Zosh Lyyo stalks out of his restaurant and right up to Mora’s filigreed metal gate, his expression crackling with rage. “You’re taking in Roaches now?” he demands, his pale tan eyes boring a hole into Mora’lee as outrage on Nym’ellia’s behalf blasts through me.

Mora calmly sets the tea tray on a table and slips in front of Nym’ellia. She stares the man down, her silver eyes narrowing.

“Come with me,” Olilly kindly offers Nym’ellia, who is frozen and looking at Zosh Lyyo with an expression of shock.

“Go,” Mora says firmly to Olilly and Nym’ellia, pointing toward the ship behind her without looking at them, her gaze pinned ferociously on Zosh Lyyo.

Olilly coaxes Nym’ellia into motion, and they disappear into the kitchen, ushering the little blue-hued Urisk girl inside with them, the child’s eyes wide with fear.

Mora’lee strides up to Zosh Lyyo, and I can practically feel the sparks igniting on the air. “Get. Away. From. My. Restaurant,” she bites out, teeth bared, the patrons at both restaurants gone silent, even the street traffic seeming to pause.

“I’ll be informing the conclave next that you’re taking in Mages,” Zosh Lyyo seethes at her, unfazed by Mora’lee’s suddenly quite intimidating presence. “I’m sure they’ll be interested in double-checking that the Crow’s papers are in order.”

“You do that,” Mora’lee snipes back.

They turn and stomp off in opposite directions, leaving two trails of fury in their wake, and I think of the scattered signs I saw coming in here that echo the man’s own—NOILAAN FOR THE NOI. I look at Bleddyn, serious concern for Nym’ellia rising.

“Pay no mind to the ass across the street,” Bleddyn whispers as she cuts him a resentful glare. “Jules’s identity papers are, forgive the expression, iron-proof.”

A look of quiet intensity passes between us, fully acknowledging the close call I just survived. My temples tight from stress, I glance distractedly down at the food.

“Eat,” Bleddyn prods. “We need you hale and hearty.”

Knowing I should feign calm, I pick up one of the unfamiliar V-shaped utensils that must be the Smaragdalfar way of eating things. “Bleddyn,” I say as I poke at the black, wormlike things in my bowl, glad for the diversion. “What exactly is this?”

“Nu’duls. Made from rice. They’re like long bread.” She points to the crab-leg-ish thing and the circular eggs floating on top of the nu’duls. “And steamed cave spider legs and eggs.”

“Oh, no,” I protest with a shake of my head.

Bleddyn impales an egg and pops it into her mouth. “I thought you took down a few scorpios?” she challenges in a whisper. “And a kraken? You’re the Great Witch of Prophecy and you’re afraid of...food?”