Whatever the eclipse ball would be, she was sure dull wouldn’t qualify.
Lore walked quickly to the carpeted steps leading back up to her turret, head down. So she didn’t see August until the Sainted King cleared his throat.
She froze, hands full of china plate and heaped vegetables. Panic spasmed through her chest; she dipped her head and bent her knees in a truncated curtsy, hiding her face in case it spasmed through her expression, too. “Your Majesty.”
He looked… awful. Deep shadows stood out around his eyes, his skin pale and almost clammy looking, as if a fever had recently broken. There was a slight, tired stoop in his shoulders, but it didn’t diminish his presence, and she still felt herself standing up straighter as he narrowed his eyes.
August didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You’ve been spending time with my son?”
His mouth wrenched on the word son, like it was something disgusting he had to spit out.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Lore nodded, brows drawing together. “We’re following your orders to the letter.”
Considering that the orders had never gotten more specific, she wasn’t even lying.
“Good.” The King fumbled at his waist, pulling that thin flask from within his doublet and taking a hearty drink. “There will be a resolution soon. The whelp will finally get what he deserves.”
Then the Sainted King pushed past her, breath reeking of belladonna. He didn’t say goodbye.
Lore stared after him for a moment before wearily mounting the steps to her room.
Lore sat at her window and waited for the sky to darken. There was a smear across the glass, one that hadn’t been there yesterday; either from sweat-rumpled fabric or a grasping hand. She scrubbed it away as the clock on the wall ticked by the time, inching ever closer to midnight.
Gabe was still gone. She’d stopped listening for him in the halls. She wondered if he’d moved back into his cloister. Back to walls that would keep him safe from himself, from all the things he wanted that he’d been taught were sin. Surely Anton would relent after he confessed that he’d nearly broken his vows for a poison-running necromancer.
It set an ache in her gut sharp as a bayonet’s end. Lore tried to reason it away. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done the same thing before—played hot and cold, ultimately decided on cold. It didn’t have to mean anything.
Still.
She shook her head like she could knock him out of it, closed her eyes. It’d be better to spend this time actually preparing for what would happen at midnight, rather than worrying over a monk who’d seemingly decided she wasn’t worth his questionable salvation.
Instead, she concentrated on her forest, the wall she’d built around her mind to keep out the awareness of death. She concentrated on close trunks and interlaced branches and the subtle weave of smoke beyond her trees, black against an azure sky, thick as if something was always burning.
The minute hand of the clock ticked toward twelve. As soon as it reached its zenith, a knock came on the door.
Lore stood up. Tried not to think about what waited for her down in the stone garden, where the catacombs seethed their darkness.
Bastian stood in the corridor, dressed all in black. The Bleeding God’s Heart sconce was full of candles on the wall at his back, outlining him in hellish light and hiding the vagaries of his expression. She could see his eyes, though, a dark glitter, and there was nothing playful in them. Tonight’s Bastian was all business. “Ready for a chat with the dead?”
“Ready as I’m going to be.” Lore stepped out into the hall and closed the door softly. Beyond the sconce’s glow, the corridor swam back into shadow.
“Gabriel decided not to join us, I take it?” Bastian fell into step beside her.
“No.” Lore stared down the hallway; the dark was preferable to talking about Gabe. “I haven’t seen him since last night.”
“Hmm.” Bastian didn’t ask any further questions.
He overtook her as they reached the branch in the hall, weaving in front of her to lead. The route they’d taken to sneak out into the back compound and through the culvert to Dellaire would be too obvious tonight.
She thought of August earlier, drinking poison and looking half a corpse. The whelp will finally get what he deserves.
In abstract, she’d known that August hated Bastian. But actually seeing it—naked hatred, not disdain veiled behind false concern—made pity coil at the base of her throat, pity she knew Bastian wouldn’t want. Still, it stayed there. She’d taken it hard when Val turned her over to Anton; she couldn’t imagine how one lived with the knowledge that your true-born parent wanted you gone.
“Are you all right?” she murmured to Bastian’s back as they turned down an unfamiliar corridor. Thick tapestries lined the walls, muffling her voice. Sculpted suns and stars wheeled over the ceiling in three-dimensional gilt.
He glanced over his shoulder, brow arched high. “Yes, sneaking through the halls is not an act that engenders in me much turmoil.”
“I mean…” She waved her hand, pursed her lips. “With… everything.”
He would not want her pity, but she wanted to give him something. A place that offered softness, if he wanted it. Tenderness didn’t come easily to her, but she’d try.
A gleam in his eye; he understood despite her fumbling. Bastian shrugged, turning back around. “I,” he said decisively, “am coping.” He pulled something gleaming from his pocket—a flask, tipped quickly into his mouth, then passed back to her without looking.
Lore took it. Sniffed just enough to make sure there was no whiff of poison, then sipped. Whiskey, strong enough to make her nearly cough. “That’s quite the method of coping.”
“Better than it could be.” Bastian took the flask back. The corridor branched; he took the left one, gleaming marble. “Stay close to the wall. There’s a long pool in the middle of the floor all the way down this hall.”
“Who thought that was a good idea?”
“Some ancestor of mine with too much money and too little taste. So really, it could’ve been any of them.”
The questionable corridor ended, widening into an atrium filled with night-blooming flowers beneath a domed glass ceiling. It was beautiful, and Bastian slowed his pace. Lore allowed it. She was in no rush.
A few of the flowers she recognized—hellebore, the color of dried blood. Datura, climbing up a wooden trellis to open twisting blooms to the moon. Poisons she knew, poisons that anyone outside of the Citadel would be arrested for growing, and here they were just decoration.
“My father is a bad man.”
She turned away from the hellebore—Bastian wasn’t looking at her, instead standing with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted up to the moon, like he was some night-blooming poison himself. “That makes it easier,” he said quietly. “Easier to deal with the fact that he wants me dead. Maybe it makes me good, even.” A snort, his eyes closing as his head tipped back further. “The Law of Opposites, right? If a bad man wants me dead, that makes me good. In the most technical sense.”
It didn’t seem like a conversation that wanted another participant. Lore just watched him, smelling sweet poison and tracing the lines of his face with her eyes. Far too handsome, she’d thought before, but in the moonlight, Bastian was the kind of beautiful that rent hearts in half.