‘Fiddlesticks.’ She crushed her empty syrup packet and tossed it into the large takeaway bag. ‘Ricou’s a hundred and sixty-three, not three. He should be able to stand up for himself by now.’
What list?’ I gasped out in between coughs.
‘Ricou doesn’t see you standing up for yourself much, Blossom. You’re here, aren’t you? So it looks like Lady Isabella still has you tied to her stake.’
‘She does not!’ She jabbed her plastic fork at him. ‘I haven’t been staked since I was fifty!’
‘What list?’ I yelled.
Sylvia turned to me in surprise. ‘The list of who’s allowed to court you, of course.’
‘Only Blossom here isn’t on it.’ Ricou’s face-fins flared. He was either sulking or annoyed, or maybe both. ‘So sheshouldn’t be here.’
‘ Sheis here because Genny didn’t want anything to do with Algernon’s Twig Gang,’ Sylvia’s dress lost a whole shower of petals. ‘And I don’t blame her, not after they did their usual. Nasty bunch of sticks they are.’
Their usual?
Ricou dropped his fish and flung a scaly arm round Sylvia’s shoulders. He tapped her cycle helmet gently with his webby-clawed hand. ‘Aww, Blossom, don’t start shedding. I told them I’d strip their water if they tried their grab and grind tricks on you again and I meant it.’
Grab and grind? They’ d tried to rape me to get me pregnant; I’ d thought they’ d done it because of the fertility curse. Now it sounded like it was more a nasty habitual perversion.
‘My hero.’ Sylvia sniffed and patted his chest. Then she poked him hard. ‘But if you want to stay that way, then you’ll have to tell your mother to take you off the list, right?’
‘Nobody’s mother is taking anyone off the list,’ I dumped my bacon butty on the counter, too angry to eat, ‘because there is no list, not any more.’
‘What?’ they said in unison, turning to me.
I grabbed a napkin and wiped my hands, fixing them both with a quelling look. ‘If I decide to have a child, then it will be with willing, singlepartners only. I’m not getting together with someone who’s already dating. This is about crackinga curse, not breaking up people’s relationships. Whoever thought either of you’d be good candidates was wrong.’
Ricou’s headcrest zipped upright in alarm. ‘But the curse hasto be broken. It’s not just the fae, there’s all the faelings too. I’ve got six halfling pups, and—’
‘You’ve got six kids?’ I interrupted, aghast.
‘Everyone on the list has children,’ Sylvia said flatly, ‘or faelings, anyway. It was one of the criteria, which was why I wasn’t on it. I’ve never sprouted any seedlings.’
There werecriteria ?‘What are the others?’ I demanded.
‘Gosh, there’s only the two. They had to be under two hundred years old, and have to have at least one faeling, so that they have someone to fight for and they’re proven fertile.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I think there were about fifty-odd on the initial list, but by the time Tavish had finished there was only about a dozen left.’
‘Tavish organised the list?’ I asked sharply—although why that should surprise me was a mystery. Damn, interfering, arrogantkelpie.
‘’Course he did, luv.’ Ricou’s eye membranes flickered nervously again. ‘Tavish always organises everything. He’s the one who said who got to court you, and in what order. Him first, of course. The Ladies Meriel and Isabella wanted it done by lots or something, but he said no. And no one messes with Tavish.’
I frowned. Tavish seemed to be pulling everyone’s strings in an effort to be Daddy Number One … except Tavish had done a disappearing act even before the Morrígan had caught him. Why would he do that if he was first in line? And then there was the listhe’d organised. If Ricou’s facts were right, everyone on it was under two hundred years old— except Tavish. Everyone had at least one faeling kid— except Tavish… or at least as far as I knew, but then obviously I’d been on a need-to-know-nothing basis since the very beginning … my eyes fixed on the wilting carrot sticks—
Everyone on the list had to have proven their fertility.
‘Here.’ Sylvia wrapped my hands round a cup. ‘Have some tea, Genny. It’ll perk you up.’
‘I don’t drink tea,’ I said slowly, looking at them both. Ricou’s eye membranes were fully down over his black orbs and his headcrest was flat to his head. Sylvia was fluffing out her skirt, refusing to meet my gaze. It didn’t take a genius to work out which path my thoughts were following. Finn’s and my relationship might not be exactly what London’s fae thought it was, but there was a relationship, and it wasn’t a secret.
‘Finn’s got a faeling child?’ I asked, surprised my voice came out normal when inside I wanted to scream.
Sylvia took the cup from my unresisting hand, sympathy clouding her glossy green eyes. ‘Yes.’
When the hell had he planned on telling me?I didn’t need to ask who the mother was, but I did, and Sylvia told me.
‘Helen Crane.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘ Finn’s waiting for you downstairs,’ Sylvia had said.
The echoing noise my boots made pounding down the five flights of stairs to the front door of my building seemed to mark angry time with my shocked, thudding heart. And as I exited onto the street, Ricou and Sylvia hovering attentively on my heels, the church bells of St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden joined in with a knowing, mocking clamour.
Finn and Helen had a child together.
A child was a big, bigsecret to keep from someone you intended to marry and expected to have another child with. Okay, so Finn and I weren’t getting married, but with the fertility curse ‘arranging’ things, it was what everyone, including him, expected us to do, even if the reason was less to do with yards of white satin and lace, the damn church bells and death do us part and everything to do with jumping the broom, the patter of tiny satyr hooves, and the fucking curse.
Marry in haste, repent at leisure.
Finn waswaiting for me outside. My heart did a stupid little jump. It obviously hadn’t heard the latest newsflash about him being a bastard. But looking at Finn’s anxious face, he had—in fact, he looked like he’d bypassed the whole marrying bit and gone straight on to repentance. Good.
Except that Finn wasn’t the only person waiting for me.
‘Ms Taylor,’ Victoria Harrier, my solicitor called, hurrying up to me and beaming her polished steel smile that was the opposite of Finn’s anxiety. ‘I was just about to phone you. Our appointment with the Raven Master is at noon and we don’t want to be late. Traffic can be horrendous sometimes.’
‘Gen?’ Finn shot an unhappy look at Victoria Harrier, then said, ‘We really need to talk.’
Victoria Harrier held up a brown envelope. ‘Ms Taylor, I have the autopsy report on the dead faeling here.’ She indicated her black limo idling at the kerb and the uniformed chauffeur holding open the back door. ‘I thought we might look over it on the way.’
I could read an autopsy report, or find out about my supposed friend-and-almost-lover’s secret child. Choices. Choices.
I smiled at Victoria Harrier, took the envelope and touched my hand to her cheek and sent a careful order into her mind. ‘Would you mind travelling in the front with your chauffeur, Ms Harrier, while I talk to Mr Panos in the back? We need to talk about the curse and our relationship. You’re very happy about that.’
Her eyes glazed slightly, then she smiled back happily. ‘Of course, Ms Taylor.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘oh, and if we get there, and we’re not finished chatting, please don’t disturb us.’ She nodded and trotted cheerfully off to the limo. Guilt pricked me, but the knowledge that she was in the pro get-the-sidhe-pregnant camp trimmed my remorse to an acceptable level.