Chapter 23

The mirror in the washroom was only big enough for me to see one aspect of myself at any moment.

But it didn't matter where I checked. I looked terrible from every angle, nervous and pale. I adjusted the mirror and caught sight of wayward hairs poking from my crown of braids. I caught them with my last pin, then brushed furiously at my skirts. The hem was dotted six inches deep with flecks of mud. I'd clearly been traveling for most of the day. The dozens of freckles that splashed across my cheeks stood out in stark contrast to my ashen skin, and my eyes looked too big and weary. The voice of the prince echoed in my mind across the years as I studied the hateful dots speckling my face. I pinched my cheeks, trying to bring them some color.

"It doesn't matter how many freckles you have," I said, scolding away the anxiety clutching my throat. "You're here because you can treat the king. You're here because you're the only one who can."

Once my sad attempt at a pep talk was over, I nodded to my reflection and left the washroom.

Aloysius was already in the hall, standing at attention, and I felt my heart race, wondering if I was running behind or if he was the type to forever be arriving early. There was another footman at his heels, waiting with a wheeled cart.

The valet's eyes swept over me as he counted every one of my faults. "I never expected a healer blessed by the gods to look so…rumpled," he finally said.

Shame burned my cheeks, but I straightened my spine. "I'm sure the court doctors and oracles all wear much flashier attire," I began, attempting to keep my tone flat. "If you'd prefer I dress in something else while attempting saving the king's life, I'd be happyto—"

Aloysius brushed off my rancor with an uninterested flash of his hand. "Gervais will bring any supplies you might need." He gestured to the cart.

I hurried back to my chamber and brought out the trunks of medicines and my leather valise. Gervais stacked them on the cart before whisking off with it, presumably taking it to the king's quarters.

"Follow me," Aloysius intoned.

I tried to keep track of the number of doors between mine and the end of the corridor but lost count somewhere around twelve or thirteen. The endless uniformity left my head throbbing.

We turned down a short hall before coming to another staircase. I peeked down the open middle, dizzy at the sight of so many steps, but mercifully, Aloysius stopped on the first landing. Sets of guards flanked another jeweled door, armed with halberds. Though archaic, the weapons still looked alarmingly serviceable.

"This is the new healer, Mademoiselle Trépas," the valet informed them, and I felt the weight of their eyes fall upon me. Some glanced away quickly, gazing back into the distance, as if readying for an attack, but one of them offered me a smile of encouragement. He moved to open the door for us, but Aloysius held up his finger, stalling him.

"This is the royal family's private wing," the valet began. He raised one waxed brow with a look of warning.

How poorly did he think of me? My clothes might be creased and well-traveled, but that didn't mean I planned to sprint through the palace like a feral child.

I held his gaze and dared to raise one of my own eyebrows at him. When it was clear neither of us was going to look away, he nodded to the guards, who pulled opened the doors, allowing us access.

I wanted to remain unaffected, but my mouth dropped open as we walked into the grandeur of the royal wing.

The hall alone was wide enough to serve as a ballroom, and three massive chandeliers hung spaced along its length. Crystal baubles bigger than my splayed hands cast shimmering rainbows across a ceiling of black and gold. Two walls were made entirely of mirrors, amplifying the candlelight and making the space as bright as noon.

Aloysius allowed me to take in the room's glory, hiding a twist of his lips as I turned in a circle to gape at the oil paintings, the marble columns, the gilding, and the sheer brilliance of this moment. My feet sank into the plush black carpet. I longed to run my fingers through its thick wefts but doubted the valet would appreciate my common gawking.

Aloysius beckoned me to a monumentally large portrait. I'd never felt so singularly small as I gazed up at the crowned figure. Forget-me-not-blue eyes stared out, surveying the room and somehow finding it wanting. There was a slight sneer along his nasal fold, drawing down one corner of his thin lips. A scepter rested across his lap. I wondered if he truly hadn't wanted to hold it while being painted or if the artist had hoped to imply something deeper by leaving it forgotten.

"King Marnaigne," Aloysius clarified unnecessarily. "Just months after he took the throne."

"He's very handsome," I murmured, studying the carefully rendered golden hair, his proud nose.

"He was a fine young man."

I turned back to the valet. "You've been with him long?"

He nodded. "Since he was a boy. It makes this…harder."

A dark seed of unease sprouted in my chest. What was I about to walk into?

"Shall we?" he asked.

His voice was softer now, almost gentle. How many healers had they gone through? How many had waltzed into the palace, claiming to have healing potions and cures, only to be cast out when their medicines failed? How many times had Aloysius performed thistour?

It was no wonder he was so clipped and abrupt.

I glanced back at the portrait for one last look, then nodded.

As Aloysius escorted me down the hall, I noticed he now walked at my side rather than five steps ahead. We stopped outside a set of ebony doors. An elaborate pastoral scene was carved so deeply within them, the villagers looked like three-dimensional dolls. There were trees, weeping willows with individual branches hanging down, tall pines with woodpeckers clinging to their trunks. There was a mill, with a waterwheel so intricately rendered, I had the urge to reach out and see if it spun. It was the only part of the door where the varnish was less than pristine. Clearly I wasn't the first to have such an idea.

Aloysius knocked once, drawing a muffled response from inside.

The doors swung open, revealing more guards, more livery, more halberds.

Before I could move to enter, Aloysius's fingers fell atop my forearm, stopping me. "If you would, Mademoiselle Trépas," he said, his voice tight, "remember him as he was in the painting."

I swallowed as dread bloomed within my gut. There was such naked pleading in the valet's eyes, such stark worry, it nearly took away my breath.

"I will," I said, wanting to wipe that horrible expression from his face, wanting to reassure him that I was talented and competent, wanting to promise that I would be able to save the king.

I stepped inside and promptly forgot every aspect of the portrait.