Shadow scans the shelves on the wall. There’s far too much to go through in detail, row upon row of old ledgers and saved papers stored in leather boxes, lined up by size. She takes one of the boxes off the shelf and lifts the lid. “Nothing,” she says. “Same as what’s on the desk.”
The desk has drawers on each side. Cal opens them one by one as Shadow had the first time they were in the study. Papers. A book of Montrician history going back to the time of the ancients. Quills. An old, stained inkstand. Empty ink bottles. Full ink bottles.
“This is odd.” Shadow had stood on a stool and taken one of the boxes from the top shelf. It’s opened on a petite round side table next to a reading chair. She holds up a piece of paper. “Look.”
Cal takes the paper from her and reads it.
BILL OF MORTALITY
A REPORT MADE TO THE KING’S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY
By the company of the parish clerks of the capital of Montrice
Does hereby declare the mortal deaths of Their Royal Highnesses, The Grand Duke and Duchess of Girt
It is dated twenty years ago, a few months before the letter from King Esban, thanking the duke for his hospitality to his late brother. But how could the duke host King Almon if he was already dead?
Cal hands the paper back to her. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She nods. “The real Duke and Duchess of Girt are dead. They’ve been dead for over twenty years.”
“So who are these imposters?” asks Cal.
“Their murderers,” Shadow says, shuddering.
“Except the duchess is our age,” says Cal.
“Or she only looks like she is,” says Shadow. “She could be a witch, or some kind of shapeshifter.”
Cal is about to agree when she holds up a hand. She hears something. They stand still as stone. Seconds later they hear walking in the hallway right outside the door.
Cal places his fingers around his dagger. His window plan seems silly now—they can’t get to the window; it’s on the other side of the room.
They stand there, waiting, a box full of the duke’s personal papers spread out in front of them.
The footsteps continue past the study door.
Shadow lets out a huge sigh of relief. Cal relaxes, tension leaving his neck and shoulders. “Must have been a maid,” he says.
“Good thing it wasn’t the duchess. I don’t think I could handle such a vulgar display a second time,” she says archly.
“And how do you think I felt? I’m the one who had to do it.” He expects her to laugh or make a snide comment back, but Shadow is silent. “Would it make you feel better if I kissed you too?” he teases. “Then you won’t feel left out.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she says, a hurt tone in her voice.
“I’m sorry. The fact is, sometimes part of being a spy is making someone believe you want them when you don’t.”
She stares at him, still annoyed.
“Not unlike pretending to be the heir to a Stavinish estate. Would you like a lesson in the art of espionage, my lady?”
She doesn’t answer directly, but that draws a smile and short laugh from her.
“Here,” Cal says. “Let me teach you.” He steps closer to Shadow and takes her hand in his, pulling her toward him. She won’t look him in the eye, but she allows him to bring her close and put his arms around her.
He softly touches her cheek, leans down, and brings his mouth to hers.
It is supposed to be a lesson in spycraft. But when he feels her skin against his, it is the furthest thing from his mind.
Though he only intended to give her a brief kiss, once he’s started, he finds he doesn’t want to stop. Shadow doesn’t either, and her hands twine around his neck, urging him closer. He presses himself against her as she opens herself to him, and her mouth is soft, and sweet, and he is lost in her, in this.
Yes, this. This is what kissing the duchess was not. Kissing Shadow is everything—it is more than everything—it is as if he were sleepwalking, and now he is awake, all his senses, his entire being, his soul, alive and singing.
Then suddenly, just as the kiss deepens, his hand in her hair and her arms around his neck, it’s over.
Shadow jerks back.
Cal is left alone, stunned. “Do you hear something?”
She shakes her head. Quickly, she dumps the papers back in the leather box, replaces the lid, and slides it back onto the shelf. “Thanks for the lesson,” she says. “You’re a wonderful teacher and an even better actor.”
“What? No . . . wait! That’s not . . .”
But she doesn’t answer. She runs out the door, leaving him alone in the duke’s study.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Shadow
THE SMALL BALL IS TOMORROW night. Cal is undertaking a dress rehearsal with the costumes that have been made for us. “I look like a fool,” he says, frowning at his clothing.
We are easy with each other, having entered into an unspoken agreement never to discuss what happened between us the other day—the “lesson”—and me running away from it. He was making a point about espionage, nothing more. I have to stop thinking about his kiss. Obviously, he’s more than forgotten about it.
As for the true identities of our hosts, we have agreed to keep a wary eye on them but decided it is safer to stay at the estate than to tip them off to our suspicions by leaving.
So the Small Ball it is.
“Oh, stop pouting,” I tease him. “You look rather elegant, if I do say so.” I smile, thinking of the Queen’s Assassin fretting over a dancing costume.
“I’m not pouting. Consider the practicality. Look, I can’t move my arms”—he demonstrates by lifting his arms to show me how confining the metal breastplate is—“and the cape is so heavy. It will slow me down if we encounter any problems.” He fusses with it, yanking the front tie down. “And it’s choking me!”
I laugh and reach out to help him tie a better knot. “You had it too tight.” We haven’t stood so close together since the kiss. I finish quickly and back away. “There. Is that better?”
He nods but continues to fuss with it. “The king’s upcoming engagement will most likely be announced at the Small Ball. A marriage to a princess of Argonia or Stavin will strengthen his army and forge a greater alliance against Renovia. The royal houses of Argonia and Stavin are already unified through a great-grandmother. Only Renovia remains apart.”