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Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Remember this: No gods are ever gone. They simply change.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 7131
Quiet, so complete it seemed to ring in Lore’s ears. August was dying. That explained the poison he’d been drinking, the desire to get rid of Bastian so he could name a different heir if it didn’t work. It didn’t tell them anything about what was really happening in the villages, at least not directly, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that all of it was connected.
“Wait.” Gabe raised his hand as if asking for more silence, though it was all any of them had offered for minutes. “How long has he been ill? And why didn’t you tell us before?”
“I didn’t know until today, actually.” Bastian propped one hip on the table and gave Gabe a weary glare. “I’d seen him drinking from that flask more than usual, and knew by the smell it wasn’t just spirits. When Alie told us about Cecelia’s predicament, it gave me the idea to ask August’s physicians. A hefty bribe made the doctor’s assistant happy enough to give up the records. I received them about two hours ago, after they were all compiled neatly for my reading pleasure.” He leaned an elbow on the glass. Malcolm made a choked sound, and with an almost-chagrined look at the librarian, Bastian backed away from it again. “I sneaked into August’s study to see if I could find anything pertaining to the villages, but all I found was that transubstantiation book.”
The fact that he’d gone to look—that he must feel everything was connected, too—only solidified the idea in her mind. Lore chewed the inside of her cheek, considering her next question. There was no way to phrase it that wasn’t treason, and though no one here had a leg to stand on in that regard, it still made her nervous to voice. “Bastian, do you think… could it be possible that August is killing the villages, somehow?”
No sounds of surprise, no raised brows. They’d all arrived at the same awful conclusion.
“I think he’s involved,” Bastian said. “But that still doesn’t tell us anything about how. It’s far too convenient that all of this starts happening right when he gets sick and wants to choose a new heir. But I can’t come up with any plausible theory for how he’d manage to kill so many people from so far away, and leave no marks at all. Or what he’d gain from it. There has to be an easier way to frame someone.”
Malcolm reached out and tapped the glass gently. “This could have something to do with it, maybe. Using transubstantiation to… I don’t know, give his sickness to other people?”
“I thought you said it doesn’t work,” Lore said.
The librarian threw up his hands. “I don’t know. It’s all theoretical. Mortem and Spiritum are both the powers of gods; they weren’t made for human use. That’s why all the gods had to ascend from human forms, become something different. It’s entirely possible—likely, even—that there are aspects of both we have no context for, that we’re fundamentally incapable of understanding.”
“We have to tell Anton.”
Gabe’s voice was low, but it cut through the room like a knife. He stared straight ahead, into the glass and the book beneath it.
“We can’t, Gabe.” Lore tried to sound soft, but she couldn’t sand down the edge of irritation. “Anton is the one who got the book in the first place.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s involved.” The Presque Mort stood from the table, glowering down at her. “He could be trying to research what August is doing, or fix it, somehow.”
“But we can’t risk—”
“Why would he bring you here if he didn’t want to find out what’s happening? If he didn’t want to stop it? Think, Lore. Why would Anton—or August, for that matter—bring in a necromancer to ask the bodies how they died if they already knew? If they were fucking involved?”
“Language, Your Grace,” Bastian said softly.
One blue eye burned rage as Gabe flicked it to the prince, then back to Lore. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said finally. “The simplest answer is usually the right one, and the simplest answer is that Kirythea is doing this, somehow. Trying to start a war so they can finally take over Auverraine, too.”
“Everything is always going to come back to Kirythea with you.” Bastian tapped his fingers on the glass. “Perhaps you’re not the most impartial party to evaluate this, Remaut.”
The Presque Mort’s hands tightened into fists. He took a step closer to the table.
“Gabe,” Malcolm cautioned.
The sound of his name from his old friend was enough to make Gabe’s shoulders soften, just slightly. He looked away from Bastian, ran a weary hand over his face.
“I haven’t been able to raise a body other than the one Anton and August chose,” Lore said quietly. “And they didn’t want me to be present when they started asking questions. Maybe the point wasn’t the questions, but the raising. Maybe they tampered with it somehow. How, I don’t know.” She cut her hand toward the book under the glass. “But it seems there’s a lot we don’t know.”
“Then the solution is to find a body they haven’t chosen for you.” Bastian looked at the floor, lips twisted thoughtfully. “One of the ones they’ve hidden away somewhere.”
“Exactly.” Lore slid a glance to Gabe, still quiet, still looming. “So, essentially, we’re back at where we started.”
“With the added bonus of a slowly dying King, it seems,” Malcolm added. With a sigh, he sat at the table. “Apparently I’m in this now, and seeing as I have no desire for an extended stay on the Isles, I’m going to make myself useful and read this damn book.” He raised a brow at Gabe. “You cross-reference the Compendiums on the table over there. It’ll keep you occupied, and it might turn up something new. I’ve stared at them until the words run together.”
“What should I do?” Bastian asked brightly.
“I wouldn’t dare give orders to a prince.”
“Come on, Malcolm, are you salty about the Burnt Isles threat? I understand, but my hands are tied, here. Pardon the poor choice of words.”
Malcolm’s dark eyes rolled to the ceiling, as if beseeching Apollius for a moment of peace. “You look through the lecture notes. See if you can find anything.”
Everyone fell to their tasks with quiet focus. Lore hadn’t been given a job, and didn’t necessarily want to ask for one, so she drifted over to Gabe, taking a seat next to him at the other long table.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.
“For what?” He didn’t look at her, eye fixed to a glass-protected page, but he wasn’t reading. Just staring.
“I don’t know.” A sigh, and she folded her hands on the table, rested her head on them. “You’re right that August and Anton wouldn’t bring me here to find out the truth if they already knew it, and I can’t think of another reason why they’d want me in the Citadel—like Bastian said, there’s certainly easier ways to frame someone. This could be a huge conspiracy, or it could just be a series of misunderstandings. But we have to know.”
Gabe was silent for a moment. Then: “There’s another option.”
“What?”
“Maybe they don’t want you here to find out about the villages.” He shifted on the bench. “Maybe Anton is planning something that will save us all—save us from Kirythea, save the villages, even save Bastian from August. And maybe you’re part of it.”
“That sounds extremely far-fetched.”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “I just want…” It trailed off into a sigh. “I just want this to end in a way that I can live with.”
And Anton being a villain wasn’t something he could live with.
Lore didn’t know what to say. So she kept silent, kept her head pillowed on her arms, lulled by the flip of pages and the dim lights of the library, her eyes slowly falling closed.
White sand. Blue water. Blue sky.
Lore could sense the same insubstantial figure next to her as always. Something about them felt more solid, though, as if she’d drawn closer, though the distance between them appeared to be the same.
She turned her eyes, the movement taking far more effort than it should. But though there was a brief moment of corporeality, when the shape almost took a form she could recognize, it was gone in a heartbeat.
“Now,” the textureless voice murmured, slithering across her dream. “Let’s try this again, since you’ve had some time.”
A tug at her heart, painful this time, as if a hand had reached behind her ribs and plucked the organ like fruit. A soundless scream wrenched her mouth as smoke poured from her chest, twining into the sky, twisting across the blue.
“Lore.”
Something at her shoulder. A hand, shaking her. “Lore.”
With conscious effort, she opened her eyes.
Gabe frowned down at her from his place on the bench, but the hand on her shoulder was Bastian’s. He tapped her on the forehead, then straightened, making a show of looking at the clock on the wall. “If we hurry, we’ll still make it.”
Make it? She counted back the days, trying to think of what he might be speaking of—
“Shit.” She shot up from the table, running a hand over her mussed hair. “I have to go to a tea party.”
Bastian escorted her out. Lore could feel the needle-points of Gabe’s eyes on the back of her neck, but he didn’t make any excuses to try to accompany them. He and Malcolm kept poring over Compendiums and lecture texts to see if there was any scrap of helpful information, and he told her he’d try to be back in their apartments by the time she was done with Alie’s tea.
“Such a conscientious cousin,” Bastian said as they swept from the library.
Lore elbowed him lightly in the ribs, feigning a trip over her hem so it looked like an accident. The bend of his mouth said he didn’t buy it.
The transubstantiation book was tucked beneath Bastian’s arm, held close so as not to attract attention. When they entered the Citadel, Bastian unhooked his opposite arm from Lore’s grasp, then slipped a piece of paper into her hand. “A map to my rooms.”
“Not exactly the most opportune time for a proposition, but I respect the effort.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Lore.” Bastian chucked her under the chin. “Alie is hosting her tea in my apartments today. Her own are being deep-cleaned. I have to go return this book before my father notices it’s gone; I’ll meet you there.” He sauntered down the hallway, his stride giving no indication that he held contraband beneath his arm. In another life, Bastian Arceneaux would’ve made a good poison runner.
Lore studied the map, and started in what she thought was the right direction, toward the northwest turret—Bastian had helpfully drawn a winking face over what she presumed to be his apartments. After a hallway full of marble statues and another made entirely of windows, she reached a large, grand staircase, carpeted in lush crimson.
“Much nicer than the southeast,” she muttered as she mounted the stairs. “And no creepy statues.”
Though nicer, the turret was constructed in the same way, with stairs that ended on short landings leading to longer residential halls. According to Bastian’s map, his apartments were at the very top, up at least ten flights.
Where the hallways leading to Gabe and Lore’s quarters were kept dim, here everything was bright and clean, the hallways wider, illuminated by both gas lamps and natural light through crystalline windows. Vibrantly woven tapestries hung next to oil paintings in bright colors—clearly made with more care than the shabbier ones in her own turret. Lore found herself not minding the climb to the top as much as she’d anticipated; it was almost like being in a museum.
Somewhere on the third landing, Lore’s foot got tangled in her lavender skirt, sending her sprawling up the last few steps before she caught her footing again. “Shit on the Citadel Wall,” she hissed.
But the near-trip was serendipitous, because it made her look up from Bastian’s map, and it made her see the figure in the hall before he saw her.
It was easy to recognize Severin Bellegarde. His dark hair gleamed in an orderly queue, his clothing sleekly fitted to his tall, thin body in muted colors. He walked down the hallway in the opposite direction of the stairs with his hands behind his back, as if the tapestries he passed were prisoners trotted out for inspection. Each one, he stopped to peer at through narrowed eyes, examining it like he was reading the weave before moving on. One of the hands behind his back held a small, folded piece of paper.
He’d been holding a similar one that night she and Gabe ran into him on the stairs, Lore remembered. When they were running to the vaults.
She didn’t have time to puzzle over it right now, though. Lore straightened and turned toward the next set of stairs, hoping Bellegarde didn’t notice her.
“Eldelore Remaut.”
No such luck.
Lore arranged her face into pleasant nonchalance, spun to dip a clumsy curtsy as she returned his greeting in kind. “Severin Bellegarde.”
The other man had stopped in front of a tapestry near the stairs; apparently, he’d changed direction while her back was turned. A line formed between his brows, and he didn’t speak. But he did back up, slightly, the tapestry shuddering as his shoulder brushed against it. He stared at her with an expression Lore couldn’t place as admonishing or thoughtful.
She was almost ready to turn and walk away, dismissing herself if he wouldn’t do it, when Severin finally spoke. “Will you and Gabriel be attending the ball on the solar eclipse?”
Her brow furrowed. Bellegarde didn’t seem the type to be concerned with others’ social plans. “I assume so,” she answered, fighting down an involuntary shiver. The ball on her birthday, her twenty-fourth. The day she’d be Consecrated, if she’d been raised by people who believed in such things.
The involuntary shiver became an involuntary lump in her throat. Thinking of Val and Mari still hurt.
Bellegarde’s green eyes pinned her in place. “It is a great honor to be chosen.”
The word made her think of the Compendium, of everything she and Malcolm and Gabe—and Bastian, now—had been studying in the Church library. Wariness made her spine straighten. “Yes. It seems only a few were invited to the dinner after the ball, correct? Gabe and I plan to do our best to attend.”
“You plan to do your best?” One dark brow lifted. “What could possibly be more important than attending an event the Sainted King himself invited you to, on such a spiritually auspicious occasion? Total eclipses are rare, especially during waking hours. They are phenomena of great import.”
Lore tried to smile, but knew it looked more like a grimace. “Nothing is more important, of course,” she murmured, a miasmic, unformed dread beginning to uncurl in her middle. “We’ll be there.”
“Good.” Bellegarde gave one terse nod. “I’m sure it will be a time of great reflection for us all. Which is something we will need, as Kirythea draws closer. As the death toll of our outer villages rises.”
The false, pleasant smile fell off Lore’s face. “What do you mean?”
“Have you not heard?” The man’s face was a mask, as unable to be read as a carving rubbed clean. “Another village was struck this afternoon. A few hours ago.”
Another village.
She’d failed to find out what was happening, and while she wasted time spinning in circles, another whole village had died.
“How did they find out so fast?” Her voice felt like it issued from a different body.
A muscle jumped in Bellegarde’s cheek, like he’d said something he hadn’t meant to. “The Church and Crown have informants all over Auverraine,” he said, not really an answer at all.
Lore wanted to crumple, her eyes finding the floor before they blurred. She thought of the little boy in the vaults, framed between Apollius’s garnet-bleeding hands. “I hate to hear that,” she whispered.
“A tragedy, to be sure.” Bellegarde watched her closely, though his expression still gave nothing away. “And all the more reason for us to come together at the eclipse. A time for new beginnings.”
She was too numb to nod.
“Severin?”
August, coming down the hall toward them. The King looked remarkably ordinary, with his gray hair and his deep-red clothing, his station denoted only by the golden circlet on his brow. He stepped between Lore and Bellegarde gracefully, but in a way clearly meant to sever conversation, and though his smile was bright, it didn’t mask the wariness in his eyes. “And what would you two be discussing so ardently?”
“The eclipse event.” Bellegarde’s voice was cold. “I was making sure Eldelore and Gabriel will be attending.”
If the other man’s strange fixation on Lore’s social calendar puzzled the King, he didn’t show it. Instead, he looked almost relieved. “Excellent news. We’ll be thrilled to have you.”
She managed a nod.
“It’s sure to be a splendid time,” August said, “and Gabriel will doubtless enjoy an eclipse not spent shackled to the Church’s doings. The Presque Mort typically spend all eclipses in prayer, but for this one, my brother made an exception.” He clapped Bellegarde on the shoulder, a succinct dismissal. “Go on, Severin. Let us leave the lady to her social responsibilities. She’s dressed for a party.”
Bellegarde’s face cramped, but he nodded. Then the two of them watched Lore.
It took her a moment to realize they expected her to leave first. With another clumsily dipped curtsy, she did. Right before the turn of the stairs blocked them from view, she ducked to look at Bellegarde and August again. They’d started down the steps below together, speaking quietly. Bellegarde’s hands, she noticed, were empty, the paper he’d held now gone.
Lore crouched on the landing above, hidden from view.
“Everything is coming together nicely,” Bellegarde murmured. “The next group is set to be processed by this evening.”
“And the bindings?” August sounded impatient.
“Seem to be in working order.”
“But we won’t know until I try.”
A heartbeat. “Correct, Your Majesty,” Bellegarde said.
Then silence, but for the sound of boots on plush-carpeted stairs.
When the tread was gone, Lore counted to fifty. Then, moving as quietly as possible, she stood and crept back down the stairs.
The hall was empty. Lore didn’t waste the moment. She ran straight to the tapestry where Bellegarde had stood, the one right before the stairs.
It didn’t look any different than the others lining the sumptuous corridor. White thread picked out a rearing unicorn, hooves slashing at the air, surrounded by silver-helmed knights and blobby wildflowers in spring pastels. Lore frowned at it, tracing the thread pattern with her eyes until they went blurry.
He’d been looking for something in the tapestries. Lore was familiar with how people acted when they didn’t want to seem suspicious; the overly casual stride, the rapid movement of eyes. Severin Bellegarde had ticked all the boxes.
And there’d been that paper in his hand. A paper that had disappeared when he left with August, either disposed of or slipped into a pocket. Maybe he’d been looking for a hiding place, somewhere to put it?
With a quick glance up and down the hall to make sure she was still alone, Lore shoved her hand behind the tapestry, between the fabric and the wall. Nothing but smooth wood, at first, but as she ran her fingers along the thread-nubbed back, they caught on something sharp.
A pin, holding in place a tiny slip of paper. She’d bet money it was the same one that had been in Bellegarde’s hand.
Lore only stuck herself once as she carefully pulled the paper off the sharp end of the pin, leaving her thumb in its place so she could put it back exactly where she’d found it. Keeping her hand beneath the heavy fabric required crouching strangely next to the wall, so she unfolded the note and read it as quickly as she could.
But the note didn’t have words. Just a number.
75.
She frowned at it a moment before hurriedly thrusting the note back behind the tapestry, pricking her finger again and hissing a curse. She was already hopelessly late, and there were seemingly endless stairs between her and Bastian’s apartments.
After making sure the note showed no sign of meddling, Lore went back to the stairs, doing her best not to run. A blister was forming on the arch of her foot, helped along by her thin slippers, and it gave her a counterpoint of discomfort to concentrate on as she thought over what she’d found.
75.
Seventy-five what? Maybe it wasn’t for anything important after all. Maybe Bellegarde was cataloging the tapestries—she didn’t know how many were in the corridor, but seventy-five didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. Maybe he wanted to make sure the turret he lived in during the season had more tapestries than any of the others. It seemed like something a Citadel courtier would do.
She couldn’t quite buy that, though. Bellegarde had acted strangely when he saw her. He’d stood in front of the tapestry like he was trying to hide it, and conversely brought it to her attention instead.
Lore stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking at the tiny bead of blood the pin had brought up. She hoped the note meant something, or she’d just impaled herself for nothing but discovering how many gaudy tapestries August hung in a hallway.
A tactical mind for the ages, Gabe had called her. Gods dead and dying.
Bastian’s directions kept her heading up the stairs, until she reached their end at a corridor wider than any of the others she’d passed. She glanced down at the crude map, at the words written in a surprisingly graceful hand beneath the badly drawn winking face. Between the palms.
The landmark was unneeded. There was only one door at the end of the long, wide hallway, painted white with a swirling pattern of golden suns, two leafy palms on either side. The sounds of laugher drifted from within.
“Here goes.” Lore strode down the hall, raising her hand to knock.
A maidservant opened the door before she could, and to her credit didn’t give Lore the appraising once-over she surely deserved, out of breath and limping due to her rapidly growing blister. Instead the maid only inclined her head, stepping aside to let her into the most beautiful room Lore had ever encountered.
It was breathtaking in its simplicity. The walls were pale marble, veined in delicate traceries of gold, left bare of art in favor of showing off their simple beauty. Tiles in blushed, subdued colors made up the floor, turning the whole expanse to a disorienting whirl of swirls and arabesques, like standing in a cloud. In the center of the room, a stone fountain shot jets of water up toward the domed glass roof, disturbingly similar to the one covering the vaults, and arched windows in the walls were nearly blocked by a green profusion of plants. Beyond the open foyer, a staircase led to what Lore assumed were more rooms, a mansion in its own right sitting on top of the Citadel.
She might’ve stood there gaping for hours if Alienor hadn’t called to her. “Lore!”
Alie, grinning brightly and dressed in pale yellow that made her copper skin glow, hurried over to clasp her arm. “I’m so glad you could come!” She waved a hand to indicate the room. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Bastian usually keeps it a mess in here, but apparently his apartments were deep-cleaned before ours were.”
“It’s beautiful.” It was easy to imagine Bastian here, in the glow of the light through the clear windows, surrounded by lush plants in the prime of health. Alie looked at home here, too. They both had some inner, shimmering quality that made them fit in with light and air, with easy luxury.
Lore wondered just how out of place she looked.
“Ridiculously beautiful, much like the man himself.” Alie arched a pale brow. “At least he put the peacocks in the garden for the afternoon. I hate those things. They’re so loud, I don’t understand how he ever sleeps.”
“I don’t think he sleeps in here much,” said a new voice. In an alcove walled completely in sparkling glass and stuffed with emerald ferns, a woman with jet-colored hair and eyes to match took a sip from a delicate teacup, its pale gleam complementary to her golden-brown skin. “Just hosts parties and carouses.”
“He has to sleep sometime,” the courtier next to her said. Her hair was golden, pin-straight, and worn loose to frame her pale white face and full lips. “Lucien told me his bed is nearly the size of his whole room.”
“Lucien would know.” The other woman smirked and raised her teacup in a salute.
“Let’s please discuss literally anything other than Bastian’s conquests,” Alie said as she tugged Lore over to the others. “It seems rude while we’re in his apartments. Like discussing the quality of the beef while the butcher is right there.”
“Lucien would also know about the quality of the beef,” the dark-haired one said, and it sent them into peals of laughter, even Alie, who playfully swatted at her. She put down her teacup to grab Alie’s hand out of the air and gave it an exaggerated kiss.
Lore managed to smile, though nerves crept in a noose around her neck. These women moved like old friends, like people who had grown up around each other the way old trees grew around fence posts. Their laughter seemed good-natured, and the curious looks the other two gave her weren’t in any way malicious. But such groups had difficulty changing shape to accommodate newcomers.
There was no whiff of belladonna in the tea. That was something, at least.
Delicate china met delicate lips, delicate pastries were sampled by delicate hands. Lore felt like a horse let loose in a jewelry shop.
“Everyone,” Alie said, keeping firm grip on Lore’s arm as if she could feel the urge to run seeping from her pores, “this is Eldelore Remaut, Gabriel’s cousin. Though I’m sure you already know.”
“Lovely to finally meet you, Eldelore. I’m Danielle.” The golden-haired courtier smiled brightly. Her gown was a pale green and cut similarly to Lore’s, though the ribbons trailing from Danielle’s sleeves were wrapped around her upper arms and tied into bows, so they didn’t dangle.
So that’s how you were supposed to wear them. Not hanging so low they made you think you had ants crawling all over you. Lore felt the sudden urge to fix her own, but stilled her hands and nodded instead, returning Danielle’s smile.
“Brigitte,” offered the dark-haired woman who’d kissed Alie’s hand. Her gown was different, peach-colored with fitted sleeves that went to the elbow and ended in a ruffle of lace. Lore vaguely recognized her from the masquerade that first night. She’d been dressed as a mermaid, shimmering green painted into her hair. It still looked siren-like, even now, half of it twisted into a black crown around her head, the rest worn in long locs down her back.
“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Lore said, taking one of the other seats at the wrought-iron table. “Thank you for letting me crash your party.”
“No crashing needed.” Brigitte took a macaron from the pile in the center of the table. “We were thrilled to finally have the chance. You and Gabriel have been the talk of the Citadel for nearly a month.”
The tingle of nerves traveled from the back of her neck to trail the length of her spine. Lore forced a smile. “Well,” she said, and wasn’t sure how to continue, so she just didn’t.
“Bri and Dani are my dearest friends,” Alienor said, finally taking a seat and pulling over a plate of pastries. “We’ve been close since we were learning our letters. Bri and I took piano together, and Dani’s father is an associate of Lord Bellegarde’s.” No one seemed to find it strange that Alie referred to her father by his title.
Dani shifted in her seat. Lore wondered if her relationship with her father was as apparently frosty as Alie’s was with her own.
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you with a huge party,” Alie continued, selecting something covered in powdered sugar and spearing it with a tiny fork. “Though since one of Bastian’s fetes was your first social engagement, anything will seem small afterward.”
Lore laughed politely, fighting her anxiety’s urging to shove pastries in her mouth one after the other. “It was certainly enlightening.”
Danielle’s smile was genuine, if nakedly curious. “We’ve barely seen you since your dramatic entrance at Bastian’s masquerade, other than your introduction at First Day prayers.” Her tone was still friendly, but something sharp flashed in her eyes. Curiosity, and not a small bit of wariness.
“I’ve been ill,” Lore said, searching for a way to explain her long absence that wasn’t I channeled too much Mortem and then looked for proof of treason in the Church library. In a flash of inspiration, she gestured to her middle. “Cramps.”
“Ah.” Brigitte nodded knowingly. She pushed a cup of tea across the table; it smelled just as bright and delicate as everything looked in this room. “That should help. I have terrible pains when my time comes, too, and so does my brother. It’s awful.”
The sympathy in her voice made Lore almost sorry she was lying. Well, only technically—she might not be bleeding now, but when she did, it felt like someone kicking her repeatedly in the organs. She took a sip of the offered tea. It was surprisingly tasty. “I should be fully recovered in a few days. Then I’ll hopefully be able to look through my stack of invitations. And get in that croquet practice I promised Alie.”
“I’m sure you’ve been invited to everything. It’s not often we have a newcomer.” Danielle picked up a chocolate and popped it in her mouth, speaking around caramel. “Most of us started coming to the Citadel in the summers as children; we’ve known each other for ages.”
“So I’ve heard.” Lore traced threads in her mind, recalling the backstory she and Gabriel had come up with. A country home in… shit, Gabriel had told her a name to use, and she’d completely forgotten it… a childhood sickness that kept her confined…
But the questions, when they came, weren’t about her at all. “So,” Danielle said, leaning forward, eyes darting mischievously between Lore and Alie. “Why is Gabriel really back in court? Is it truly just to escort you?”
Lore nearly choked on her tea. That odd glitter was still in Danielle’s eyes, almost like this was a test.
“Dani.” Alienor sounded halfway between laughing and screaming, with the kind of nervous strain that came from both desperately wanting and not wanting a conversation to happen. “We don’t need to talk about Gabriel. There’s no need to go excavating ancient history.” Though Alie’s blush was the color of the cherry jam in Lore’s pastry, there was a still a hopeful light in her eyes. Lore recognized it. A torch long held. And it made her think of Gabe’s bare chest and how it’d felt pressed warm against her back a week ago and Bleeding God nothing could be simple, could it?
“Poor Bastian.” Brigitte shook her head, face solemn, though the words were teasing. “Went to all this trouble, let Alie use his suite and everything, just for her to ask about Gabriel.”
“You know it’s not like that with Bastian,” Alie said. “He’s like a brother.”
“Unfortunate, honestly,” Brigitte countered. “I mean, I don’t think being an Arceneaux Queen would be a grand time, but he is unconscionably handsome.”
“Unconscionably handsome, yes,” Dani said, “but he’d make an awful husband, if you wanted anything like loyalty. Bastian has someone new in that huge bed three times a week.”
“Sounds like fun to me,” Brigitte said with a wicked grin. “It’s really just the queendom that doesn’t suit.” She picked out another macaron. “Don’t tell my father I said that, though. He has half a mind to try and get us betrothed before the end of the season.”
Now Lore’s face was nearing the color of Alienor’s.
“Gods, betrothals.” Dani rubbed at her temple, as if the very thought sparked a headache. “I don’t want to think about them.”
There was genuine exhaustion in Dani’s voice. Alie and Brigitte shared a quick, sympathetic look.
“Has your family come around at all, Dani?” Alie asked tentatively. “To the idea of you and Luc?”
“Of course not.” Dani sat back with a sigh, crossing her arms and staring at her tea. Her eyes flicked up to Lore, then away. “He’s a commoner. It doesn’t matter that he’s the son of a well-regarded shipbuilder; they only care about lineage.”
“And Hugo didn’t put in a good word for you?”
“No,” Dani said miserably. “I did what we talked about—I made Hugo take me on a night Luc was fighting, acted like we’d never met. Luc won the match, of course, and Hugo won a pile of money on the bet—Luc did, too. But when I brought up that I might want to marry a well-off commoner… it didn’t go well.” Her mouth twisted. “In the words of my dear brother, it’d be like throwing money into the ocean.”
Lore stayed quiet. She wondered if Luc was someone she might know if she saw him.
“But we’re thinking of a new plan,” Dani said quietly, hopefully. “Luc and I. Amelia is the oldest; she’s the daughter who will need to marry for status.”
“Maybe she can have a crack at Bastian,” Brigitte said.
Dani rolled her eyes. “You sound just like her. She’s convinced she would make an excellent queen, but my parents are playing it safe. They’re currently in negotiations with Viscount Demonde. Amelia is less than thrilled.”
“Gods, I bet.” Bri scowled. “If I had my sights on Bastian Arceneaux and got ancient Demonde instead, I’d be furious.”
Lore’s smile felt very brittle.
“He’s ancient, but the Demonde line is, too. And he’s rich as sin, and much easier to secure than an Arceneaux heir. If Amelia makes a prestigious match, then my marriage can be just about money.” Dani shrugged. “Luc is the heir to a modest fortune, and making more money on his own, besides.”
Again, a slant of her eyes to Lore, so quick it could’ve been imagined.
“Is he building ships, too?” Alie asked.
“Not quite,” Dani answered. “Apparently, a new company has been hiring men off the docks to do transfer work. Carrying cargo from one place to another, things like that. They pay ridiculously well, and it’s usually only a night or two of labor.” She took a contemplative sip of tea. “It’s not exactly aboveboard, I assume, but if they’re paying the cargo carriers that well, their budget for bribes is probably quite healthy. Not that anyone would dare arrest Luc, once they found out who his father was.”
After hearing from Cecelia where the courtiers got their poison and how thin the rules held when you introduced money, Lore was sure that was true. “What’s the cargo?”
“I don’t know,” Dani said. “And I don’t care, really—it’s a lot of money, enough that Luc could buy a town house in one of the nicer Wards and pay my dowry even before his father dies and leaves him the business.”
Something tugged in Lore’s gut, not sitting quite right. As if this conversation was somehow a continuation of the one she’d been having all week in the Church library.
“Anyway, enough about all that.” Danielle waved a hand, dismissing talk of betrothals. “I believe we were discussing the handsome Duke Remaut and his presence in court, yes?”
“Apollius’s wounds,” Alie muttered, burying her face in her hands.
Lore took another drink of her tea, too quickly, burning the roof of her mouth. Brigitte and Danielle’s eyes fastened on her—clearly, she was supposed to speak next.
“It really is just to escort me,” she said finally. “My parents wanted a relative to help me through the season, and Gabriel was the only option. He wasn’t pleased about it.”
Alie made a small sound from behind her hands.
“I mean,” Lore said quickly, “there were parts he was looking forward to.” She turned to Alie. “I know he was excited to see you again.”
Technically a lie—Gabe had told her no such thing—but it didn’t feel like one.
“Truly?” Alie dropped her hands with a sigh. “Because I feel I made a mess of it all. It’s just been such a shock, seeing him again. Seeing him so… so grown up.”
Bare chest in firelight, the shadow of an eye patch made darker by the brilliant blue staring down at her. Lore swallowed more too-hot tea. Grown-up indeed.
Memories closer at hand were less pleasant. The clench of his jaw as he read another seemingly useless book. The way he’d drawn inward in the past few days, always preoccupied by something he wouldn’t talk to her about.
“He was taken aback, too,” Lore said. “It’s been… complicated for him, I think.”
“More complicated than it would be for anyone else, probably.” Dani shook her head in sympathy. “Some of us thought he was coming back to court for good, at first. But it seems like he’s holding fast to those vows.”
Alie’s cheeks went pinker. “Being one of the Presque Mort is a lifelong appointment. Once you gain the ability to channel Mortem, it’s not like you can give it back.”
“But he could stop, couldn’t he? Stop channeling, leave the Presque Mort. I know they don’t allow such a thing, technically, but he is a duke.” Brigitte looked excitedly to Alienor. “He could get a dispensation from the Priest Exalted—”
“No.” Alie shook her head, firm and final. “No.”
And that was enough to make her friends stop, make them nod like the word carried far more meaning than a syllable should be able to shoulder.
Brigitte took a sip of tea and grimaced. “I wonder if Bastian has any wine stashed around here.”
“It’s Bastian, of course he does.” Danielle stood, holding out a hand for Brigitte. “Let’s look.”
“Searching through the Sun Prince’s rooms might be a bit too forward,” Brigitte said, brow arched.
“Not if we tell him it was for Alie and Eldelore.” Danielle gave them an exaggerated wink, to which Alie rolled her eyes.
“True.” Brigitte took Danielle’s proffered hand. “White or red, ladies?”
“Anything, as long as it’s sparkling,” Alie responded.
Brigitte bowed deeply, then she and Dani sauntered away, giggling over something.
“I apologize,” Alie murmured once the other two women were out of earshot. “I don’t know how many different ways I can tell them there’s nothing between Gabriel and me.”
“Because of what his father did?” Lore couldn’t quite make her voice sound neutral. It still made her heart twist, the way everyone here seemed so determined to nail the father’s sins to the son’s back.
Alie shook her head, then snorted a rueful, un-lady-like laugh. “Well, that’s part of it,” she said. “But honestly, I think perhaps that could’ve been salvaged. The thing that made it impossible was when he joined the Presque Mort.”
Gabe had said something similar. “Your father has always disliked the Church, then?” Lore tried to sound nonchalant, speaking from behind the rim of her china cup. She thought of what Gabe had told her when she asked the same question—complicated tangles of religion and politics, the belief that it should all be consolidated into one ruling body.
“I think my father dislikes almost everything.” Alie picked up a pastry, tore off the corner, and put both pieces down without eating one.
“It sounds like his beliefs have strained your relationship,” Lore said. “You and your father’s, I mean.”
“What relationship?” Alie asked darkly. She picked the pastry on her plate into smaller, still uneaten pieces. “Honestly, we don’t do much at home but pass each other in the halls, and barely even that when we’re at court. My mother died long ago, and I’m the only child.”
“That sounds lonely.” Lore knew loneliness. It covered everything she did, a spiderweb that couldn’t be seen but was impossible to free yourself from. It clung.
“Yes,” Alie murmured. “Yes, it is.”
“No pastries left, then?”
The voice was deep, familiar. Lore spun around to face Bastian’s easy grin. He braced his hands on the back of her chair, leaning over her, his shadow darkening her teacup.
The tension locking her shoulders leaked out, just a bit. Returning the book to his father’s study must’ve gone smoothly. Part of her had been worried he’d get caught and send all of this crashing down around their ears.
Bastian dropped a quick, reassuring wink, like he could read the pattern of Lore’s thoughts on her face. “There’s more where this came from,” he said to Alie, keeping his eyes on Lore. “If my sweets haven’t had enough sweets.”
Alie groaned. “Please, not the puns.”
“Give me a moment, let me workshop something with buns.”
“I would truly rather perish.” Alie grinned, dark-green eyes sparkling. “Besides, you’ve treated us enough, I think.”
“Never.” He spun one of the empty chairs around and sat in it backward, propping his chin on his crossed arms and peering at Alie through the dark fringe of his hair with mock lovesickness. “Is there anything else I could get you to prove my undying affection, Alienor Bellegarde? Would you like the chocolates in swan shapes next time? Bare-chested attendants to feed you grapes?”
Alie lifted a wry eyebrow. “I imagine you’d be the bare-chested attendant?”
“Of course.” Sly eyes slid toward Lore, a nearly imperceptible flicker. “Though I could probably get Remaut to come, too.”
Her playful smile fell only a fraction, pink staining Alie’s cheeks. “Actually,” she said, “Bri and Dani just went to pilfer through your rooms in search of wine.”
“I truly can’t think of a corner where I haven’t hidden some, but if you want to be sure they’ll find it, go tell them to look behind the mirror next to the bed on the top floor.”
“Of course that’s where it is.” Alie stood, wagging her finger between Bastian and Lore. “Behave yourselves.”
“Oh, never,” Bastian replied. He watched until Alie was out of sight. Then he turned to Lore, all playfulness gone. “It happened again.”
The village. Lore nodded. “I know. I ran into Bellegarde on my way here.”
He grimaced. “My condolences.”
“He was acting like he was looking for something,” Lore said. “Or looking for somewhere to hide something—he had a piece of paper in his hand. When he left, I looked behind one of the tapestries, and found the paper there, pinned to the back. But it just said seventy-five, so I don’t know whether it was actually a note or something else.”
Bastian’s face went pale. “It had to be a note.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how many people died in the last village,” Bastian said. “Seventy-five exactly.”
Footnotes
1Stricken from the Compendium after Margot D’Laney, Second Night Priestess of the Buried Watch, attempted to open Nyxara’s tomb in 200 AGF.
