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And it appeared she did. She even laughed at something Caius said, her pretty face arranged into a gentle smile. She looked at Lore once, something unreadable flashing across her eyes, before turning back to the Kirythean.
“I don’t like it,” Lore murmured, her grip on the King reluctantly softening.
“Try not to worry.” He placed his hand over top of hers. “Alie is much better at secrecy than you ever were. And if you watch, you’ll see she’s not talking much. She’s letting him steer the conversation. It will be interesting to hear how he introduced himself.”
True, but watching still made Lore nervous. She twisted the gauzy fabric of her skirt between her fingers.
A nobleman stopped in front of the dais. She recognized him, vaguely. Lord Demonde, one of the few courtiers of the older generation who didn’t openly oppose Bastian’s new rulings. That didn’t commend him much, however. Alie had told her that Demonde was a slippery sort of man, his convictions malleable. And he wasn’t one of the wealthier nobles, so the new taxes hadn’t hit him quite as hard.
He also had the distraction of a recent marriage. The new Lady Demonde clutched his arm lightly, her eyes cast away. A pretty woman, not much older than Lore. Demonde himself had to be over sixty. And not a well-aged sixty, at that—the man’s cheeks were clearly rouged, the whites of his eyes jaundiced. The padding in his coat couldn’t quite hide the skeletal thinness beneath. He’d certainly been dosing poison.
Bastian looked at Demonde as though he was already bored of whatever the other man was going to say. He adjusted his circlet, the movement designed to be casual, though Lore knew it was anything but.
“It is wonderful to see you, Majesty,” Demonde finally said through a simpering smile when it became clear he’d have to speak first. “We missed you at our wedding, but understand how busy you’ve been.”
“Yes,” Bastian said. He didn’t offer anything else.
Lady Demonde raised her eyes to Lore, just a split second, then cast them down again. They were a pretty cornflower-blue, set nicely against the gold of her hair. Her features looked vaguely familiar, though Lore was sure they hadn’t met before.
Which was strange, because that split-second look was filled with venom.
“May I present my wife,” Lord Demonde said, undeterred by Bastian’s coldness. “Amelia Demonde, née Devereaux.”
Amelia Devereaux. Oh. Danielle’s older sister, Danielle who’d conspired with Bellegarde and Anton, whose story about the docks had been one more step on the path toward the catacombs and raising an undead army.
“Amelia,” Bastian said, his voice veering from disinterested to somewhat frosty. “How fortunate, that you found yourself someone who could save you from the rest of your family’s fate.”
Amelia dropped her eyes and moved into a curtsy, but not before Lore saw the flare of rage in her pretty eyes again. “I am fortunate indeed,” she said softly to the floor.
Demonde nodded with a manufactured serious expression, all the subtext of the conversation flying over his head. “The Devereauxs and I were in talks before all that messy business happened,” he said. “When you handed down your sentence—a very merciful one, I must say—my lawyers said I would be well within my rights to dissolve the betrothal.” He raised Amelia’s hand to his lips and gave it a kiss. “But I was far too in love, by then.”
Amelia gave her husband a sunny smile, one that highlighted just how beautiful she was. Lore recalled what Danielle had said at Alie’s tea, that Amelia was furious with her parents for marrying her to Demonde when she’d had her sights set on Bastian. She’d played it smart, though. Pretending to return Demonde’s infatuation had saved her from the Burnt Isles.
Lore would’ve preferred the Isles.
“I only hope that you’re able to find such happiness one day,” Demonde continued, staring adoringly at his bride.
“Thank you,” Bastian said simply.
“And when you do,” Demonde said, winking at Lore, “Amelia can help the lucky lady plan. She’d like that, wouldn’t you, my love? Put together a positively beautiful ceremony for us, and on such short notice.”
Amelia’s lips blanched, pressed hard against her teeth. But her voice was entirely even when she spoke. “I would be happy to. Just let me know when, my lady, and we can discuss.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” But she meant it as a reassurance, to let this woman who obviously despised her know she wouldn’t have to help her plan a nonexistent wedding. It was already out of her mouth when she realized it was probably an insult. Lore stumbled over her words, trying to find better ones. “I mean, I don’t think there will be any need to—”
“Noted, Amelia.” Bastian squeezed her hand, and Lore fell silent. “Thank you.”
Amelia’s lips pinched into an approximation of a smile. “Being an Arceneaux Queen is no small matter,” she said. “It takes great preparation. Of course I would be honored to help where I can.”
Demonde and Amelia took their leave with a bow and a curtsy, fading into the throng. Amelia didn’t look back at them, but it was with the kind of determination that said she wanted to, badly.
Lore blew out a relieved breath, making one of the carefully cultivated curls on her forehead toss sideways. “That… well.” She turned to Bastian. “Does everyone think we’re getting married?”
He let go of her hand and leaned away on his opposite elbow with a shrug. “It seems so.”
Normally, he would make a joke here. Say something pithy about how no one in the court thought for themselves. But he didn’t.
Her dress was itchy. Lore shifted in her chair. “That was kind of you,” she said finally, changing the subject. “Letting Amelia stay in the Citadel.”
