"So, tell me," Ansel began, talking loudly over the excessive noise at the inn below Rolfe's office as she dug into her meal. "What did you say to Aelin to get her to like you so much?"
Fryer raised an eyebrow, lowering her glass of watered-down ale and giving Ansel a look. "The truth." That got no reaction out of anyone around the table—Ansel looked at her doubtfully while Illias and Rolfe just stared.
Feyre shrugged. "I also may have complimented her good looks," she added, just to humor them.
Ansel laughed, elbowing Rolfe. "Told you. You owe me—5 gold, cough up." The Pirate King rolled his eyes, rummaged around his pockets, and dropped the money on the table, muttering something about a red devil.
"I guess my drinks are on the Captain tonight," Ansel finished, flaunting as she scooped up the coins and slipped them into the pocket.
Ilias seemed to be ignoring the spectacle at the table. He had his eyes trained across the bar, looking very stoic—more so than usual, perhaps. Yes, Feyre had only known him for a few hours and been introduced after her long conversation with Lysandra, but he was easy to read. She only wished she could prod in his mind a bit. Feyre always found the quiet ones more dangerous.
She followed his gaze and spotted a Mycenian who had just entered the bar, looking very much like she didn't belong here. She wore clothing that reminded Feyre of Night Court attire—loose, billowing pants of deep red silk, cuffed at the ankles and embroidered with gold. Her blouse was separate, and it revealed a tantalizing sliver of skin. It was off-the-sleeve, and its arms had the same billowing cuffed style, but in a sheer fabric. All the cuffs were lined with dangling gold coins, matched by the stretched of fabric she wore wrapped around one hip, lined with rows and rows of them. Every one of her steps jingled. A sheer veil of the same blood red covered her hair and connected to the cuffs of her arms, and she had lifted one of her hands to pull it mysteriously over her face. She looked like some sort of spirit—she moved as if she were floating on water.
The bar went quiet. Then, uproarious applause and shouting as people moved tables and chairs, making room for the woman and her entourage—a band of musicians, holding all sorts of strange instruments.
"Come on, move the stuff," Rolfe commanded, looking surprisingly excited about this development. It must have been a part of Mycenian culture, then. Or perhaps he knew who this woman was.
As they shifted the impressive ship-hull furniture away, the musicians took position in a half-circle against the bar and began to play.
The sound was mesmerizing. It was music of the sort she had never heard before—so different, so layered, so seductive.
Then, the woman's hips began to move, the coins jingling. And her arms wound and twisted like snakes, followed by a sheet of that silken fabric. Feyre caught a flash of deep red lips and kohl-lined eyes—dark, depthless. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, a sheet of ash brown satin.
Everyone was silent, watching. Ansel didn't seem like she was breathing beside Feyre.
As the woman continued to dance, the songs changed from style to style. Sometimes, she or a different member of her band sang in a language Feyre didn't understand. Likely Mycenian, since Rolfe and his guests often sang along. Often, she got very close to some of the people in the bar, allowing them to slip money into her clothing.
At one point, she paid a significant amount of attention to Feyre's table. To Rolfe. The dancer wanted to make friends in high-up places, then.
Ansel was so taken that she didn't notice when her gold coins slipped from her pocket and into a little opening on the woman's coin wrap.
But Feyre spotted the flash of light off the gold of the real coins—a richer, warmer light as compared to the painted bits of metal on the woman's clothing. She heard the slightly deeper clink of gold-on-gold as they were moved. It must have been her elevated senses that had tipped her off to it. It certainly wasn't her knowledge of thievery.
And from that moment on, Feyre couldn't help but wonder what else the dancer stole—how much of the money decorating her body was given and how much was taken.
By the end of the performance, a sheen of sweat covered the woman's body and face, and her hair was mussed and damp with it. She still managed to look like some sort of spirit in the inn's low light as she glided across the room, back out the door and into the night beyond.
The musicians lingered, collecting the last bits of coins from their audience as the inn exploded yet again with cheering and roars of approval.
"What was that?" Ansel asked through all the applause, eyes still trained on the door.
"That was Caria Aydemir," Rolfe replied. "I hoped she'd make an appearance, though I was uncertain. She—she's a very good Mycenian dancer. She's become a bit of a legend."
A dancer and a thief. Feyre didn't voice the thought as she stood, placing a few coins on the table to pay for her ale. She headed after Caria, ignoring Ansel's questioning at her sudden decision to leave.
The night air on Skull's Bay was cool, calm. It smelled of the sea, and it smelled of cheap liquor. The combination wasn't a terribly attractive one. Feyre looked up and down the cobbled street, attempting to spot Caria in her distinctive red or any of the musicians she'd brought in tow, and seeing one just before he turned a street corner.
Feyre set off after them at a quick pace, trying to decide how she would approach the situation.
The idea to take Caria on as her eyes and ears had been the result of a sudden, split-second decision. Feyre only hoped she was making the right choice as she turned the corner and spotted Caria Aydemir and her boys passing around a flask on a doorstep, laughing and packing up their instruments. Caria was pulling the money out of her clothing. It seemed to be in never ending supply.
They all paused when they noticed Feyre's presence. They must have noticed immediately that she wasn't human.
Caria was standing a moment later, money clutched in her hand. A musician stood with her, discreetly stepping in front of her. It seemed they were all too practiced at fending off too-eager admirers.
Feyre cleared her throat. "My name is Feyre. I am Queen Aelin's ally—I'd like to speak to you, Caria."
They all stared at her as if she were speaking a different language.
"I'd like to speak with you," Feyre repeated, taking another step forward while raising her hands slightly to show that she was holding no weapons.
Caria stepped forward after a moment, handing her money to the tall musician who had attempted to protect her. The man gave her a look of warning, saying something in a different, lilting language, but Caria paid him no attention as she stopped in front of Feyre, sizing her up.
"And why, exactly, would you want to speak with me?" She asked.
Up close, she wasn't quite so perfect. There was a little scar tracing the bottom of her lip, as if she'd bitten it too hard. Dark freckles traced her collarbone. Her hair stuck to her forehead, damp with sweat. Her kohl had smudged.
"First—I want to congratulate you. You're an excellent performer," Feyre said, giving her a small, awed smile to ease the tension.
Caria grinned in return, hands on her hips, as if she'd found Feyre's words amusing. "Thank you. Now get to the point, please."
Feyre glanced at the musicians still watching like hawks. At her look, they quickly went back to packing their things—but she knew they were listening in. And having anyone overhear this would be too dangerous—for Caria and for Feyre.
"I'm staying in a room at Rolfe's inn," she began, fishing some gold out of her pocket. "Come later tonight and I'll treat you to some food, wine, whatever you'd like. Gold, too," she added, extending her hand.
Carina's smile had disappeared. "I don't sell my body," she said, words quiet, eyes cold.
Feyre blanched.
"No, no, I—I'm mated and married to a male," she said quickly. "I only want to talk to you. Get to know you. I'm new in the area, and I—I don't have many friends."
Feyre felt so dumb. Of course this was what Caria would assume—what was she thinking, following the girl into a back alley like this? Offering her gold?
Maybe this was a bad idea.
But Caria considered, eyebrows raised, and took the gold.
"Alright then, Feyre. I'll see you in an hour." Ciara smiled a conspiratorial smile, and turned on her heel.
Feyre watched for a moment as they fell back into what she assumed was their usual lost-performance ritual before she left, an ache growing in her chest.
She missed having people she could trust nearby, always supporting her. She missed Rhys. She missed her family.
More than ever, Feyre wanted to go home.