their sharded hearts, or Somhairle’s unsharded heart, in greater danger.
“Start with this one,” Rags said, louder than he needed to, as he pointed at Shining Talon. A little sleight of hand to draw Morien’s attention from Inis, cast it elsewhere while she wrestled her mutinous feelings under control. “Something tells me he’s going to need extra practice acting anything close to human.”
Shining Talon blinked, shedding whatever mood had threatened to take him. The idea of traveling to the Hill, the epicenter of the power that had murdered so many of his people: not good.
His silver eyes turned to Rags, but that was what Rags wanted, for a change. Ignoring the way it made him feel thirsty like a hot day.
“I had never imagined such experiences,” Shining Talon said. “Being with you is a marvel.”
“Ugh.” Rags ignored the twist beneath his ribs that told him he was pleased. “You ruined it.”
63
Rags
Instead of taking separate horses, they rode in a carriage to the Silver Court to arrive in style. This left Rags and Shining Talon trapped with two born Ever-Nobles, both of whom seemed convinced that mere hours before they landed at court was plenty of time to teach a common thief and a fae a lifetime’s worth of manners.
Although Rags knew what Two and Three were supposed to look like, the spellcraft disguising them made his vision blurry at the edges. What he knew he should see and what he actually saw were two different things, and if his focus wandered, he ended up seeing four animals in the carriage, not two.
As for Shining Talon, Morien had assured them the glamour would work on anyone who didn’t know who he was, but Rags had his doubts. Those innocent silver eyes shone through. He was so big, so golden. He filled a room, or a carriage, like no human could, his massive shoulders steady whenever the carriage hit a bump that sent Rags flying out of his seat to crack his head on the roof for the nineteenth time.
Whatever. Rags had other problems: like how their cover would be blown if he reached for the wrong fork at a dinner, or bowed a fraction of an inch too low for somebody who didn’t deserve it, or farted in the middle of a party and cracked wise about it to a deacon.
“You’re telling me there are seven forks to choose from at an informal dinner?” Rags refused to believe it. There weren’t tables big enough. “Then we’re fucked, and not ’cause of me; I’m a fast learner. Listen, Shiny hates cutlery. Went mad one time, thought a spoon was attacking me, knocked it across the room and would have fought it to the death if we hadn’t been interrupted. True story.”
“They’re arranged in order of size for each course. It isn’t difficult to remember. One new fork with every plate.” Somhairle’s patience hadn’t worn through yet, while Inis had long since given up, staring moodily out the carriage window and refusing to acknowledge she could still hear the sound of Rags’s voice.
There were bowing lessons next, then titles, and by the time Rags’s head was feeling stuffed full of nonsense like a stinking etiquette book, the countryside was rolling into properly populated landscape, which could only mean one thing.
They were on the outskirts of the city.
Rags breathed in deeply, could almost smell the familiar mix of cheap food and pollution. The press of too many bodies too close together. Tenements and sewers and laundries and countless pickpockets, scoundrels who’d steal the eyes out of your head if you didn’t keep watch on them.
Home.
Rags sat up straighter in his seat while Shining Talon frowned to himself. “The air smells wounded.”
“Don’t ruin this for me, Shiny,” Rags replied.
The capital was old, built on a mass of fae ruins. The castle on the Hill perched atop the conquered, the buried. Rags didn’t spend much time dreaming about that place. He’d had normal ambitions once: to own a room he could call his and fancy jewels none would be brave enough to nick, to eat whatever he pleased every night, and to sleep without somebody breathing down his neck.
The Hill could have its wonders. Rags would settle for comfort and a bad reputation.
He flexed his hand, trying not to wince. There’d be no life for him to go back to if he didn’t get these shards out of his body.
The tight set of Inis’s jaw told Rags she was thinking along the same lines. Thanks to Morien,