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March 25 - March 28, 2025
I promise that I will lie, because unlike the Fae, I can.
“Mi cuori . . .” I don’t feel like being her heart tonight, or her raindrop. I don’t even feel like being Fallon Rossi. “Good night, Nonna.”
Although I think I should put space between our bodies, I feel indebted to Antoni, and it’d be a lie to claim I’m not enjoying his firm grip. The only other hands I’ve had on me were Dante’s, and that was so long ago, I’ve forgotten how they felt.
“Idealistic, not naïve. Gods, Fallon, I wish I could still dream wide awake.”
“Free the five iron crows, and you will be queen.” I freeze. What the what? Iron crows? Queen? Marco’s blasé mien flashes behind my lids, eliciting a shudder. “Not only is the king betrothed—and clearly not to me—but also, I’ve no love for the male.” “I’m aware the Regio male you love is another.”
“I am saying Luce will, one day soon, belong to you, Fallon Báeinach.”
“The first will lead you to the others.” “Great. And where is the first?” She pauses for so long that I blow a breath out the corner of my mouth. “Do keep up the suspense. It’s so very enjoyable.”
Why would anyone trap a statue? Several, at that? Because they’re made of iron? And why in the world would a blacksmith model them after the pet birds of the mountain tribe that attacked us two decades ago?
“You’re my best friend. You’re obliged to support all my decisions, even the dreadful ones.”
“Perhaps because you kiss them below the belt, and hearts are higher up.”
Touché, Nonno. Touché. How delusional must I be to believe that a father capable of ear-culling could be capable of grandfatherly affection?
Empowered by the image of myself in a crown, I stalk out of my cage and away from the woman who’s kept me trapped within it for the last twenty-two years.
“Steel that sweet heart of yours, Fallon, or our world will end up licking away all of its honey.”
If you don’t untuck your fucking shirt, I’ll inflict bodily harm on every Selvatin who leers at you. Is that truly what you want?
Insults may roll off our round ears, but they also trickle inside and round other parts of us. I will not be rounded.
He’s silent, but not the quiet sort of silence. No, Morrgot is quiet like the sea is quiet before a squall.
Tell the princeling to fucking concentrate on the road instead of on your body, Fallon.
That you, Little Bird, belong to the sky. The crow emerges fully from the rocking surf, dark and huge, larger than I’ve ever seen it, a monster of down and iron. And that the sky . . . it belongs to me.
The gold ringing his pupils seems to churn. “You and I are just beginning, Fallon Báeinach.”
