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Next to her, Bastian grinned. “Lord Leclaire’s great-grandfather named the place after a particularly nasty tussle with the first Priest Exalted—something about an agreement to name one of the new monasteries after him. The Leclaires leaned into it.”
As the house came into view, the windows of the top floor glinted down at them in the late-afternoon light. Eight windows for eight phases, the moon waxing to fullness and waning down to a sliver in sharp-cut glass.
Lore gnawed on her lip. The sun was still high in the sky, the dark passenger in her head silent. “They certainly did.”
She expected Bastian—or, more accurately, the god she knew was in Bastian’s head somewhere—to be upset by the choice of décor. But he grinned widely as the carriage pulled to a stop beside the silver-tooled doors, and clapped a nervous-looking Lord Leclaire on the back as a liveried footman opened up the Maison.
Lady Leclaire stood at the door, welcoming the guests. Despite the heat, the woman wore long opera gloves, covering her from fingertips to above the elbows. Lady Leclaire saw Lore looking as she approached, and after glancing around to make sure no one else was paying attention, gently rolled down the top of one.
Livid scars marked her arms, freshly healed. “From the explosion,” she said, a soft whisper as she quickly pulled the glove back into place. “We were afraid I would be… afflicted… with channeling, afterward. But I wasn’t.” Her eyes shone. “You saved me, Your Majesty, and I will always remember that. No matter what they call you.”
Lore gave her a tight-lipped smile and slipped into the house.
It was beautiful, of course, with the moon motif continuing in carvings down the grand staircase and more datura flowers trained to grow over the doorways. But Lore paid more attention to Bastian than to the manor.
His gaze ate up the interior, his grin almost triumphant as he trailed his hand along the moon phase carvings. “Do you know who exactly did the banisters, Vincent? I might have them come make a few adjustments to the Citadel.”
Vincent—Lord Leclaire, apparently—stammered out an answer, color high in his cheeks and his smile near to splitting them. Bastian looked at Lore, that triumphant grin pulling up his mouth, his eyes sparkling almost gold.
She found herself returning the smile, found relief weakening her knees. Maybe Bastian had his own mental passenger well in hand. Maybe she was worrying over nothing, and she could speak to him about what to do, now that he’d figured out how to live with it. That night after Gabe had taken her to Anton for the first time, Bastian had stopped her when she tried to speak to him about the voice in her head. But he was the only other person on earth who could understand, and Lore felt like she might rip apart if she couldn’t talk to someone soon.
“My lady?” Lady Leclaire’s voice was timid, still. “I’ll show you to your rooms, if you’d come along. They adjoin His Majesty’s.”
Good. Maybe they could talk things through. “Thank you.” Lore followed Lady Leclaire up the stairs. At the top, she glanced back down at the foyer.
Bastian stared up at her. The triumphant grin was gone. Now he just looked lost.
Lore didn’t mean to take a nap, but when she saw the gigantic canopied bed in the room the Leclaires had prepared for her, she couldn’t help but flop onto it. And the stress of traveling, and sleepless nights, and being the future Queen of a country on the edge of war sent her quickly into blessedly dreamless sleep.
When she woke, her traveling gown tangled around her legs and her hair in knots, the window was dark.
With a curse, Lore sat up, scrambling off the bed. She didn’t know what kind of party the Leclaires had planned, but surely she’d missed it—
“Calm down, my lady, you’ll turn yourself into even more of a mess, and I already don’t have enough time to set you to rights.”
Juliette, seeming completely unperturbed at Lore’s unexpected nap. She was perturbed at something, though; she arranged her implements of beautification on the table like someone else might lay out torture tools. “When the evening plans changed, I decided it was best to let you sleep. I didn’t bring enough powder to completely hide the bags under your eyes.”
“The plans changed?” Lore’s mouth felt like she’d gargled half the Sapphire Sea; she grabbed the glass of water waiting on the bedside table and took a long drink.
“It was supposed to be a costume ball,” Juliette said, waving her over to the vanity, “but the Leclaires decided that it would be an astronomy party instead. At midnight.” She shook her head. “As if every handmaid in the Maison hasn’t been putting together costumes for the last week…”
I don’t like that.
The voice in her head, returning with the night.
Seems like You of all people should like that, Lore fired back as she sat down before the mirror. Behind her, two other maids laid out a long white gown, threaded with silver.
Not a person, technically, the voice rejoined. And who do you think told them to change the party theme?
Bastian, of course.
“Thankfully, they decided to tell us the change of plans right after we arrived.” Juliette pulled a brush through Lore’s tangles, gentler than usual. Having a verbal outlet for vitriol made her not take it out on Lore’s hair. “If they’d waited until nightfall, it’d be a disaster. Even still, I decided you’d wear the same dress that we packed for the costume party, we’ll just accessorize differently.”
A small case by the vanity held everything Juliette used to make her presentable. Small moon-shaped pins gleamed from the depths, pearls and diamonds fashioned into crescents. Lore’s mouth felt dry again. “Who picked my costume?”
“The King, of course.”
I don’t like that, Nyxara repeated.
