“Cold blood,” he said disbelievingly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Fucking disgusting. I can’t believe my brother drank this for years.”
“We have plenty more liquor, then,” Lorietta called out.
“I prefer mine warm, and I have no problem accessing it.”
“Nonconsensual feeding is not allowed here.” Lilac approached the bar, thinking of Piper and all the others imprisoned at his hands. That was at the top of the list she’d had John jot down during her Accords drafting sessions held in the library over the past week.
Bastion made an irreverent noise into his palm. “Wouldn’t you know?”
“That means you’ll have to convince someone to like you enough first.”
He glowered in her direction, eyes narrowed, before Lorietta’s head popped through the wall of tinkling beads.
“Some help, Your Majesty.”
Lilac obliged without question. She dumped her bag at the bar with a warning look at Bastion before walking around it and parting the beads. They were heavy. “Silver?”
Lorietta was squatted near the far wall, where sacks of potatoes, wheat, and a couple crates of vegetables were stacked. She selected another potato and added it to the others in the crook of her arm. “Iron. Everyone might be welcome to eat and drink here, but no faeries of any kind are allowed in my kitchen.”
The scullery opened up into a much larger room than it’d appeared from the outside; the cooking hearth sat in the nearest corner, and above it hung a large cauldron filled with the delicious-smelling pottage Garin had mentioned. Three large silk cushions lined the floor before it, colorful and woven with intricate patterns, while a small round table and chair sat along the wall, where a row of mismatched utensils hung.
Along the left wall, beside the crop storage, there was a tall cabinet filled with bottles of herbs and spices, and beside that, a smaller fire that burned green beneath a mini cauldron. There was a large woven rug at the back of the room between two barrels and a liquor cabinet.
Lorietta brought the potatoes to the table, where she began roughly halving them with the knife she plucked from the wall. Lilac stepped in, letting the iron beads fall behind her. During her journey through Brocéliande, she’d learned how several of the “rules” on interacting with Daemons had turned out to be superstitions. It was good to know that one was true—that even Kestrel and his terrifying jury of faeries had a weakness.
The house suddenly shuddered, the timber above them creaking in place.
The witch set down her knife. There was a book open on a stand between the table and the pot; she ran a finger down the open page. “Do me a favor and cut those last few for me, dear,” she said, turning to the pot and lifting the gigantic wooden spoon that sat in it. “It’s time for me to stir.”
Lilac was glad to have her hands occupied instead of going over her memorized notes again. She picked her way around the pillows and began slicing the potatoes while Lorietta stared and muttered at her book. She began stirring counterclockwise with both hands.
“This is my grimoire,” the witch said, feeling Lilac’s eyes on her.
“It must be very old.”
“A few years younger than Garin, I think.”
Reminded of him, she glanced through the curtain of beads. Bastion was still alone at the bar.
The potato in her hand rolled, and a sharp stab of pain slashed across her knuckle as the knife slipped. Lilac dropped both and cradled her finger. “Shit.”
A bead of blood—more than a bead—pooled at her knuckle.
“What’s the matter, dear?” asked Lorietta without looking up from the pottage. “Nervous, are we?”
“Yes,” she said, swiping her finger against her dress and sucking off the rest. “Extremely.”
“Well, I can’t have you bleeding into the food.” But Lorietta turned her head ever so slightly and winked. “You can’t start any discussion without all parties here—or at least Kestrel, if Garin’s informed me correctly about your foolish faerie bargain.”
“That’s right.” She knew the witch was one to speak her mind, but there was something about her comment that ate at her. “We had no choice.”
“There’salwaysa choice. While there may not be a way out of striking a deal with them, you as one of the agreeing parties can adjust or add to the terms. It’s a gamble. It all depends on how much you’re willing to divulge. Out of all the faerie courts of Brittany, the Court of the Valley is the most amicable.”
Amicable? A violent shudder ran through her, imaging Kestrel’s seemingly limitless power. There was nothing amicable about her experience at Cinderfell, Kestrel’s manor.
Lorietta frowned.
“What is it?”
