here.”
“And I need to speak to you.”
“Come to my quarters. As soon as we can get away.”
Trevin laced his fingers through Melaia’s. Step close. Step back. At the last strum of the lyre, a bow.
The night spun on. Wine and ale flowed, most of it into Varic, though Dwin drank his share as well. Trevin kept a watchful eye on his brother. Like a fly lighting first here then there, Dwin casually laughed his way from Nuri and Iona to Varic and his men.
After Trevin saw Melaia and Serai leave the festivities, he lingered only a short time before heading to the palace and making his way to Melaia’s quarters. Serai ushered him inside, then excused herself to the roof garden.
Melaia sat by a window, inspecting a purple flower propped in a gilded finger bowl. “I’ve not yet seen Peron,” she said. “This is her favorite flower.” She held the bowl out to Trevin.
He sniffed the blossom. “Smells nice. Like a rose.”
“I asked the gardener to plant some in my garden. Somehow Prince Varic heard about it and brought me this one.”
“Prince Varic visited your quarters?”
“He heard about my garden and wanted to see it.”
Trevin clenched his fists. “He visited your quarters!”
“
You
are visiting my quarters.”
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with the cur.”
“Trevin!” Melaia set the bowl on the windowsill.
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t want to marry the prince, but I can’t shun him. You heard my father’s compromise. I have to keep the weather at Redcliff agreeable until you come back from consulting the Oracle.”
Trevin leaned against the window ledge. “Maybe you won’t have to wait that long. I requested a meeting with you this morning to tell you something Dwin discovered. Varic’s friend Hesel is a gash runner.”
“What’s that?”
“He transports and sells gash. But that’s not the worst of it. For payment he takes not only coin but sheep, goats, and
children
too.”
Melaia paled. “Are you certain?”
“Dwin has proof.”
“That’s sickening,” she said. “Have you told my father?”
“I’ve tried, but I can’t get in to see him.”
“I’ll tell him. First thing tomorrow. I wonder if Prince Varic knows.”
“Of course he knows. But he’ll deny it.”
“If he knows, he’s heartless, which is ironic, because the flower he gave me is called true-heart.” Melaia stroked the purple petals.
“True-heart,” Trevin muttered. “It was certainly not named for the giver.”
“The name comes from a folk tale that says if you sleep in a field of these flowers, when you wake, you’ll know your true heart on a matter. Do you think if I grow them, Peron might visit?”
“It’s worth a try,” said Trevin, though he hated to think of Melaia growing a flower that reminded her of Varic.
“At least this blossom is alive, unlike the other one.” She led Trevin to a chair adorned with the image of a sunset-red poppy.
“He’s a painter?” asked Trevin, disgusted. What else could the jackal do?
“He’s an artist, he says, but”—her eyes widened—“this image isn’t painted. Varic placed the poppy on a silver net, then pressed it to the wood. When he removed the net, the flower was part of the chair.”
Trevin rubbed his hand over the poppy. He felt no brush strokes, no inlays. The bloom seemed to have become wood. He scowled at it.
Melaia ambled back to the window. “Varic says his gift is preserving images in wood and stone.”
“Preserving or killing?” Trevin growled.
He moved to stand by Melaia and followed her gaze. Serai and Jarrod strolled arm in arm through the roof garden in the moonlight.
“Two angels, Exousia and Erielyon,” said Melaia. “A divine match.”
“Jarrod is not pure angel,” said Trevin. “He’s half-immortal.”
“That’s beside the point. They’re both ageless.”
“What about us? If you sense me, I must be Nephili like you. Half-angel, half-human. Are we ageless?”
“I asked Jarrod
“And I need to speak to you.”
“Come to my quarters. As soon as we can get away.”
Trevin laced his fingers through Melaia’s. Step close. Step back. At the last strum of the lyre, a bow.
The night spun on. Wine and ale flowed, most of it into Varic, though Dwin drank his share as well. Trevin kept a watchful eye on his brother. Like a fly lighting first here then there, Dwin casually laughed his way from Nuri and Iona to Varic and his men.
After Trevin saw Melaia and Serai leave the festivities, he lingered only a short time before heading to the palace and making his way to Melaia’s quarters. Serai ushered him inside, then excused herself to the roof garden.
Melaia sat by a window, inspecting a purple flower propped in a gilded finger bowl. “I’ve not yet seen Peron,” she said. “This is her favorite flower.” She held the bowl out to Trevin.
He sniffed the blossom. “Smells nice. Like a rose.”
“I asked the gardener to plant some in my garden. Somehow Prince Varic heard about it and brought me this one.”
“Prince Varic visited your quarters?”
“He heard about my garden and wanted to see it.”
Trevin clenched his fists. “He visited your quarters!”
“
You
are visiting my quarters.”
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with the cur.”
“Trevin!” Melaia set the bowl on the windowsill.
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t want to marry the prince, but I can’t shun him. You heard my father’s compromise. I have to keep the weather at Redcliff agreeable until you come back from consulting the Oracle.”
Trevin leaned against the window ledge. “Maybe you won’t have to wait that long. I requested a meeting with you this morning to tell you something Dwin discovered. Varic’s friend Hesel is a gash runner.”
“What’s that?”
“He transports and sells gash. But that’s not the worst of it. For payment he takes not only coin but sheep, goats, and
children
too.”
Melaia paled. “Are you certain?”
“Dwin has proof.”
“That’s sickening,” she said. “Have you told my father?”
“I’ve tried, but I can’t get in to see him.”
“I’ll tell him. First thing tomorrow. I wonder if Prince Varic knows.”
“Of course he knows. But he’ll deny it.”
“If he knows, he’s heartless, which is ironic, because the flower he gave me is called true-heart.” Melaia stroked the purple petals.
“True-heart,” Trevin muttered. “It was certainly not named for the giver.”
“The name comes from a folk tale that says if you sleep in a field of these flowers, when you wake, you’ll know your true heart on a matter. Do you think if I grow them, Peron might visit?”
“It’s worth a try,” said Trevin, though he hated to think of Melaia growing a flower that reminded her of Varic.
“At least this blossom is alive, unlike the other one.” She led Trevin to a chair adorned with the image of a sunset-red poppy.
“He’s a painter?” asked Trevin, disgusted. What else could the jackal do?
“He’s an artist, he says, but”—her eyes widened—“this image isn’t painted. Varic placed the poppy on a silver net, then pressed it to the wood. When he removed the net, the flower was part of the chair.”
Trevin rubbed his hand over the poppy. He felt no brush strokes, no inlays. The bloom seemed to have become wood. He scowled at it.
Melaia ambled back to the window. “Varic says his gift is preserving images in wood and stone.”
“Preserving or killing?” Trevin growled.
He moved to stand by Melaia and followed her gaze. Serai and Jarrod strolled arm in arm through the roof garden in the moonlight.
“Two angels, Exousia and Erielyon,” said Melaia. “A divine match.”
“Jarrod is not pure angel,” said Trevin. “He’s half-immortal.”
“That’s beside the point. They’re both ageless.”
“What about us? If you sense me, I must be Nephili like you. Half-angel, half-human. Are we ageless?”
“I asked Jarrod
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