She held her own gaze, inclined her head until the light caught on the surface of the glass, interrupting the illusion. The brown eye had a purpose—it helped Lila to blend in, to move unnoticed. But when she was alone, or on the safety of her ship, she never wore it, opting for the black one Maris had given her, the one she would have had if she’d slept aboard the ship, the one that made her smile whenever she caught her reflection in a puddle or a pane of glass.
She was not smiling now.
She pushed off the basin, reclaimed her blades, and her boots, and her coat, and set out to find Kell and a cup of strong black tea, not necessarily in that order.
* * *
Word had obviously spread that the Antari were in residence.
None of the guards drew their weapons as Lila emerged from the royal suite, made her way down the hall, descended the stairs. Below, the palace was unfurling, like some giant flower, its petals turning to the sun. Servants bustled, opening doors, adjusting rugs, trading out yesterday’s bouquets before they even began to droop.
Where, she wondered, did the day-old flowers go?
Probably into the bath water.
As Lila moved through the palace, servants stopped, and bowed, frozen like statues in the middle of their work. Two brown eyes or otherwise, they knew what she was, and they looked at her the way they had looked at Kell, their expressions ranging from respect, to reverence, to fear. But unlike Kell, Delilah Bard welcomed their trepidation.
She was halfway down a branching hall when a servant rounded the corner, facing her. There was plenty of room, yet he sidestepped and pressed his back into the wall as if it were a sin to take up space while she did.
“Have you seen the prince?” she asked.
The servant didn’t answer, not at first, as if she were addressing someone else. There was no one else, at least, not in earshot, and when he finally seemed to realize that, his gaze twitched up, stopping somewhere near her chin. Lila sighed. If there was a protocol for this, she’d never learned it.
“Well?” she pressed.
“Mas arna,” he said, bowing deeply again. My lady. Lila grimaced. She hated being called that, as if she were some ostra mingling at court.
“Call me Captain,” she said.
The servant hesitated. “Apologies,” he said. “But your rank here outweighs that title.”
“My rank?” she ventured, assuming he meant Antari. She was wrong.
“Your rank, as someone promised to the prince.”
Lila stared at the servant, and felt the sudden urge to break something. The air curdled around her, and he must have sensed it, because he shrank back.
“Tell me,” she said slowly. “What do you call Kell?”
“Mas vares,” said the servant.
My prince.
“And if he were a commoner?”
The servant ducked his head. “As Antari, he would still be mas aven.”
My blessed.
“Excellent,” said Lila. “Then call me that. Now,” she went on, scanning the hall. “Where is your blessed prince?”
The servant pointed her toward the breakfast room, and she set off again. She found the glass-walled chamber overlooking the courtyard, its long table laden with sweet buns, and pies, and fruit. She was about to go in when she heard a sound across the hall.
A small, joyous laugh that could only belong to Ren Maresh.
There, at the far end of a sun-drenched gallery, Lila found the child sitting on a step, and at her side, light glancing off his copper hair, was Kell.
Ren was chattering softly, and cupping something small and white in both her hands, and Kell was nodding soberly, his coat cast off beside him on the floor, and his sleeves rolled up, his face turned just enough for her to see his blue eye, and the way his lips moved as he spoke.
He didn’t see Lila, and perhaps that was why she lingered, studying the gentle incline of his head, her fingers drifting almost absently to the ring beneath her shirt. Until she heard the sound of footsteps drifting toward her, not the hushed and hurried steps of a servant, or the tread of a soldier, but the slow, even glide of a body at home.
Fuck, thought Lila as her hand dropped to her side.
“Your Majesty,” she said aloud, turning toward the queen. Lila knew she should bow, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she offered the barest incline of her head, more a nod than an attempt at deference. The queen either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.
“Please,” she said, “call me Nadiya. We are family, after all.”
Family. The word scratched at Lila’s skin like rough wool. As far as she was concerned, family had nothing to do with proximity or blood. Family was a chosen thing. A label earned. Barron had been family. Kell was family. Alucard, and Stross, and Vasry, and Tav, and Rhy. But Nadiya had yet to gain purchase. Lila doubted she ever would.