of the tea garden, green and floral, with a whiff of—was that cinnamon?
His breakfast awaited him.
Somhairle hesitated, feigned pain as the explanation when it was confusion. He needed a moment to consider.
If Morien was gone, why did Faolan remain?
“Your purpose here, Lord Faolan,” Somhairle murmured meekly. “May I be so bold as to inquire . . .”
“Oh?” Faolan turned, sharp and beautiful as faceted, precious stone. Colder than Somhairle had seen him in the soft glow of candelight, bleak and hawk-eyed under Ever-Land’s morning sun. “The Queen didn’t tell you when you spoke why it is so necessary that we disturb your idyll with our dirty work?”
“She believes my constitution too besieged already. That I mustn’t be troubled by matters of court and country.” Somhairle cast his eyes down and leaned against the doorframe. His brace’s ankle joint struck the hinge, to remind Faolan that he was limited, harmless. “Though it’s meant in kindness, it makes me feel like a useless child.”
“Well.” Faolan gazed at something, anything other than Somhairle, angling his face until he was all aquiline profile. Cheekbones like daggers. Patrician and remote. “We’re here on the Queen’s business. The business of thwarting the Resistance.”
Although Queen Catriona heralded a time of miracles, she’d also weathered her share of disasters. Most recently, the former Eastside district had collapsed after the launch of a contentious tunneling project to build new sewer systems, and the people blamed her bitterly for their loss of land and livelihood.
Somhairle hadn’t minded leaving sour rumors and unpleasantness behind when he’d left the Hill. But why should trouble with court malcontents, the Queen’s grumbling detractors, have brought Lord Faolan and Morien the Last here, of all places? “That’s still a concern, is it?”
Faolan’s lashes fluttered. “More threat than ever, Your Highness, since their agents were discovered amid the Queen’s favorites. In House Ever-Loyal.”
Somhairle, who had a lifetime of experience in receiving ill news with a glass smile, felt the world drop out from under him.
22
Rags
PRESENT DAY
Morning showed up, shivery and wet. Rags had dreamed no clever solutions to his shit situation during the night, had spent most of it sleepless, pondering dangerous questions.
The type of questions that got little thieves killed.
Just how much had Lord Faolan and Morien known before they sent Rags down into the fae ruins? They couldn’t be after a weapon the Queen wasn’t aware of, not right under the Queen’s nose. The Queen was after the Great Paragon all along, Rags thought.
He opened his eyes to darkness. A looming form crouched over him, a canopy of—was that hair?—like an umbrella, sheltering him from the drizzling sky.
“The human body is artlessly built,” Shining Talon explained from above, “and susceptible to disease in the simplest of weather conditions.”
“Argh,” Rags replied.
He managed to wriggle free, wrinkling his nose as the drizzle fell on his skin. He stumbled to the stream’s edge to wash his face, clean the dead fae remnants off his hands, rebandage them, relieve himself, escape Shining Talon.
His hollow cheeks stared back at him from the clear waters, rippling but distinct. Dark hair matted, darker eyes hard. He plunged his head under the current. Pulled it out, cursing, streaming wet, cold.
“Allow me to assist.” Shining Talon was beside him again. He’d approached soundlessly and handsomely, an irritating shadow Rags couldn’t shake.
“I can wash myself—” Rags began.
Shining Talon cupped stream water in his hands, lifted them without losing a drop. As Rags watched, steam began to rise from the water’s surface, like Shining Talon was offering Rags a mug of hot tea on a midwinter day.
“Now it will be less offensive to your tender human flesh,” Shining Talon explained.
“Stop that.” Rags shoved ineffectually at Shining Talon’s arms in an attempt to make him spill the heated water. He didn’t budge, and Rags choked down a gurgle of impatience. “I swear, it’s not necessary. I’ve bathed in puddles of city water—which isn’t all water, if you catch my meaning. This is fresh. Clean. Besides, the cold clears my head.” He clenched his jaw, sticking said head back under the current to prove his point.
Damn piss balls ass shit, it was colder the second time.
Getting the dirt out of his ears with warm water, letting it sluice over his tense shoulders, would have been more comfortable. It’d also make him sloppy, hungry for luxury. Once his edge dulled, that was it. A ruined weapon that wouldn’t drive home.
He held his head under the current for a ten count before he emerged, pink cheeked and sodden to