Oh, how I wished I was joking.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I went on. “I’ve never…Growing up, I got into trouble for calling out adults for telling lies. Mostly harmless ones. With you, it’s different.” I frowned. “Even when I know you’re lying, I can’t taste the deceit. Not like I usually can.”
I was four the first time I’d tasted my father’s lie. I could still recall the shock of his revelation etched across his prematurely lined face with perfect clarity. I’d asked for a cookie from the pig jar, wanting more than anything to spoil my dinner. When my father had lied that it was empty, a bitter layer of ash suddenly coated my tongue, like I’d just licked a pile of chimney sweepings. Even as I’d gagged on the flavor, I hadn’t immediately understood what it meant. My father had just smiled indulgently, his hands up in surrender.
“You caught me, Little Arrow. How did you know?”
I’d rolled my eyes like it was obvious. “Papa, I tasted your lie. It was yucky,” I’d said, wrinkling my nose in distaste.
My father had decided to test his little theory further by presenting me with verifiable fibs and falsehoods until I refused to play the game any longer, so disgusted was I by the acrid flavor that took hours to scour from my tongue.
Casimir’s eyes grew wide. “You can taste lies?” His tone betrayed surprise and something approaching awe. “That’s…fascinating.” His expression suddenly turned wary. “Why did you think I was lying to you earlier?”
I scrutinized his features for traces of deceit, noting the way he phrased the question. He hadn’t said, “How did you know I was lying?” He hadn’t admitted to misleading me. His expression remained neutral. Blank.
I hesitated, uncertain as to how to explain my strange ability. Anxious as to how Casimir would react. “I’ve learned to recognize the signs that go along with the flavor of lies. You know, evasive eye contact. Body language cues. Giving too much detail. Things like that. I guess I became something of an expert at ferreting out dishonesty.”
Casimir’s gaze probed me as if he, too, was searching fortruth in my expression. “I see…” he said, watching me closely. “And what does a lie taste like?”
No one, with the exception of my father, had ever asked me that. Could I tell Casimir, knowing he was a Daemon?Could I trust him?I glanced up at him and found curiosity burning in his eyes. Interesting. “Before I tell you, I need to know I can trust you.”
“And how might I demonstrate that?” he inquired. Suspicion flickered in his eyes.
“Give me something in return,” I said, thinking quickly. “Promise me that you’ll stop smoking the death sticks.”
My father used to smoke a pipe—a small thing, made of ivory and scrawled with symbols. The scent of burnt tobacco permeated everything in his study. Ever since he’d died, I’d grown to loathe the smell.
Casimir’s brows shot up in surprise. “You want me to give up smoking?” he asked, aghast.
“It’s only fair, since you tricked me about the veilbound—whatever—tattoo,” I argued, not caring that I sounded peevish.
“I will do no such thing.”
“Fine,” I said, shrugging. “I guess you’ll be stuck forever wondering what lies taste like, then.”
At this, Casimir scowled. “This small piece of information can hardly be worth giving up the one thing that brings me pleasure,” he said.
I fought back a smile. “Whatever you say.” I folded my arms over my chest.There. I thought.Let’s see how long he can stand not knowing.
I watched with no small amount of pleasure as Casimir’s eye twitched in irritation. A muscle in his jaw clicked, and then?—
“Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll stop smoking. Around you.”
“That’s not?—”
“It’s called a compromise, Farrow,” he cut in. “Or haven’tyou heard of one?” He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn fucking girl.”
In spite of his grumblings, triumph rose in my chest, and I grinned up at him. “We have a deal then?” I said.
Casimir gave a stiff nod of affirmation. “Well,” I began, “most of the time they taste like charcoal or burnt ash. Every now and then I meet someone whose lies are more… harmless. Like white lies. Those sorts of fibs usually taste more neutral. Like wood or bark. The boldest lies taste like acid. Like a chemical burn.” I shuddered at the sensation that ghosted across my tongue, the echo of Devereaux’s corrosive lies.
“Go on,” Casimir prompted.
“Everyone’s lies taste different,” I explained. “Like a signature. If someone lies often enough, I can usually memorize their individual flavor. The problem though, is that nearly everyone does it.”
He nodded thoughtfully before lifting a playful brow. “Can I ask, how is it you know what wood tastes like?”
I flattened him with a scowl. “I don’t, obviously. It’s just an inference.”