Page 83 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Oh, my! Some unfamiliar faces. What a treat!” The woman’s voice was grating. “Who might the two of you be?”

Cyril reigned in her groan. She was in for a long evening.

“Dionysus Rhodea, Lord of Helia.” He pressed his hand to his chest and dipped his head, the full image of regality. “And my niece, Lady Cyril Rhodea.”

“Helia? How exotic!” The woman swept a section of coarse, yellow-blonde hair over her shoulder. “We are the Salversons.” She gestured vaguely to their group, then to the rather plain brown-haired man beside her. “My husband, Lord Otto Salverson. His brother, Councilor Mathias. And my son, Lief.”

She beamed at the wiry man beside her with a prominent nose and crooked grin. His dark, deep-set eyes bore into Cyril, and he didn’t bother to look at Dion. It made her skin crawl, the sort of unrestrained interest he looked at her with.

Her uncle squeezed her shoulder as she shifted in her seat. At least he noticed, too.

“Lovely to meet all of you,” Dion said and then gestured to the table. “Please, sit.”

Gods help her.

“Correct me if I’m mistaken, Lord Rhodea, but does Helia not have a predominately sun-fae population?”

Cyril stifled her groan.

Half a meal spent in blissful quiet and now the bird of a woman sitting across the table had to open her mouth. It was bad enough that three of the four Salversons couldn’t keep their fucking eyes to themselves, but at least Cyril had the rotations of plates set in front of her to focus on.

The food was exceptional, as it always was at the palace.

“Predominantly, but not entirely,” Dion said. He set down his utensils and sat back in his chair. Cyril just kept eating. “As is the same for most of Southern Carinae. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Lady Salverson chuckled and waved her fork in Cyril’s direction, “Your lovely niece here isn’t entirely sun-fae, is she? Or even entirely fae, for that matter?”

Cyril’s utensils clattered as she set them on her plate, blinking across the table.

It had been a long time since her heritage was the focus of any dinner discussion. Especially in that sort of tone. People of mixed race weren’t uncommon in the south, especially in Helia, and most didn’t care if you were. But there were always a few highborn assholes lingering around who thought otherwise.

Perhaps it was for the best that Lady Salverson didn’t address her directly.

Dion’s hand found hers under the table, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Forgive my ignorance, Lady Salverson, but I’m not sure why that would be of any importance?”

“Oh! It isn’t of importance, so to speak.” The woman made that awful, cackling noise of a laugh again. “I just haven’t been able to place it. Her ears aren’t as pointed as any of ours, so I assumed some sort of mortal mix. But that can’t be right, because she’s far too striking to have any sort of human mixed in there with her.”

Dion squeezed her hand tighter.

He had to know she was fucking simmering.

Her dress was far too tight, the room felt stifling and now this woman was gawking at her like she was a fucking prize horse, trying to figure out if her bloodline was pure or not.

Otto cleared his throat and sat up a bit, the first noise he’d made since the start of their meal. “Elise darling, I think perhaps—”

Lady Salverson gasped loud enough that a couple of neighboring tables—including the royal family's own—looked over at them.

“Your father”—she jabbed her dinner knife in Cyril’s direction—“sullied with a nymph housekeep, didn’t he?” The woman looked so fucking proud of herself. Like she’d just uncovered the secret of the century. “Fell whim to that sweet little siren song of theirs? A feisty dryad, or was she one of those delicate water bearers?”

Just about every muscle in Cyril’s body locked.

She couldn’t even form words to spit back at the woman.

Sullied?

What a disgusting thing to insinuate. That her mother was beneath her father’s rank and order, that he reduced himself to something lesser just to be with her.