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384 pages, Paperback
First published April 16, 2019
“You know...I don't mind disappointing people. Perhaps that's a flaw in my character, but I think it has rather more to do with other people's failure to manage their own expectations. And everyone seems to have such varied expectations of me, how could I hope to fulfil them all?”
“Small lies. Do you promise?”
"You know...I don't mind disappointing people. Perhaps that's a flaw in my character, but I think it has rather more to do with other people's failure to manage their own expectations. And everyone seems to have such varied expectations of me, how could I hope to fulfil them all?"
Aristide Makricosta, king of the black market, monarch of the demimonde. Untouchable, untamable. Even the FOCIS’s Master of the Hounds couldn’t run him down, when it came to it, and instead turned belly-up beneath his teeth.
Aristide briefly felt the chill of the steppe wind, felt the curve of Cordelia’s small shoulders underneath his hands. Horribly, his eyes began to burn.
Aristide crossed the bridge in three strides, then turned and held a hand out: to steady Cyril. Or perhaps, to make sure that he followed.
Perhaps it wasn’t all gone, after all. “Will you do it now?” asked Cyril.
Aristide raised an eyebrow. They were thicker now, and had started to get ragged at the edges during the trek across Tatié. But the angle was familiar. Cyril, filled with sudden daring, kissed the apex of its arch.
“The stutter,” he said, his lips close to Ari’s skin.
“D-D-Darling.” Aristide pulled back and stared him in the eyes. “I’m sure I d-d-don’t know what you mean."