Chapter 33

"What are you doing?" I asked for what felt like the thousandth time as I settled into the royal coach.

Leopold only grinned as he pulled the narrow door shut.

The driver set the horses into action and the Rift began to recede into the distance. Bertie stood on the stairs before the temple's entrance, scarred arms folded over his scarred chest, looking exceptionally displeased. I waved goodbye to him. He did not wave back.

When we rounded a corner and my brother was well and truly out of sight, Leopold leaned back against the velvet cushions. "I do believe most damsels reward their heroes with effusive gestures of gratitude, not an inquisition."

"Thank you," I said perfunctorily. "Now, why were you at theRift?"

He had the audacity to look offended. "I was rescuing you, of course! Dear Aloysius mentioned you'd had a bit of a scare and werea little unconscious and had been sent off to be prayed over." He pressed his lips into a firm line, trying to cover his smirk as he let me know exactly what he thought of the valet's plan.

"The priestess told me all that. It doesn't explain what you were doing in the Rift."

"I…" Leopold blew out a breath of annoyance and pushed back his curls, mussing their pomaded perfection. "I thought it wouldn't sit very well with you—or your godfather—being in a temple that was not his. I don't pretend to know how the relationships between deities and their…their…manservants' work, but I thought you'd be uncomfortable when you woke—if you woke—and I wanted to bring you back. I suspected the powers that be might try to keep you there longer than you wished. I assumed the only one who might overrule their say was me."

The sincerity of his admission surprised me. It was such a thoughtful gesture. Such a thoughtful, lovely, so-very-unlike-Leopold thing to do. I couldn't help but be touched by it.

"Well, thank you," I said after a moment. This new gratitude didn't sit well with the offensive irritation he'd kindled in me earlier, and now I didn't quite know what to think of this prince. How could such an arrogant and entitled, spoiled boy think to do something so attentive, so considerate?

"You're welcome," he responded, and the words sounded like marbles falling from his mouth. It was a phrase he'd obviously not had much practice in exercising.

Outside the coach, the buildings of Chatellerault whizzed by, exacerbating the way my head ached, and I found the simplest thing I could do to hold my impending migraine at bay was to keep my focus squarely on the young man before me.

"And…" There were so many things I could segue into: his father's health; any news I'd missed in the hours I'd been gone; more stories he'd heard of the Shivers, however salacious, however untrue. There were so many things I needed to learn, so many things I needed to plan and execute and…"I'm not a manservant."

He laughed and my heart warmed. I was glad I'd taken a more frivolous, easy approach.

"You and Margaux go about running whatever errands your gods require—what else am I meant to call you? A retainer? A lackey? A drudge?" He paused, searching for more words, clearly enjoying himself. "Ooh! A beatifically blessed handmaiden!"

I laughed, surprising us both. "I can't speak for Margaux, but I prefer goddaughter. "

He made a face. "No one can speak for Margaux exactly the way she can."

"You seem to dislike her most acutely," I observed, feeling as if my words were not wholly my own. There was something about Leopold's undeniable charisma that rubbed off on whoever he was near. I felt wittier and more sophisticated after mere minutes with him than I had in the whole of my life. I wasn't sure it was my best self he drew out—such snark did come with a touch of feeling slightly superior to Margaux as well—but it was awfully fun in the moment.

"I don't trust anyone who claims to not speak for themselves," he said simply. "She spends her days passing along messages from this gloriously holy mother figure that none of us poor louts are deemed worthy of even being permitted to see. Have you?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Seen the First. Basked in the radiance of her magnitude. Fallen to your knees in reverence and awe."

"I have not," I admitted.

"See—even the Dreaded End's goddaughter hasn't seen her. But Margaux has. Margaux claims to have. So who is holding her in check? She could say the Holy First has declared the moon is made of pumpernickel and we all would have to believe it because no one can say otherwise."

"Oh, Your Royal Highness," I began earnestly, "the moon is clearly a brioche."

The corners of his eyes crinkled. "But you see what I'm getting at, yes? And the way she fills my father's head with all these pronouncements, with all these so-called prophecies. She has so much more power than anyone realizes. She presents herself as this dowdy little reverent, covered chin to toe in all those heavy layers, but whatever she whispers to my father is taken as gospel. He could pass a law tomorrow confirming the lunar pumpernickel and all the best sandwiches would be gone forever."

Even though he gave his argument as a carefree example, I could see the seriousness of it and wondered if there was any way to check her claims, to confirm Margaux's messages from the other realm.

In the back of my mind, I saw the blackened skull covering the king's face. I could feel the tug of a connection between the two—Margaux's visions, my callings. Were we truly just pawns on a playing board of the gods' design? Or was there a way to take our gifts and twist them for personal gains, for ulterior benefits? Merrick knew the instant I dared to defy my orders; wouldn't it be the same for Margaux with the Holy First?

"She brought me to court," I offered, feeling guilty for thinking badly of the oracle, who wasn't here to defend herself. "She was right there. Unless you're lumping me in with all her blessed handmaidenschemes."

Leopold shrugged. "At least you carry out your work. It's your skills that guide your hands, your head that holds all that boring and complicated knowledge. I personally don't see how you do it."

"At breakfast you called me a charlatan," I reminded him unkindly.

He had the decency to look ashamed. "I'm never my best self after a night with those cigarettes."

"Perhaps you should stop smoking them, then."

"Perhaps I should," he agreed with more ease than I'd anticipated. "I did recognize you, you know. Not this morning, but last night. All those freckles."

He fell quiet for a moment, leaving me to grasp at what he'd meant.

Leopold sighed, shifting around on the coach seat. "I'm sorry I threw those coins at you. That day in the marketplace."

I was stunned, shocked into silence.

He waved aside his words, a red stain of embarrassment creeping up the sides of his neck. "You probably don't remember. It's fine."

"Do you really think my life so exciting that I wouldn't have occasion to remember a crown prince making fun of my freckles and then hurling a fistful of money at me while an entire village descended on us, grabbing and fighting over it?"

He picked at his fingernail, a fidgety gesture I'd never have guessed him capable of. Fidgeting meant you were uncomfortable. You were uncomfortable when you were in the wrong. I wondered if Leopold had ever thought himself in the wrong before.

"I am…," he began, and a flash of doubt washed over him. "I am deeply sorry for that. For the coins and for the insult. I actually…" Leopold sighed. "I rather like your freckles," he admitted.

"You like my…freckles?" I wanted to laugh.

"They suit you. They give you character, make you stand out as your authentic self."

"I'm glad you enjoy them so," I said. "I've always wished they'd disappear."

The coach clattered over the moat, then slowed to a halt as the iron gates were opened.

"I had a…something once," Leopold confided once we were off again, heading up the winding drive to the palace. He gestured to the spot below his earlobe. "A birthmark, not very big, but such a rosy shade that my parents knew it needed to go."

"Go?" I echoed in disbelief. "It's a birthmark. Where exactly would a birthmark go?"

"Away," he laughed. "Far, far, far enough away that it would never dare to come back and visit my royal personage again. I don't remember all the treatments, all the ways the healers tried to remove it, but Bellatrice does. She's told me all about the horrid pastes and lotions, acids and cleansers."

"There's nothing there now," I noted, feeling flustered as I studied the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his ear. It was a strangely intimate spot on the body, out for all the world to see but a curious place to fix your focus on. I wanted to reach out and feel the skin there but kept my hands in my lap, unsure if the impulse was professional or personal.

The dream I'd had the night before still danced in my memory.

He nodded. "When they couldn't lighten it, they had a surgeon take a hot knife and just—" He swished his fingers through the air, a quick flick of the wrist.

"That's barbaric!" I exclaimed, my anger bursting from me before I could stop it. "And it worked?"

"See for yourself," he said, angling his head back to better show me. There wasn't a trace of a birthmark, and the scar was tidy enough to be nearly invisible.

The coach stopped outside the front entrance, all sculpted colonnades and gilt tracing, but even its ostentatious grandeur could not pull my attention away from the crown prince.

"They did good work," I finally admitted. "But I'm sorry you were put through it, even as a baby."

He shrugged good-naturedly. "It was a lesson, I suppose. One that needed to be learned. Anything less than perfect, anything less than the idolized ideal, has no place at court, no place in our home, no place in our family." He shook his head, and I couldn't tell if this truth made him sad or merely resigned. "So yes, Just Hazel, despite what my brattish younger self may have implied, I rather like your freckles."

The carriage door opened and Leopold hopped out, seemingly unaffected by the private confidence he'd just shared with me. He went straight inside without looking back to see if I followed, not even once.