Page 127 of Fallacies

I’m spinning on my heel before I can fully think through the consequences of disobeying the Umbra, triggered by the familiar voice.

His jet-black hair has been styled, slicked back with some kind of product, and he’s wearing another three-piece suit that—despite being a bit too tight on his shoulders—looks to be custom-made. I guess it would have to be…I hadn’t noticed it last night when he was the only male in the room, but seeing him in comparison to the guards lining the walls, he has at least a foot on every average build. Longer limbs, broader shoulders, and he’s leaner. More lithe. He doesn’t keep as much bulk as these Rogues do beneath their armor, though it’s hardly a reason to underestimate him. He’s a different species—sticking out like a sore thumb with his piercing blue gaze—and he appears to…like it that way.

Wearing what I’m tempted to label his usual grin, he soaks in the full attention of the room like it’s nourishing.

“Is this me?” He asks the Countess, gesturing to the only empty seat left at the table. His voice is more polished than it had been last night, and in the brief second before her reply, his gaze flicks up to me.

I’m ripped through the doorway by my arm and thrown backwards into the chaos of the kitchen.

“Find your sense of urgency!” The Umbra snaps, discarding my limb like it’s rotten garbage. “Greer needs up serving the main course,” she tells me, muttering under her breath as she strides off, “Godsdamn whore.”

I’m not sure how Alesi lived this life—the crude stares, the whispers when I walk by, the slimy attention from guards, the name-calling…How did she deal with it all? I’ve been parading around as her for all of two days, and I’m exhausted.

Straightening myself, I reinforce my hold on my illusion and keep my eyes low as I make my way over to Greer. She’s balancing three plates in her arms, ordering the girls behind her to do the same. I fall into line and grab the last two gold-rimmed dishes, both plates filled to the edge with an excessive portion of food. It will likely not get finished—and we servants get the leftovers.

Forcing my attention from the food, I follow Greer and the others out into the dining room, quickly zeroing in on the conversation being had.

“And what business is that of yours?” The Countess asks her newest dinner guest, who has made himself rather comfortable in his chair, both arms laid casually over the armrests.

I can tell by her tone that she’s frustrated, and the line between her brows deepens when the stranger tilts his head. “Mass imprisonment? Torture is the business, Gwen.”

Rounding the table with the rest of the servants, I try to keep my expression distant. He’s talking about the Sol—the Captures. Why he decided to bring it up is beyond me, but I’m both grateful for the helpful topic and irritated that he’s called attention to it.

I set a plate down in front of a woman who appears visibly nervous, her pale fingers laced together tightly in her lap.

“Well, you don’t own the trade,” the Countess fires back, paying no mind to the dinner that’s set in front of her. “Why don’t you tell us the real reason you’re here, instead?”

I slow my steps.

The other girls are already on their way back to the kitchen, and the only dinner guest without a plate is an older male to the stranger’s left.

“The King didn’t tell you?” he replies, casually reaching for his fork as if the entire room isn’t staring at him. “Your father knows exactly why I’m here.”

I’m nearly to the last guest’s seat when I notice the white-haired man is watching my approach, glossy gold eyes more concerned with me than with the dinner I carry. He’s watching me as if I’m the food.

The Countess remains silent, and when I look over, she’s gripping the stem on her glass, knuckles turning white. Anger simmers in her stare.

I set down the last plate, ignoring the way the older Rogue’s attention lingers, drifting up the expanse of my arm as I pull my hand away.

“Hm.” It’s the same noncommittal sound he’d made last night, when I dropped my illusion of Alesi. There’s a wicked glint in his vivid blue eyes as he looks back at the Countess. “It must be hard to communicate being on opposite ends of the continent.”

I’ve started the walk back to the kitchens, but my movements can’t be any slower without drawing attention. I need this conversation to shift into something useful.

The Countess shrugs. “Champagne problems,” she declares with the lift of her glass.

The table erupts into laughter, and I nearly trip on my next step. Anger grips my heart, squeezing until the throb of it is loud in my ears.

“How so?” he asks, the bluntness in his tone silencing the room.

He’s the only one who hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t even cracked a smile. If anything, he looks angry. Certainly not as angry as me, but any hint of sarcasm or amusement has vanished from his tone, and there’s a dark kind of violence in his stare. His food has been forgotten.

The woman to the left of the Countess snorts, answering for her, “We own the continent. What a thing to complain about, the struggle to communicate between all we’ve conquered.” She lets out another laugh, and half of the guests join her in it.

He doesn’t.

I scan the table for something else to do, and when I hear a throat clear from behind me, I know it’s The Umbra. This conversation isn’t helping me anyway. It’s only making me angry, and I should avoid heavy emotions in this state of disguise. Illusions require far too much focus.

I’m halfway to the door, defeat sinking my shoulders, when I hear his reply, “Your Matron owns this land, this planet, everything in it. Yellow-eyed or not,” his accent grows thicker, “Rotten or not.”