“True, but ask most Americans and they’ll tell you you have to earn that respect.”
“Do you wish to ignore Besaba’s request then?” Sholto asked.
“No. She’s pretending to be the aggrieved party. We must show her that there’s no reason to be aggrieved.” I gazed up at Doyle. “Would it be good or bad to have Doyle and Mistral at my side? Would you prefer that it be just you and me, Sholto?”
“I think a show of force is called for,” he said. He looked at the other two men. “If you have no objection, I think Meredith and myself in front as king and queen with you at our sides, and some of my other guards behind us. Let us remind them what they would fight.”
That seemed to meet with everyone’s approval. Sholto said, smiling, “I think I have some clothes that will fit you both, though Mistral’s a little bigger through the shoulders. Maybe an open jacket with no shirt, a very barbarian king.”
“I will wear what you like,” Mistral said. “I appreciate you letting us stay at Meredith’s side in this moment.”
“Those of the Seelie who are not afraid of the sluagh will fear the Queen’s Darkness and Mistral, Lord of Storms.”
“It is long since I have had the power to do what my name says.”
“You hold the spear that once belonged to the Thunderer. Taranis’s mark of power is in your hands, Storm Lord.”
“I think,” Doyle said, “that that is information best not shared with the Seelie. They are already here for the chalice. If Taranis knew that one of his objects of power had chosen another hand to guide it….” Doyle shook his head and put his hands out, as if grasping for a word.
I finished the thought for him. “Taranis would go apeshit.”
“Apeshit?” Doyle made it a question, then nodded. “I was going to say that he would kill us all, but yes, that term will do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DOYLE AND MISTRAL FIT NICELY IN SHOLTO’S CLOTHES, BUT then except for Rhys and myself, all the sidhe I knew were around six feet tall. The men were all broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and well built. The guards were muscled and hardened from weapons practice or actual battle. But Sholto was right about Mistral’s shoulders. They were just a touch broader than either his, or Doyle’s. Not by much, but it was enough that the shirts didn’t fit, straining so badly that they didn’t look right. Better to wear less clothing and look good than to wear more and look bad. We were about to deal with the Seelie Court, and they were all about appearances. If it looked good, it was good. So dysfunctional a family, that.Mirabella, the court seamstress, walked around Mistral tugging at the coat she’d found for those broad shoulders. She pulled one side with a pale, slender hand, then smoothed a fold in the rich blue cloth with her black-and-white tentacle.
Her right arm was the tentacle of a nightflyer. She seemed perfectly human, except for that bit of extra. The tentacle was very dexterous, as I knew the nightflyers could be. She used both limbs without thought. It was the effortlessness of years of having both. Was she part nightflyer? The child of some attack, or even a willing roll in the hay? I wanted to ask, but it would have been rude.
Mistral looked amazing in the coat. The rich blue color seemed to make his eyes blue too, like a summer sky. The wide collar was lined with gray fur so that his own cloud-gray hair seemed to meld with it, and it was hard to see where fur ended and hair began.
Mirabella had him turn so she could see the long coat billow around him. There was more gray fur in a wide line down the back of the coat, so that the free spill of his ankle-length hair continued that mingling illusion—not an illusion of magic, but of skill and choice of clothing.
“It looks like it was made for him,” Doyle said dryly.
The seamstress smoothed her brown hair in its neat bun with the tentacle, then looked at him with the full force of her olive-green eyes with their hint of brown and gray, and even almost gold around the irises. They were the closest a human could get to having multiple-colored eyes like a sidhe. She was tall and lovely, and moved with that stiff, strangely graceful, perfect posture that said that she was wearing a corset under her dress. The dress looked very 1800s, and was a deep, almost blackish green, which brought out the green in her eyes. The sleeves did not match the historical accuracy of the everyday dress. They were puffed at the top, and belled wide at the bottom so that they spilled back when she raised her limbs, and you got glimpses of the tentacle which went at least to where her elbow might have been.
Sholto said, “Mirabella, did you make this for Mistral?”
She didn’t look at her king, but continued to fuss with the coat, which was almost more of a robe.
“I told you of my dream, Your Highness.”
“Mirabella.” He said her name with more force to it.
She turned, and gave him a nervous flick of eyes, then turned Mistral toward us, as if for inspection. He’d taken all her fussing without complaint. Queen Andais liked dressing up her guards for dinners, dances, or her own amusement. Mistral was used to being treated as if his opinion did not matter when it came to dressing. Mirabella had been utterly professional compared to Andais. Not a single grope.
Mistral was wearing a pair of black trousers, tucked into knee-high boots. Mirabella had tied a wide blue sash at his waist, and the color looked good against the moonlight-white of his bare stomach. The deep, deep blue of the coat framed his chest, all that pale muscled flesh. When Sholto had said that Mistral would be a very barbarian king, he’d been right.
“That coat was never made for my shoulders, Mirabella,” Sholto said, giving her a look.
She shrugged her shoulders, and something about the movement made me certain that there was a human shoulder under the sleeve, or something harder, and with more bone than the tentacle.
She finally looked at her king. There was anger, no rage in those fine eyes. She dropped to her knees in a spill of heavy skirts and a glimpse of black petticoats. “Forgive me, My King, but hubris has gotten the better of me. If the Seelie are to see my work after so many years on other than you, King Sholto, then I want them to be impressed. I want them to see what clothes they might have had from my two good hands if Taranis hadn’t taken one of them.”
That answered one question. Once upon a time, Mirabella had had two good hands.
“You must have stayed up all night to sew this coat, and the outfit for Doyle.”
“Don’t you remember, Your Highness? I made the red for you, but the queen did not care for it at court, so you never wore it again.”
Sholto frowned, then smiled and shook his head. “She thought it was too much color in her court. She called it too Seelie. I had forgotten.”
Doyle was dressed in red, a beautiful clear crimson that looked spectacular against the darkness of his skin. The contrast was almost painfully beautiful. The coat looked like a modern business suit jacket, except for the color and the fit. The fit flattered his broad shoulders and narrow waist—an athletic cut, they called it in the stores. There were pants to match, which she’d had to make small darts in so that they fit more closely at the waist, but the crimson cloth fit like a glove through the hips and thighs and spilled a little wide, so that the hem fell nicely over a pair of shiny black loafers.
She’d chosen a silk shirt in an icy gray, which complemented both the red of the suit and Doyle’s skin. She’d even had the nightflyer who had accompanied her do his hair in a long braid. The nightflyer had used her tentacles to weave red ribbons through all that black hair so that it trailed to his ankles with the line of red tracing back and forth.
“And Una helped me sew the coat. She has become quite skilled, and I envy her all those limbs to sew with.” She gestured at the nightflyer who had braided Doyle’s hair.
The nightflyer who had been standing so quietly against the wall, gave a bow. “You are too kind, mistress.”
“I give credit where credit is due, Una.”
Una actually blushed a little across the paleness of her underbelly. “I’m impressed that you made boots for Mistral in such quick order,” I said.
Mirabella looked at me, a little startled. “The sizes are almost the same. How did you know that they were new just by looking?”
“I’ve had to take the guards in Los Angeles shoe shopping. I’ve gotten pretty good at judging sizes.”
She smiled, almost shyly. “You have a good eye.”
I started to say thank you, but wasn’t sure how long Mirabella had been inside faerie. “Thank you” can be an insult to some of the older denizens.
Instead I said, “I do my best, and the coat you made for me is perfect.”
She smiled, truly pleased.
“You didn’t make the boots,” Sholto said.
She shook her head. “I made a bargain.”
“The leprechaun,” he said, and he said it as if there was only one of them, which wasn’t true. There weren’t many in the New World, but we had a few.She nodded.
“Are you really going to date him?” Sholto asked.
She actually blushed. “He enjoys his work as I enjoy mine.”
“You like him,” I said.
She gave me that nervous eye flick again. “I think I do.”
“You know that there are no rules among the sluagh for who you sleep with,” Sholto said, “but the leprechaun has been pressing you for a hundred years, Mirabella. I thought you found him unpleasant.”