Talon’s, but fewer of them. Only one bone, on the middle finger on each hand, and nothing beside his bow-curved mouth.
“I will run,” he replied.
62
Rags
With cutlery in his trousers and a sleeping fragment in his pocket, Rags headed downstairs, Shining Talon dogging his heels.
It’d taken hours, and a half dozen dropped forks, before Rags had been able to get the things into his pockets. His hand shook from the exertion, fingers weak as newborn kittens.
But anything was better than focusing on Shining Talon in the room they shared. It was getting harder, impossible, even, to work up a head of steam about anything the fae prince did and said.
At least there was hope for getting the mirrorglass out of Rags’s heart. But there were other things that had wormed into that organ because of this quest, more insidious things, and he didn’t know how to be rid of them.
This softness would do him no favors in the street.
Inis and Somhairle were waiting by the door, one with a silver cat, one with a silver owl. Someone—Rags suspected Inis—had draped a decorative tapestry over the hall mirror to protect them from catching sight of, falling into, one of Morien’s twisted pantomimes. Rags held up his hands and framed all four in the right angles of his thumbs and forefingers. “Nice portrait you lot make.”
“Good. You’re finally up. Three and Somhairle have a few leads,” Inis said.
“What do you mean, ‘a few leads’? Isn’t it a straight shot, like how Cab led us to you and you led us here?”
“Ah.” Somhairle bit his bottom lip, apologetic. “That’s . . .”
“He’s practically sequestered here,” Inis began.
“That’s all right, Inis. I can explain myself. The trouble is that I rarely see anyone out here. The last time I was in a large group was when I was still in the city, and I was only a child then. Afterward, I rarely visited. We already know who it isn’t, since we’ve ruled out the servants and the few regular visitors I do get, but as for who it is . . .” Somhairle shrugged, still sheepish. “It’s more complicated than if I were someone with more friends. Or experiences.”
“Easy for you to say,” Rags muttered. His anger was misplaced, as always, but knowing that didn’t help the anger go away. “You don’t have this thing in your chest ready to shred your heart meat if we don’t do what Morien says.”
“Heart is muscle,” Shining Talon said, “not meat.”
“Listen up, Shiny—” Rags began.
“Enough.” Inis’s voice practically made the chandelier rattle, but more effective was the way Two rose onto his hind legs to back her up. Rags quieted quick. “This means we’re going to have to go to court. Together. Splitting up isn’t an option. We’ve already lost One and her master. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”
“Me and him”—Rags jerked a hand Shining Talon’s way—“at court?”
“Morien can glamour Shining Talon so he doesn’t look so . . .” Inis paused.
Rags snorted an ugly laugh. “So fucking fae?”
“That,” Inis agreed. “Same with Two and Three. Make them look like a lap cat and a hunting bird to everyone else. Somhairle and Three believe that if Somhairle is back in that place, something will trigger the right memory, and he can lead us to Four’s master.” She shrugged, hands in the air. “As you said, we need to deliver results.”
“If we ever find One and her master again, I’m going to be the one to clout him in the face,” Rags said, “as thanks for putting our dear Morien in a blacker-than-black mood and leaving the rest of us to deal with him.”
“It’s not a bad plan.”
Everyone turned to face the new voice.
Where there had been an empty receiving chair in the corner, Morien now sat, his legs crossed, fingers steepled.
Rags rolled his eyes, then made it look like he was studying the ceiling when Morien’s attention shifted his way. When he put his hands into his pockets, stolen silverware poked his palms.
“We thought you’d approve.” Inis dropped into a curtsy with a readiness that had Rags resolved to watch her more closely. Smart girl. “Even if Prince Somhairle’s constitution isn’t robust, he’s keen to help.”
“You talk too much,” Morien informed her.
“Now, Morien.” Somhairle’s voice was weedy and hoarse. “She’s my friend—”
“But not a friend to Her Majesty’s Silver Court, I’m afraid.”
“Disguise me too, then,” Inis said.
She clearly had more to say, but she bit down on it, not wanting to do anything that would put