Page 231

“You waved like you were her grandfather at a school play,” I whisper-scream.

Luna is walking toward us now. Lucien’s hands are behind his back like he’s trying not to laugh. He lookspleased. Gods, he’spreening.

I shove the opera glasses into Riven’s arms and prepare for death.

But Luna’s smiling.

Smiling like we’re all idiots, which—fair.

And when she reaches us, with her arms crossed and a look that could melt paint off the walls, she says only, “You all look like a cult of discount magicians.”

I rip off my beard. “Luna, I can explain.”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t.”

“I was worried for your safety.”

“You were wearing elf ears, Silas.”

“BecauseI care.”

She sighs, and when she walks back toward Lucien, I look at the others.

“We’re going to need a better plan.”

“We’re going to need a therapist,” Elias says.

Orin, still smug in his betrayal, tucks his hands behind his back and hums a hymn so old it’s not even in the mortal tongue anymore. And somehow, even though we’ve been absolutely caught, even though she laughed at us, I grin.

Because she smiled. And that’s always been enough.

I wait until Luna turns her head toward a flower, or a bird, or whatever wholesome distraction is currently stealing her attention from the very obvious disaster parade happening in the shrubbery.

Lucien’s gaze shifts just slightly—just enough that I know he knows I’m still here.

And I’m not about to walk away. Not without answers.

I crouch low, flatten myself like a predator in tall grass. Elias mutters something about me “going full raccoon mode,” but I wave him off with the seriousness of a man about to breach international diplomacy.

Because this requirestact.

And silence.

And... a visual language.

I raise my hands.

And begin to sign.

Sort of.

I make a stabbing motion. Very obvious. Very dramatic. I even squint for emphasis. Then I point to Lucien’s ass. Then I wag my finger. A no-no wag. Real authoritative. Real concerned. Lucien stares at me like I’ve grown a second head and offered to suck the marrow out of his kneecaps.

I try again. Slower. Stab. Point. Ass. Wag.

He blinks.

Then—then—the bastard smiles. Not a real smile. ALuciensmile. The kind that’s all mouth, no teeth. The kind that saysI know exactly what you're trying to ask, and I'm not going to help you.