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.