“It was the usual for Mr. Fairchild.”
That wasn’t the answer he’d have liked, but he pressed on. “Nothing about this is ‘usual’ for me. I like your coattails. The pattern on the lining—who’s the designer?”
She told him a name he didn’t recognize. For a moment, he scrambled as if forgetting his research at an interview.
Finola said, “She’s a student.
You won’t have heard of her yet, but you will.”
“You commission work from students?”
“Yes. What they lack in experience, they make up for in fresh vision. Guts, you know?” At this, she cast a quick look over his dress. “Not that I need to tell you why guts matter.”
Briar preened with the flattery. He still gripped his train in his hand and flung it out to spin with all the flair of an exuberant bird courting a mate. “I’m told I can be a bit much.”
“There’s no such thing,” Finola said. “What do you drink?”
“Uhhh.” Lately, potions by the pint. “Anything.”
“But what do you prefer?”
“Honestly? Used to be sweet cocktails and ciders, but now they give me a rip-roaring hangover, so I’m looking for a new vice. What’syourpoison?”
She flashed a grin. “Whiskey. Come, I’m sure the pub will have something.”
Finola walked into the Swan and Cygnet as if it were her home. As Briar found out over drinks, it sort of was. Her mother was Coill Darraghn, and her father had been born not far from Port Haven, where Briar grewup. From there, the conversation flowed with the same ease as the drinks, reminiscing over the pasty shop on the beach and bemoaning the seagulls stealing those pasties straight from your hands.
As they talked, Briar’s phone buzzed. He’d turned off notifications for most things because his affiliation with Linden led to more attention than even he—a self-proclaimed attention whore—could deal with.
He glanced at the message in case it was important.
It was from Celyn.
>>I see you’re getting on great, even without Pentawynn. Congratulations on your fashion line. If you’re ever in the city, let me know. We should grab coffee.
“Hate mail from one of Linden’s fans?” Finola guessed.
“A text from my ex.” He twirled the phone on the table to show her. “Two years together, and he pretends we don’t know each other because he didn’t want my peasantry rubbing off. Now he’s pretending westillknow each other.”
Vatii pecked the phone screen. “He was a rotting tip anyway.”
Finola smiled wolfishly. “It’s good that you’re angry. Fame does strange things to relationships. Makes it harder to tell who’s around foryou, and who’s gone green-eyed.”
He took a sip of whiskey to hide the source of his frown and burn away the surge of guilt. Was Briar any better when it came to Linden?
“If it weren’t for that weasel you’re in partnership with,” Finola said, “I’d invite you to my gala, you know.”
“Linden isn’t a weasel.”
“Oh, he is. He’s the head of his mummy and daddy. Just like them, but a lot better at pretending otherwise.”
“He’s been very generous,” Briar said. “I couldn’t have done this without him.”
“That is the trouble, when no one can do anything without the help of someone more powerful. How much of the line is really yours?”
“It was a collaborative effort.” Briar turned the conversation back on her. “What do you have against him?”
“I’ll tell you, but only because I’m petty.” She reclined so far back against the wall of the booth that she was nearly horizontal. “I went to Pentawynn University with his parents.”
