Quen’s feet shifted, but he didn’t move. “Piscary?”

The question in his voice brought my gaze up. “He said he killed my dad. Did he lie to me?” Need to know. Did I finally “need to know” according to Quen?

“Yes and no.” The elf’s eyes flicked to the doorway.

I spun in the chair. He could tell me. I think he wanted to. “Well, which is it?”

Quen ducked his head and took a symbolic step back. “It’s not my place.”

Heart pounding, I stood, my hands clenched into fists. “What happened?” I demanded.

Again Quen looked toward the bathroom. A light flicked on and a beam spilled into the room to diffuse into nothing. An effeminate man’s voice chattered seemingly to itself, filling the air with a bright presence. Jonathan answered back, and I looked at Quen in a panic, knowing he wouldn’t say anything in front of him.

“It was my fault,” Quen said softly. “They were working together. I should have been there, not your father. Piscary killed them as sure as if he had pulled the trigger.”

Feeling unreal, I stepped close enough to see the sweat on him. It was obvious he had overstepped his bounds telling me even this much. Jonathan came in trailing a man dressed in tight black and shiny boots. “Oh!” the small man ex claimed, hustling to the vanity with his fishing-tackle boxes. “It’s red! I adore red hair. And it’s natural, too. I can tell from here. Come sit, dove. The things I can do for you! You won’t recognize yourself.”

I spun to Quen. Tired eyes haunted looking, he stepped away, leaving me breathless. I stood, staring, wanting more, knowing I wouldn’t get it. Damn it, Quen’s timing sucked, and I forced my hands to remain at my side instead of throttling him.

“Sit your fanny down!” the stylist exclaimed when Quen inclined his head at me and walked out. “I only have half an hour!”

Frowning, I gave Jonathan’s mocking expression a tired look, then sat down in the chair and tried to explain to the man that I liked it the way it was, and could he just give it a quick brush through? But he hissed and shushed me, pulling out bottle after bottle of spray and odd-looking instruments whose use I couldn’t even guess. I knew it was a battle already lost.

Twenty-five

I settled into the seat of Trent’s limo, crossing my legs and arranging one of the narrow panels of my skirt to cover my knee. The shawl I was using instead of a coat slid down my back, and I let it stay there. It smelled like Ellasbeth, and my subtler perfume couldn’t compete.