Knots of revelers stood drinking between dances, gathered in bursts of bright clothes, as ornate as the golden frescoes they stood before. Those who weren’t kissing or drinking were gossiping—heads bowed as close together as elaborate hairstyles would allow, whispering and then breaking into whoops of laughter. Cosmetic-lined eyes scanned the room, as if making sure their mirth was marked, and hopefully envied.
A man wearing a sea-green mask with golden scales turned his eyes lazily to Gabe, then away. A moment, and his gaze snapped back, disinterest becoming openmouthed surprise. He leaned to the ear of the person next to him, their hair coiled into something resembling a beehive, whispering furiously.
“And thus our new faces are noticed,” Lore said. They still stood by the door, neither of them keen on venturing into the sparkling milieu.
“Mine isn’t new, which seems to be the problem.” Gabriel sighed. “I’d hoped that ten years and one less eye would make recognizing me more difficult.”
“You’re hard not to notice,” Lore murmured, then clamped her lips shut.
“And you say I need to work on my compliments.” Gabe shook out his shoulders. “Well. Into the breach.”
He tugged them into the party.
Dancers spun past them, their costumes wearable displays of wealth. Jewels encrusted bodices; clouds of gold-threaded tulle swept the ground. The dancers paid no mind to the iron bars crossing the floor, the reminders of holy responsibility covered in sweat and spilled champagne.
Lore’s heart thrummed, and not just from nerves. This reminded her of the wilder venues down by the docks, though it felt more dangerous than those ever had. Money and power gave it weight, made it heady.
Made it exciting, and part of her hated herself for that. The part that kept thinking of those people drinking brewed belladonna in the corner.
In the scents of whirling dancers and strong perfume, there was also the scent of food. Lore’s stomach twisted in her too-tight bodice. “Any idea where the buffet is?” she asked Gabriel, pitching her voice to carry over music and laughter.
“On the right side, I think,” he said, eyes shifting like prey in a predator’s den. Other courtiers had noticed them now, gazes flickering their direction and then away with practiced nonchalance.
The ebb and flow of the party revealed a table set up before the golden depiction of a fox hunt, baying dogs and howling hunters chasing the ruby-encrusted animal across the wall. Two fountains in the center of the table flowed with wine, red and white, with crystal goblets set in precarious gleaming pyramids next to them. Bowls of bright fruit sat beside artfully stacked pastries, jewels on an expensive necklace.
Her stomach rumbled. Lore stepped forward, ready to weave her way through to the table, but the parting crowd revealed the throne at the front of the room, and for the first time, she noticed someone was on it. One leg was tossed over the arm, booted foot swinging in the air, and an elbow was propped on the opposite side, head leaned against a clenched, ring-studded fist.
Even in the decadent chaos of his own party, Bastian Arceneaux somehow managed to look bored.
That sense of familiarity came again, looking at him. Almost like déjà vu. Like Bastian fit perfectly into a place in her head that she hadn’t even known was empty.
“Gabriel?” The woman’s voice coming from behind them was light and musical. And from the way the Presque Mort froze beside Lore, it seemed he recognized it.
“Gabriel Remaut?” A questioning lilt, a hint of nervousness. “I’m sorry, maybe I’m mistaken—”
Lore tugged on Gabriel’s arm and turned him around to face the person speaking.
A diminutive woman stood on the edge of the dance floor, with an anxious expression and hair the color of white marble in a cloud of airy curls. Pearlescent dust gleamed across warm copper-brown cheekbones scattered with freckles, sparkling like the wings attached to her white tulle gown, and her eyes matched the delicate dark-green embroidery across the sheer neckline. She looked like a flower fairy, straight from a children’s book, and the smile she broke into was nearly as bright as the rest of her.
His arm somehow tenser than before beneath Lore’s palm, Gabriel inclined his head. “Alienor.”
“It’s really you!” The sparkling woman laughed aloud, clapping her hands together. “Bastian told me you were coming back from the north for a while, to introduce your cousin to society, but I thought he had to be joking!”
“Bastian is less than trustworthy at the best of times, true.”
“Fourteen years of holy service and you still harbor the sin of jealousy.” Alienor mockingly shook her head, making glitter fall from her false wings.
“I was never jealous of him, Alie.”
“Of course you were; every time he’d tell me I looked pretty you’d tell him to watch his mouth around your betrothed. He only did it to get a rise out of you, you know.” Alienor said it lightly, like something funny, but there was a shadow around her eyes that dimmed the illusion.
Betrothed. It explained the tension in Gabriel’s stance. Only ten years old when his father’s betrayal and Anton’s vision pushed him to the Presque Mort, but people were betrothed early in the Court of the Citadel, their lives laid out practically from birth.
Gabe reached up and touched his eye patch self-consciously; Alienor’s gaze followed his hand, her mouth falling a fraction.
“It’s good to see you, Gabe,” she murmured, all teasing gone.
Gabriel lowered his hand. “And you.”
Lore shifted her weight, feeling very much like an intruder.
For the first time, the smaller woman seemed to notice her. Her smile brightened. “And this is your cousin, right? I didn’t know you had one.”
“Third cousin.” Lore offered her hand, reciting the backstory she and Gabriel had come up with in their apartments while he buttoned the back of her dress and tried not to faint at the sight of feminine shoulder blades. “Distant and obscure, social climbing by way of my esteemed relative.”
“Alie, meet Eldelore.” Gabe’s mouth twitched as he said the full name, almost a smirk.
“Just Lore, if you please.” The wide skirt of her dress gave her cover as Lore slipped her foot over Gabe’s and pressed the heel of her shoe into his toe, just enough to make him jerk.
Alienor smiled, taking Lore’s hand and giving her a tiny bow. “Lovely to meet you, Just Lore. And you must call me Alie, all my friends do.”
Alienor’s face was open and kind, with no trace of artifice. Lore found herself desperately hoping it was real, though everything about the Citadel called for caution. “Alie,” she repeated.
The three of them lapsed into uncomfortable silence. The music stopped, then swelled, going from a lively jig to something even more upbeat.
Gabriel frowned. “This music,” he said, twisting his head. “It’s Kirythean.”
“Is it?” Alie looked puzzled, but not disturbed. “Well. That’s interesting.”
“If by interesting you mean traitorous.”
“That seems a bit dramatic.” A new voice, from behind Lore—smooth, courtly, with an upturned edge like it was on the verge of a joke. “I prefer daring to traitorous,” the voice continued.