“My dear Lord Nevander,” Tansy purrs. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Daffodil giggles harder, but Jasper looks hurt.
Their hurt dissipates when Tansy’s hand casually falls to their thigh. Unfortunately, this flirtation might become Nevander’s business. Poor Jasper is caught in Tansy’s latest scheme to stay in Elladar.
“Public is fine if you prefer.” Nevander forges past Gevain’s smirk. “Where is the book?”
Tansy’s brow furrows in well-constructed confusion. “What?”
“The book you stole from the palace library,” Nevander says patiently.
“If you’re talking about the grimoire, I had permission and I gave it back.” Tansy waves a hand, chiming with bracelets. “Useless, all of it.”
The boy’s as good at misdirection as any fae. “I’m not asking whether you stole a book. The librarian saw you fleeing with it.”
Tansy’s perfect confusion hardens into a mulish pout. “This is absurd. I haven’t even touched a book all day. Besides, I’ve been reveling for hours. Ask anyone here.”
From anyone else, such a denial would hold weight. Nevander would have to dig between the words for loopholes.But Tansy is human. Raised by a bear of Summer, but clever enough to wield his power of lies.
Daffodil raises her arms in a languorous stretch. Her expression is innocent, her words disruptive. “You were gone for nearly an hour.”
“He said he was getting drinks,” Jasper says, clearly trying to help Tansy. But Tansy glares. Jasper’s words only highlight the flimsiness of Tansy’s alibi.
Gevain watches in silent amusement.
“The librarian saw you,” Nevander repeats. “Save us the trouble of searching your quarters.”
“Then someone else is fortunate enough to resemble me.” Tansy grabs the nearest bottle of mead. Nearly empty, so it doesn’t spill with the force of his gesture. “Or some fucker is framing me with a glamour. Search away.”
Nevander’s not getting more out of him, and continuing the debate will only make them both look stupid. “Very well. I’ll consider your testimony when the librarian finishes her inventory.”
Tansy finishes the mead, tilting the bottle nearly vertical. Then he licks his lips with unnecessary eye contact. “I look forward to the interrogation, Lord Nevander.”
Nevander stalks away rather than indulging him further. Incredible. The boy makes Yarrow look tactful. His manipulations are blatant. Childish. Primrose was right—Tansy and Seren may be the same age in years, but the difference in maturity is stark.
Tansy’s the one who acts like a fae youth, though. Perhaps if Seren had spent his childhood in Elladar, he wouldn’t have grown up so fast.
No. The chains of royalty would have tightened around Seren’s wrists. He might have grown up even faster.
Dwelling on the past is pointless. Nevander hastens his steps, ready to leave the dwindling party. But Lord Gevain catches up at the courtyard’s edge. A trellis of vines obscures them from view.
“May I have a moment?” Gevain asks. “Little Tansy is a mess. A charming mess. But he’s not wrong that Seren should join our revels.”
An alliance between Tansy and Gevain is unexpected, and disconcerting.
“His Highness has been busy,” Nevander says.
“Yet there is more to this palace than books and squirrels.” Gevain’s courtly smile is absent. “How can he rule if you hide him away?”
The question cuts. Nevander doesn’t answer.
“Besides,” Gevain continues. “Who knows what wickedness Morana will turn to in her boredom? She hardly puts any flourish into stabbing people these days. It’s sad to watch.”
“What do you want, Lord Gevain?” Nevander asks sharply.
Gevain waves off the rudeness. “I want what you want, Nevander. To see Prince Seren comfortable on the throne.”
However frivolous Gevain acts, he’s a formidable force. Three centuries old and heir to Summer’s Edge. He would be a dangerous enemy—or a valued ally.