They didn’t turn into anything else, so he cut a bite loose, lifted it cautiously to his mouth.
“No butter?” She sounded disappointed.
Belatedly, he realized how rude he was. It wasn’t like he cared. Still…“Bring a butter knife. And have some as well.”
She examined him for a long moment, weighing. Of course, if she was Court she would be looking for the hook in the words. It was a hard habit to break.
A habit he had never broken. Except with Daisy, and even then not completely.
I’m used to men keeping things close, Jer. Said very softly in the dark haven of their bed. It’s all right.
Had he been stupid to believe her?
“I’ll have some milk,” the sidhe-girl said, finally. “And make you more.” With that, Robin Ragged turned with that quick birdlike grace, her skirt whispering again, and hopped into the kitchen as if something chased her.
Was it just his imagination? Was it just her coloring making him think of Daisy? Reddish hair wasn’t that uncommon.
Now he had the urge to get up, go back into the bedroom, and look for the photos. At least then he wouldn’t have the feeling that his wife’s face had grayed out of his faithless sidhe memory, replaced by this stranger’s.
No. She looks like Daisy. How many redheads would, though?
Jeremiah settled himself to eat. She didn’t chantment again, and the morning must have been part-cloudy. The sunlight dimmed, and he found himself staring at the quirpiece’s bright gleam. A Realmaker. Robin Ragged. Barefoot in his kitchen. Looking so much like his dead, rotting wife his heart squeezed down on itself like a clockwork toy in a high-gravity well each time she tilted that russet head of hers.
She settled gingerly in Daisy’s chair—the only other seat at the table since he’d smashed the other two to flinders one drunken night and thrown them out the sliding doors. There was a whole pile of junk back there, scattered over the half-finished deck.
The glass of milk held a faintly bluish tint, compared to her skin. She toyed with it, and when she finally took a dainty sip, something in him relaxed slightly. The bacon was just crunchy at the edges, the way he liked it. The coffee was passable—not nearly strong enough.
It was a relief to find something she didn’t do like Daisy Snowe had.
She was silent as he ate, drinking her milk in tiny hummingbird nectar-sips. Watching him, those dark blue eyes fathomless. A thread-thin golden chain holding a teardrop of a locket glittered at her throat, probably true metal if she was a Realmaker. The single piece of jewelry nagged at him, but he couldn’t think of why. He studied the line of her jaw as he chewed, the arches of her cheekbones, the fragile notch between her collarbones. Even when still she looked restless. A delicate, feathered exotic in his dirty heap of a house. Had he looked the same way to mortals, ever?
Not half as pretty, Gallow. Next to Robin, Daisy would have looked washed-out, pale, worn-down.
Good thing she’s not here, then, right? The old dull fury tried to rise; he pushed it down. He hadn’t even looked at another woman since Daisy’s death; why was he even curious about this sidhe now?
Finally, he mopped up a last lake of amber syrup, suppressed a belch, and took a hit off the fresh cup of coffee. He’d forgotten what it was like to eat a real mortal breakfast.
When he looked up, she was studying him in turn. A faint vertical line showed between her arched eyebrows, and her mouth at rest was a sweet curve.
“Robin.” He set his fork down precisely, took another sip of coffee. “You can call me Gallow.”
She nodded, her shoulders easing. “I don’t mean to be trouble. I really don’t. I thought the quir would break my trail and the rider would—”
“A man died in there.” Harshly, because he still tasted the bacon and the sweetness of maple blood. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter.”
“Died?” She looked puzzled, before her entire body drooped. “You mean a mortal? In the tavern?” Disbelief, very prettily played. Some part of it might even be genuine. “I thought the Unseelie wouldn’t…” A catch, as if her throat was full.
It wasn’t them; it was the chaos you caused. And it was more than one, but I didn’t know them. “His name was Panko.” The ash of his anger burned his own tongue.
She nodded. Slowly, coppergold curls falling forward. “Panko.” Repeated it. “Panko. I will remember.”