𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

12

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C H O R E S
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"KEEP WYLAN OUT OF TROUBLE," Kaz instructed Jesper, who looked as though he'd just been told every gambling den along the Stave was being raided and shut down.

"Why me?"

"Yeah, why him?" Wylan blurted. "Why not Feta?"

Feta blinked innocently over at them, looking only slightly as though she'd been wondering the same thing. It was a politely curious expression he'd seen her wear many a night behind the bar at the Crow Club, when men who believed she had nothing better to do with her time than listen liked to complain or brag or ramble. Her wide-eyed gaze open and (as far as the patrons knew) interested, her animated brows ready to rise or sink as the story called for, her clever lips prepared to convince them that a few more drinks (all generous proceeds going to the Dregs' coffers, of course) was the cure-all for their troubles. He almost couldn't blame the poor fools for falling for the act. Almost.

Anyone worth their kruge in the Barrel knew the last person you should trust is a bartender, but Feta had a way of making you give in to what seemed too good to be true.

Kaz couldn't shake how similar Wylan and Feta appeared — fresh-faced, unsuspecting...like ripe fruit at the top of a withering tree. Except, Kaz thought slyly, Feta's got the luxury of pretending. She may still be free of rot but that wasn't to say she was without her bruises, or a sour side, or wasn't overall forbidden.

Wylan, on the other hand, already appeared out of his depth, and they hadn't even gotten out of Ketterdam. Feta was betting that he'd surprised them. Kaz was taking her word for it.

"You were unlucky enough to be in my line of sight at the time, and I don't want any sudden reconciliations between father and son before we set sail." Kaz glanced at Feta. "And Cadner would probably insist on fuzzy feelings and closure for all before we left."

Feta held a hand to her chest in mock shock. "You said the words fuzzy feelings and didn't immediately combust? That's incredible, Kaz, almost a miracle. Have you been praying?" Kaz stared at her. He had no qualms about cutting the whole tree down if it meant the fruit would smash on the ground. "Ah, that's right I forgot who I was speaking to. Which Saint was it, then? Which one did you bribe?"

Kaz could have said something clever to remind her faith wasn't his forte, but he would settle for something far more concise, something that got the job done. He had work to attend to, after all, and he'd already spent more time bickering with her than he should have.

Kaz leaned in, rasping voice low, and reassured her: "You're infuriating, Cadner."

Feta smiled as if Kaz told her she was brilliant, genius, delightful. Jesper had seen Feta's attempts at playing nice; Kaz was as awful as rain was wet. One could only be kind for so long. But on the plentiful days where Feta could bear it, she always managed to twist Kaz's nastiness around in a private little waltz and make his nastiness surrender with a swoon. If one only heard of Kaz from Feta's mouth, they would be utterly appalled when Dirtyhands arrived holding their invite, convinced Prince Charming must have been a casualty along the way.

Feta's chin raised, her eyes glittering. "Must stink, huh?"

Once Jesper got past the initial awe of the back and forth, of the dance, utterly bewitched by the way Feta was flourishing in spite of Kaz's bitterness, he felt the need to clear his throat, simultaneously to alert two of his best friends to the remaining presence of everyone else and to satisfy that gnawing jealousy that was quickly turning ravenous. If he dared to taunt Kaz like Feta did, Jesper was sure he'd receive a whack from Kaz's cane. But Feta seemed to twist Kaz's loathing just like his nastiness, satiate it with a slow dance of its own, and come out just as flushed and graceful at the end of the song.