Page 19 of Blood On His Lips

That was the second time that had happened tonight.

I shook my head and retreated into the house. Instead of heading to my room, I wound my way to the kitchens. It was late, very late, but my aunts would be waiting for me.

Nora and Fatma glanced up as I entered. They sat at the breakfast nook, a pot of steeping tea leaves between them. I glanced at the tin next to Aunt Fatma’s hand and crossed the kitchen to grab a mug. The purple tea leaves were unique to Kenya, grown only there, and Fatma kept the house stocked with a variety of chamomile, peppermint, and other herbal infusions.

“Are there enough leaves for me to have a cup?” I asked.

“Of course,” Fatma said, scooting over on the bench. I slumped next to her, leaning my head against her shoulder.

My father’s younger sister by several decades, she was a handsome woman approaching middle age with flawless dark skin, her hair twisted into a myriad of braids. She’d come to Faronne when my cousin Murungaru was just a baby and had subtly taken charge of raising me as much as possible in my father’s culture even before my mother had died.

“You cooked for the Prince,” I murmured. “He thought I wouldn’t know your seasoning.”

Fatma laughed. “I told him you would know it was me once you tasted it. Did he eat?”

I smiled reluctantly. The Prince was being judged not only by my Fae kin but by my human kin as well. “He did. He ate more than I saw him eat even at the banquets.”

Fatma sniffed. “Fae don’t season their food properly. They’re too concerned with the purity of ingredients.”

True. The Fae, or perhaps this was unique to the Everennesse, considered it gauche to alter the taste of food other than to cook it—the assumption being that if one had to alter one’s food, then it must either be of poor quality or concealing poison. Fatma complained to this day about the Fae cousin who’d been in charge of the kitchens before she arrived, and their arguments over seasoning other than salt and pepper. To be fair, from what I understood, food was much more flavorful on the other side of the realm, and old habits died hard.

“If Renaud offers you a job,” I said, “demur and refer him to me. You won’t be able to refuse him outright, but I’ll happily put him in his place.”

Fatma flicked her fingers and began pouring tea into mugs, adding honey sticks. “That man doesn’t scare me.”

“Well, he’s not a man, and it would be beneath him to actually harm you, but still, you should be wary.”

She shrugged.

“Did the evening go well?” Nora asked, sipping her tea. She wasn’t technically my aunt, but she had crossed realms with my mother and the origins of their relationship were murky.

“You mean before the assassination attempt? It went.” I lowered my gaze, wrapping my hands around the hot mug and inhaling the steam. “I don’t think it’s a short dalliance he has in mind, Nora.”

“No, after tonight, I don’t believe so either.” Her lavender eyes sharpened. “Did you do what I told you?”

“Extract a promise of protection? Yes. I have a feeling he intends for me to play the game of Courts.”

“I don’t believe your feeling has led you astray. We’ll have to see to your education, Aerinne. You may need to set aside your sword for some time and pick up your books.”

The same conclusion lingered in the back of my mind. The word she used meant not only knowledge derived from books but also observation and engaging in strategy. There was too much I didn’t know, and I worried more about what I didn’t know than what I did. Education growing up hadn’t seemed as immediately relevant as weapons and practical skills, but I was now readjusting my ideas of relevancy.

“I wanted to speak to you before I went to bed,” I said.

The kitchen door opened and Murungaru walked in, then halted. “Is this a woman-only conversation?”

“No, join us. Bring the cookie tin with you.”

He grabbed a mug and a red tin of butter cookies and joined us. “Cousin Aileen asked about deathgilt.”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. When a warrior died, the House paid a lump sum settlement to their next of kin, in a small annuity that expired after a hundred years. Most of our warriors were kin of some kind either through blood or partnerships so the money more or less stayed within the family, but it was still my bloodline that personally funded it.

We were all but bankrupt—I’d funneled much of my mother’s remaining wealth back into the House, and even Baba couldn’t get his hands on Danon’s money, not if we refused to declare him deceased. In addition to paying the annuities and settlements, we would have to recruit and train new soldiers.

“Can we afford the expense?’’ I asked Fatma. I signed off on all the accounts, but she did much of the daily balancing.

“Our first return on the fields is due this quarter,” she said.

We’d invested in tea fields in Kenya run by her extended cousins and meant to promote financial independence for small, women-owned farmers, and the blends would be featured in my cafés.

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