I almost said Don’t you mean what could compare? but held my tongue.
His focus shifted behind me before he replied—and Lucien shut his mouth. His metal eye whirred softly.
I followed his glance, and tried not to tense as Nesta stepped into the room.
Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric …
Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.
But Nesta stared right at me, the faelight shimmering along the silver combs in her upswept hair. The others, she dutifully ignored, chin lifting as she strode for us. I prayed that Mor and Amren, their brows high, wouldn’t say any—
“Where did that dress come from?” Mor said, red gown flowing behind her as she breezed toward Nesta. My sister drew up short, shoulders tensing, readying to—
But Mor was already there, fingering the heavy blue fabric, surveying every stitch. “I want one,” she pouted. Her attempt, no doubt, to segue into an invitation to shop for a larger wardrobe with me. As High Lady, I’d need clothes—fancier ones. Especially for this meeting. My sisters, too.
Mor’s brown eyes flicked to mine, and I had to fight the crushing gratitude that threatened to make my own burn as I approached them. “I assume my mate dug it up somewhere,” I said, throwing a glance over my shoulder at Rhys, who was perched on the edge of the dining table, flanked by Az and Cassian, all three Illyrians pretending that they weren’t listening to every word as they poured the wine amongst themselves.
Busybodies. I sent the thought down the bond, and Rhys’s dark laughter echoed in return.
“He gets all the credit for clothes,” Mor said, examining the fabric of Nesta’s skirt while my sister monitored like a hawk, “and he never tells me where he finds them. He still won’t tell me where he found Feyre’s dress for Starfall.” She threw a glare over her shoulder. “Bastard.”
Rhys chuckled. Cassian, however, didn’t smile, every pore of him seemingly fixed on Nesta and Mor.
On what my sister would do.
Mor only examined the silver combs in Nesta’s hair. “It’s a good thing we’re not the same size—or else I might be tempted to steal that dress.”
“Likely right off her,” Cassian muttered.
Mor’s answering smirk wasn’t reassuring.
But Nesta’s face remained blank. Cold. She looked Mor up and down—noting the dress that exposed much of her midriff, back, and chest, then the flowing skirts with sheer panels that revealed glimpses of her legs. Scandalous, by human fashions. “Fortunately for you,” Nesta said flatly, “I don’t return the sentiment.”
Azriel coughed into his wine.
But Nesta only walked to the table and claimed a seat.
Mor blinked, but confided to me with a wince, “I think we’re going to need a lot more wine.”
Nesta’s spine stiffened. But she said nothing.
“I’ll raid the collection,” Cassian offered, disappearing through the inner hall doors too quickly to be casual.
Nesta stiffened a bit more.
Teasing my sister, poking fun at her … I snatched a seat at Nesta’s side and murmured, “They mean well.”
Nesta just ran a finger over her ivory-and-obsidian place setting, examining the silverware with vines of night-blooming jasmine engraved around the hilts. “I don’t care.”
Amren slid into the seat across from me, right as Cassian returned, a bottle in each hand, and cringed. Amren said to my sister, “You’re a real piece of work.”
Nesta’s eyes flicked up. Amren idly swirled a goblet of blood, watching her like a cat with a new, interesting toy.
Nesta only said, “Why do your eyes glow?”
Little curiosity—just a blunt need for explanation.
And no fear. None.
Amren angled her head. “You know, none of these busybodies have ever asked me that.”
Those busybodies were trying not to look too concerned. As was I.
Nesta only waited.
Amren sighed, her dark bob swaying. “They glow because it was the one part of me the containment spell could not quite get right. The one glimpse into what lurks beneath.”
“And what is beneath?”
None of the others spoke. Or even moved. Lucien, still by the window, had turned the color of fresh paper.
Amren traced a finger along the rim of her goblet, her red-tinted nail gleaming as bright as the blood inside. “They never dared ask me that, either.”
“Why.”
“Because it is not polite to ask—and they are afraid.”
Amren held Nesta’s stare, and my sister did not balk. Did not flinch.
“We are the same, you and I,” Amren said.
I wasn’t sure I was breathing. Through the bond, I wasn’t sure Rhys was, either.
“Not in flesh, not in the thing that prowls beneath our skin and bones …” Amren’s remarkable eyes narrowed. “But … I see the kernel, girl.” Amren nodded, more to herself than anyone. “You did not fit—the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not, fit. And then the path changed.” A little nod. “I know—what it is to be that way. I remember it, long ago as it was.”
Nesta had mastered the Fae’s preternatural stillness far more quickly than I had. And she sat there for a few heartbeats, simply staring at the strange, delicate female across from her, weighing the words, the power that radiated from Amren … And then Nesta merely said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Amren’s red lips parted in a wide, serpentine smile. “When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds.”
A shiver slithered down my skin.
But Rhys drawled, “Amren, it seems, has been taking drama lessons at the theater down the street from her house.”
She shot him a glare. “I mean it, Rhysand—”
“I’m sure you do,” he said, claiming the seat to my right. “But I’d prefer to eat something before you make us lose our appetites.”
His broad hand warmed my knee as he clasped it beneath the table, giving me a reassuring squeeze.
Cassian took the seat on Amren’s left, Azriel beside him, Mor grabbing the seat opposite him, leaving Lucien …
Lucien frowned at the remaining place setting at the head of the table, then at the blank, barren spot across from Nesta. “I—shouldn’t you sit at the head?”
Rhys raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care where you sit. I only care about eating something right”—he snapped his fingers—“now.”
The food, prepared by cooks I made a point to go meet in the belly of the House, appeared across the table in platters and spreads and bowls. Roast meats, various sauces and gravies, rice and bread, steamed vegetables fresh from the surrounding farms … I nearly sighed at the smells curling around me.
Lucien slid into his seat, looking for all the world like he was perching atop a pincushion.