The Mask of Mirrors by M. Carrick; (different e readers txt) 📕

and the Kiraly raccoon; and of course, the dreamweaver, emblem of the dead Ižranyi. Displays of that kind were common throughout the city, but she was surprised to find them here, at the heart of Liganti power.

She groaned inwardly as another Rook approached them, but it turned into a coughing fit when she realized the man under the hood was none other than Leato.

“I hoped to leave you lost for words, but not like that.” Leato’s drawl scraped the bottom of his usual tenor. The tailoring of his costume was similar enough to the Rook’s to be instantly recognizable, but scattered brilliants caught the light of the numinatrian lamps, like stars on a field of velvet black. The shadows cast by his hood were unremarkable; the line of his jaw and curve of his smile were clearly his and not some magically obscured stranger’s.

Still, she found herself comparing him to the man she’d stood beside in Mettore’s office. Was Leato the right height? His shoulders the right breadth? It would suit the Rook’s reputation to pull a stunt like this, showing up to the Night of Bells in a theatrical version of his own disguise.

Leato handed her a flute of cider. “Though I realize the irony of offering a drink to the river herself. Let me know if you’d rather I gave you a good thump on the back—you seem to need one.”

“Leato!” Donaia knocked the hood from his head, revealing his golden, artfully mussed hair. “What are you thinking, dressing like this? Do you want to pick another fight with Mezzan Indestor?”

He pressed a hand to his chest as though deeply affronted. “Mother, give me some credit. Of course I don’t want to pick a fight with him.” He tipped Renata a wink. “I’m hoping he’ll pick a fight with me.”

“Oh, you impossible boy.” Throwing up her hands, Donaia turned away.

“Quitting the field so soon, Mother?” Leato called after her.

Donaia paused, favoring them both with the cool look Renata was coming to recognize as a mask to hide her affection. “No. Leaving you under the command of a more cunning general than myself. Do try to keep him out of trouble, my dear?”

Renata didn’t even try to hide her smile. Letilia was wrong; that had become too clear to deny. Donaia, far from being the controlling harridan she’d expected, only wanted to protect her family—much like her son. That desire united them, and since Renata had gotten them the charter, it swept her into their circle rather than closing her out.

Now if only it would sweep me into their damned register.

She offered Donaia her best curtsy. “One can only do one’s mortal best.”

“Good. Then I’m off to find something stronger than this fizzing fruit juice.”

“I’ve driven my mother to drink,” Leato mused fondly as she departed. Then he shook himself and glanced down at Renata. “Are you intending to keep me in line? I’d rather hoped I could lure you off into less wholesome amusement.”

He did a good job of playing the careless man-about-town, but Renata knew it was a facade. Stepping in close, she said, “Actually… I thought I might lure you off somewhere unwholesome.”

Leato’s gaze fell to her mouth, and his own lips parted on a response that never came. With visible effort, he drew himself up and leaned even closer, murmuring, “That’s hardly fair. You’re supposed to be the responsible one. If you keep offering invitations like that, I’m liable to lose another glove to you.”

Every other Rook save Ryvček had asked for one of her gloves; none had offered one in return. Renata searched Leato’s eyes, wondering if he was rendering a coded apology for that confrontation in Lacewater. But she saw only temptation there, a softer, less confrontational version of what Vargo had offered.

She hadn’t expected this—any of it—when she set out to infiltrate House Traementis. Not that she would find the family charming, not that she would suspect the son of being the Rook, not that she would wind up genuinely liking Leato. She might be like Vargo in some ways… but maybe she didn’t have to be as cold.

No killing, no whoring. Her two rules. But was it whoring if she chose it for herself, out of attraction instead of profit? Was it using Leato if her interest was one of the few truths she could give him?

His hand rose to cup her chin. She could easily have pulled away, but there was warmth in his touch, in his eyes, and she was tired of being cold.

Leato tasted of apples and cinnamon, the cider lingering on his lips and tongue. And like a sip of cider, the heat of his kiss slid down her throat and blossomed through her. His thumb brushed the hard line of feathers curving along her cheek, and she would have pressed up, hungry for another taste, but he was already pulling away.

“You see?” he said softly, a light touch still slipping along her jaw. “You don’t need to lure me anywhere. I’m quite content to follow.”

Renata licked the last traces of the kiss from her lips. He had utterly distracted her from what she meant to say. “I, ah—oh, Lumen, now I’m going to disappoint you.” Reaching into the fluttering layers of her costume, she drew out the Accords invitation. “When I said somewhere unwholesome, I meant the Charterhouse.”

Leato reared back, blinking at the invitation, at her. Then he laughed and ruffled his hair ruefully. “Surprise, yes. Disappoint, never. Wherever did you get that? You realize my family hasn’t been invited to the Accords since we lost the Fulvet seat to House Quientis. Their way of reminding us we don’t matter anymore.” The touch of bitterness sobered him, but then it softened into a smile. “I’d love to accompany you.”

He shifted back a half step. “But if I’m to do that, I need to go disappoint some people myself first. I’ll meet you at the steps when the bells sound?”

At Renata’s mute nod, he bowed, pulled up