomer.” Finnian saunters over to me and waggles his brows. “You ready to owe me a secret? We always play with a wager here.”
“Be warned,” Min calls out. There’s a hint of humor in her voice, even though her expression is impassive. “He will try to hustle you.”
Finnian gasps. He clutches his chest in mock offense. “Hustle her? How could you think so lowly of me, Min?”
“Experience,” she replies.
His gaze lingers on her before he faces me, mischief dancing in his dark eyes. “I’ve thought of an even better wager, one that won’t cost you a thing. And we’ll make it a simpler game since you’re a novice. Around-the-clock darts instead of five-oh-one.”
I lift a brow at him. There’s no way he’s not up to something. “And what is the wager, exactly?”
He grins. “Strip darts. Unless you’re too quail for it.”
Min shakes her head. “I believe the word they use in Avedor is chicken.”
“Here we go again,” Maeve says as she rolls her eyes. Nikolai chuckles.
I don’t miss the anticipatory glances, the buzz of unrest as everyone awaits my answer. If I refuse, they’ll think I’m a prude at best, as boring as a milksop at worst. They all expect me to say no, which is exactly why I’ll say yes. Besides, I look damn good in midnight blue.
“Tell me the rules.” I hold out my hand for a dart, then smirk as Finnian falters.
“Alright.” He plucks the darts from the board and hands them to me.
“You get three throws per visit, which is the darts term for your turn. You start at one and must hit every number in order until you reach twenty. If your opponent hits all three throws in their visit, you strip an article. The game is won by whoever hits twenty first.”
Maeve hops down from her bar chair. “I’ll show you how to hold it.”
“Maybe—” Finnian starts.
She sticks her tongue out at him. “I may be the poker queen, but don’t forget who won our last game of darts.” Then she models her grip for me. “Remember to follow through on your throw.”
“Like throwing a dagger at your enemy’s throat,” Brandur chimes in.
Maeve shoulder-bumps me, then hiccups. “He doesn’t mean that. He’s never thrown a dagger at anything but a target, the softie.” Her voice rises as she points at Min. “If anyone here wants to talk daggers, it should be her.”
Nikolai gently grabs her by the elbow and leads her back to the table.
It takes me a few tries to mimic Maeve’s grip until the thieves affirm that I’ve got it. Then everyone settles back to watch, Finnian standing to the side, Nikolai relaxing back on the sofa, and Brandur leaning against the wall.
I take careful aim at the one.
“You’ll miss,” an unexpected voice says behind me.
I shiver from Desmond’s smooth, silken tone as it glides over me like a shadow. Just knowing he’s there is enough to make his presence a palpable weight in the back of my mind, even without turning around.
“Another outsider?” Brandur demands, pushing off the wall. “You would think our code no longer holds any sanctity. Who told him about our game room?”
“No one here.” Desmond’s footsteps are light even against stone, and his gait is casual as he comes into my line of sight. “You’ve never played this before,” he says with irritating frankness. “You need to aim higher.”
I glance at him, just in time to catch his gaze lingering on my tight corset. The rebuttal I’d had ready dies the moment I take him in.
The sleeves of his wine-red jacket are rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick cords of muscle as he crosses his arms. If that wasn’t enough of a distraction, he’s shirtless beneath it, exposing the wispy trail of dark hair down his chiseled chest. From one ear hangs a golden hoop with a delicate chain leading to a cuff on his lobe, and his curls look softer than usual, bathed in the warmth of the candles overhead.
He doesn’t dress like this when we train. The look is both rugged and royal, giving me a hint of the prince beneath the swordsman. I school my expression in an attempt to feign being unaffected. “What do you care if I miss?”
“It seems to me that the stakes are rather high,” he replies. “Finnian’s dignity—or lack thereof—is on the line.”
Brandur advances on Desmond. “You need to leave. No one has invited you.”
The mood of the room plummets as if buckets of ice-cold water have been dumped over us. I’m pinching my dart so hard it might snap as I look back and forth between Desmond and Brandur, waiting for the first punch to fly. It’s not Desmond I fear for. Brandur wouldn’t land a single hit.
Finnian grins, a predator scenting blood in the air.
He throws one arm over Brandur’s shoulders, the other over Desmond’s.
“Gentlemen, there’s no need for such harsh words.
I formally invite Desmond as my guest of the year.
And since it’s customary for rookies to partake in the first game, why don’t we have our two invitees face off? ”
Shit, Finnian never did clarify that I’d play against him. I walked right into this.
Desmond slides out of Finnian’s embrace. “It wouldn’t be a fair game.”
“Fair game?” I roll my eyes. He already thinks he’ll win. At least neither of us wants to play. We’re on the same side.
“What’re you going on about, Dez?” Finnian shakes his head. “Have you even held a dart before?”
Desmond’s jaw ticks. “I’ve watched enough games.”
“Someone’s bluffing, are we?” I tease him.
He glances at me, and his silence is damning.