Chapter 7 Silent Sovereign

If I had known that teaching a Prince of the Abyssal Tides to use a dust rag would feel like trying to domesticate a wild hurricane, I would have just taken my chances with Magistrate Vance’s sky-cells.

"No, Finnegan," I hissed, grabbing his wrist before he could slam a cast-iron kettle down onto a delicate glass display case. "You don't throw the inventory. You set it down gently. Like it’s a fragile sea-shell, not a weapon."

Miran slowly turned his head, his luminescent sea-green eyes burning down into mine. He was wearing another one of my linen tunics—this one dyed a deep forest green that made his skin look impossibly radiant—and his dark, midnight hair was tied back with a leather strip. He looked like an ancient warrior god trying to masquerade as a farm boy, and failing miserably.

"The structural integrity of this container is pathetic," he rumbled, his voice low enough to vibrate the wooden counter beneath my palms. "On the seafloor, true glass is forged by volcanic vents. It does not shatter because a male entity exerts minimal force."

"Well, we aren't on the seafloor, we are in a border town, and if you break my grandmother's display case, I will personally feed you to my carnivorous snap-dragons in the greenhouse," I shot back, giving him my best, fiercest glare.

Jingle-ling.

The brass bell above the front door rang, cutting our argument short. My stomach did a violent, nervous flip. The shop was officially open, and right on cue, a cold draft swept into the room, bringing the heavy, oppressive scent of the High Fae bureaucracy with it.

I looked through the window. Standing across the cobblestone lane, half-hidden beneath a dripping willow tree, was the same cloaked Vanguard spy from yesterday. He was staring directly at my shop entrance, a leather notebook open in his hands.

"He's watching," I whispered, my sunshine persona instantly locking into place out of sheer terror. "Remember the rules. You are mute. You are simple. Smile and look stupid."

"I do not look stupid," Miran growled under his breath.

"Just... don't talk!" I squeaked as my first customer of the morning walked in.

It was Miss Prudence, a remarkably wealthy and deeply eccentric elderly Fae noblewoman who lived in the manor at the top of the hill. She wore an enormous hat woven from living marigolds, and she was currently carrying her prize-winning, highly anxious pomeranian-phoenix, Flambé, who was softly weeping sparks onto her velvet coat.

"Good morning, Aveline, dear!" Miss Prudence chirped, her voice like cracking porcelain. "Oh, the humidity from yesterday's storm has given poor Flambé the most dreadful heartburn. He refuses to eat his sulfur-biscuits."

"Good morning, Miss Prudence!" I bounced forward, my customer-service smile wide enough to stretch my jaw. "Oh, poor Flambé! Heartburn in a phoenix is so delicate. Did you know that if the internal fire-gland gets too damp from atmospheric pressure, it can cause flatulence that smells like rotten eggs and burning feathers? Not that Flambé smells! He smells lovely. Like... a very clean campfire!"

Miss Prudence blinked, her marigold hat rustling. "Right. Well. Do you have the cooling root tea?"

"Of course! I’ll fetch it immediately," I said, my face burning with immediate social embarrassment. Why do I always talk about flatulence with the nobility? Why am I like this?

To escape my own awkwardness, I spun around to the back shelves. "Finnegan! Be a dear and wipe down the corner table for Miss Prudence while I steep the cooling root."

Miran didn't move for a long second. He stood behind the counter, towering over both of us, his expression flat and unreadable. I shot him a pleading, desperate look, widening my eyes until they practically bulged. Move, I mouthed. Sweep. Dust. Anything.

With a slow, agonizingly deliberate sigh that sounded like a retreating wave, Miran grabbed a clean white cloth. He stepped out from behind the counter, his long, human legs moving with a strange, stiff grace.

Miss Prudence’s eyes instantly locked onto him. Her jaw dropped so low a bee could have nested in her mouth. She adjusted her spectacles, staring at Miran’s broad shoulders, his chiseled jawline, and the sheer, magnetic power radiating from his silent frame. Even Flambé stopped weeping sparks and let out a soft, confused chirp.

"Oh my," Miss Prudence breathed, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that matched her velvet coat. "Aveline... who is this... magnificent specimen?"

"Oh, that’s just my cousin, Finnegan!" I lied loudly, frantically measuring out dried cooling root into a silver strainer. "He’s from the coast! Tragically mute, poor thing. A total country bumpkin. His brain is basically an empty tide pool, really. Just rock-crabs and water-sloshing up there."

Miran stopped wiping the table. He didn't look back at me, but I saw his broad shoulders tense so hard the fabric of his tunic strained. He wiped the wooden surface with a force that threatened to polish the wood right off the frame.

"A country boy?" Miss Prudence cooed, leaning over the counter to get a better look at his profile. "He doesn't look like a country boy. He looks like... a conqueror. Look at that posture! Young man, what did you say your name was?"

Miran slowly turned around. He looked at Miss Prudence. He didn't say a word—remembering the rule—but he leveled a gaze at her so intensely regal, so profoundly arrogant, that the elderly noblewoman actually gasped and clutched her pearls. It wasn't the look of a mute assistant; it was the look of an emperor deciding whether or not to execution a peasant.

"Finnegan, dear, don't stare! It’s rude!" I interrupted frantically, rushing out from behind the counter and thrusting a jar of lavender buds into his hands. "Go... go organize the storage room! Go count the bricks! Just walk away!"

Miran looked down at the jar of lavender, then at me. For a split second, a flash of pure, dangerous amusement danced in his sea-green eyes. He gave me a slow, mocking inclination of his head—a perfect royal bow—and turned on his heel, striding into the back room without a sound.

"My word," Miss Prudence whispered, fanning herself with her lace handkerchief. "He is... intensely quiet. There is a very wild air about him, Aveline. Like a stormy sea."

"Oh, he’s just eccentric!" I laughed hysterically, handing her the bag of tea. "He spent too much time talking to seagulls as a child. Thank you so much, Miss Prudence! Give Flambé my love! Keep him away from dynamic fireworks!"

The moment she left the shop, I let out a massive breath and leaned against the counter. My palms were sweating.

"You did well," Barnaby squeaked, flying out from a display of teapots. "But Aveline, look outside."

I snapped my head toward the front window. Across the street, the Vanguard spy had stepped out from beneath the willow tree. He was staring intensely at the door, writing furiously in his notebook. He had seen Miran. He had seen the 'magnificent specimen' who didn't look a thing like a simple country boy.

The clock was ticking. Vance’s suspicions weren't fading—they were growing. If we didn't find Miran's stolen amulet soon, the next audit wouldn't just be an inspection. It would be a raid.

I marched into the back storage room, my sunny disposition completely hardening into determination. "Miran," I said, slamming the door behind me. "The spy saw you. We need a plan to find your amulet, and we need it now."