I turn to see Cal watching me. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Caledon
“WE NEED TO PROVE OUR suspicions,” Cal says. “About the duke being the mage and the hidden conspirator.”
“Yes, but how?” Shadow asks. They’re convening in Shadow’s room while the rest of the guests are napping before dinner.
The two of them have changed from their hunting outfits into daywear, though Cal hardly finds it comfortable. If this is the life of a nobleman, they can have it. The land and title and prestige come with too many conditions and obligations.
Shadow bites her thumbnail. “We have maybe, I don’t know, until the fourth bell? I need time to get ready for tonight.”
“Not a lot of time. How about the duke’s office?”
“That’s the most logical place. But how can we be sure he isn’t there?”
“We’ll just have to take our chances. If he is, I’ll make up something. Say I want to buy some land.”
Cal peeks out the door. It’s clear. He and Shadow start down the hallway and tiptoe down the wide staircase to the first floor. Cautiously, they head toward the room where they first met the duke when they arrived.
The door is closed. Shadow sidles against it and places her ear on the wood. She nods and Cal pushes the door open. They slip inside and close the door behind them.
The library is stuffy and masculine, lined floor to ceiling in dark walnut bookcases on three sides. The fourth wall, where they entered, is covered in oil portraits of the duke’s predecessors. Heavy red leather chairs flank a circular table in the middle of the room. There’s a writing desk in the corner. “I’ll start with the desk. You see if there’s anything in the cabinets . . . or in a book. Could be a false book, maybe. Check everything,” Shadow says. She crosses the room and begins opening desk drawers and riffling through papers.
Cal stands in front of the bookcases, a little irritated at being told how to do his job, but holds his tongue and methodically begins to search. He opens a cabinet door at the bottom of the bookshelf. Nothing but candles, lined in rows. The next one holds more books; the third, newspapers bound with twine. He walks around the room opening cabinets but none offers anything promising.
Rows upon rows of books stare him down. Impossible to check through them all. Not a single one is out of place or gives any indication that it has been read or looked at recently.
Shadow has a handful of envelopes. She flips through them quickly and places them back in the drawer, then moves on to the next one.
“Find anything?” he asks her.
“Just old invitations, notices . . . well, wait. This is strange.” She holds up an envelope. Cal walks over. It’s addressed to TRH The Grand Duke and Duchess of Girt.
“What is it?”
“A letter. From Renovia.”
“What does it say?”
I hold it up to the light. “It’s a letter from King Esban, thanking the duke and duchess for their kindness to his brother.”
“Alast?”
“No, Almon. The older brother, who was supposed to be king, except he died young,” says Shadow.
Cal frowns. He knows his history. “Almon was killed during a hunt with a grand duke in Montrice. At first it appeared as if Montrice had conspired against Renovia, but suspicion fell to his brother Esban instead. The Aphrasians started the rumor that he had poisoned his own brother. His legacy was always tainted by this doubt until he died heroically in the battle of Baer Abbey.”
“Esban would never do such a thing! And neither would Alast. The three of them were close, that’s what my aunts told me. They were never rivals. They all had the same goal—to bring down the Aphrasians,” says Shadow. “Do you think this is the same duke who hosted King Almon?”
“Could be,” Cal replies. “It was only twenty years ago.”
“But the duchess is younger than that,” says Shadow.
“Maybe he remarried,” says Cal.
“Maybe,” Shadow agrees.
“Anyway, we already know the duke is suspicious. The question is whether he’s involved with the Aphrasians, and if they are the source of that black shard we found.”
“Do you think it was his?”
“Possibly, and more likely than not. But the shard could have been from anyone. There were dozens of people in the woods today alone. We don’t know how long it’s been there, either. Maybe two weeks, maybe two years.”
Chimes announce the second bell. Shadow shoves the letters back in the drawer and slides it shut. “We’re running out of time.”
Cal turns and his eyes rest on the paintings on the far wall. One in particular catches his attention: It’s slightly askew. Only slightly, yet noticeable next to the precision of the others. Perfect place to hide something. Fixed to the back of a painting, he guesses. He hopes.
He reaches out to pull it away from the wall.
The door flies open. He yanks his hand back.
It’s Duchess Girt.
“I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing in here?” she says, eyes narrowing.
Cal turns his head toward Shadow but she’s gone. “And you are exactly who I am looking for,” he tells the duchess.
Though she still looks suspicious, her face softens some. She shuts the door. “Why is that?”
“Why do you think?” he asks, his eyes hooded from practice. He should have done this sooner. He needs to distract her, and fast. Make her forget that it’s strange to find him here, standing in her husband’s private office.
“Oh, I thought you’d never—” the duchess says, but she doesn’t finish because Cal has already pulled her toward him.
“Never do this?” he asks. He brushes a hand on her cheek and lowers his face to hers. When he kisses her, she’s ready for him, and returns his kiss with fervor.
He grimaces, but continues to kiss her, wrapping his hands around her waist as she digs her nails into his scalp to pull him closer.
“Lord Callum!” The duchess gasps, coming up for air.
“Yes, My Grace?” From the corner of his eye, he catches Shadow watching him from under the desk.
Her glare could melt steel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Shadow
I’M SEATED AT THE FAR end of a long table in the most formal of Duke Girt’s three dining rooms. As visiting guests of honor, Ambassador Nhicol and his husband are near the head of the table, where King Hansen took the duke’s place, being of the highest rank. The duke sits to the king’s left, the duchess beside him. Ambassador Nhicol to the king’s right. Cal and I are on the same side of the table as the Renovian ambassador. There are candles lit, but the light is dim and yellow, so if I keep the long tendrils of white wig around the sides of my face, I hope I can avoid the ambassador’s attention. With so many seats between us, it shouldn’t be difficult. Not to mention, I’m wearing so much kohl and rouge that my own mother would probably walk in the room and look right past me. As for Cal, he wears an elaborate white wig as well, along with a pair of gold spectacles. Between that and the outlandish Montrician high-necked, lace-collared frilly shirt he’s wearing, I almost don’t recognize him.