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“Do you always send men into frantic messes?”
“Your brother makes his own decisions. I’m not influencing them.”
She barked a laugh. “Please. I see how you look at him. But when you leave, I’ll be left to pick up the pieces, so you’d better leave him whole. A broken king cannot lead us. Bastian is too young to recover if he fails so soon.”
My mouth went dry. Little did she know how her brother refused to fall for me. How he kept himself at a distance so he wouldn’t feel anything when I left. If she knew how strong his desire not to care for me was, she wouldn’t be here. Bash didn’t need any help not loving me.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I said firmly.
“I am his protector,” she reminded me. “And I will protect him from you, my Queen.” Then she was out the door.
The entire realm had a fascination with their Mortal Queens, but that wonder didn’t grip Troi. I had no problem believing she’d slit my throat if she needed to, and without much prompting.
“Goodbye, Troi,” I muttered. “Always a pleasure.”
I twirled a brush but found no motivation to paint. When I turned, Bash’s painting grounded me. “I don’t need your judgment,” I said as I draped a cloth over it. My hand went to my chest where Troi’s blade had pressed. “And, please, tell your sister not to kill me.”
The door opened and I whirled, hands up in defense. Odette stood with her eyebrows raised.
“You look like I intend to murder you.”
I lowered my hands. “I thought you were Troi.”
She laughed, the sound as bubbly as champagne and brighter than any star. Nothing like Troi. Dark grey fabric hung from Odette’s shoulders in a woven pattern to create a dress that accented the hints of red in her auburn hair.
“Sorry to disappoint you. I thought we could have a night together.” She flung herself on the sofa before the fire and kicked up her feet. “By the way, one of your paintings is in the courtyard looking rather sad and lonely.”
“Really?” After again hearing Bash tell me nothing could save me, I could use some wisdom from Dhalia.
“It’s just sitting there.”
I tried not to look too interested and tied my slippers slowly. “I’ll go fetch it. I’ll be right back.”
I donned a shawl and went out, my pace quickening with each step. The lanterns in the corridor and stairwell were still lit as the day wasn’t quite over, and their light led the way to the courtyard where the fish bubbled to the surface in the river to say hello.
A painting sat on an easel in the same place where King Brock had bested me in chess.
I tried not to think of my great loss as I turned the painting around.
I gasped. This wasn’t one of my pieces. It was entirely new. Dhalia stood in a white gown overtaken by lace and layers, a rosette train caught in the wind behind her as she stood on the balcony in her black mask and stared into the night. Morten loomed behind her, pressed against her back as he bent over her shoulder.
Dark lines traced her eyes, but a tear marred them. All the colors of the painting were dull in comparison to those eyes and the glint of tears pooling in them. Her sadness was the entire focus of the painting. In a moment, it would be mine to endure.
I readied myself to feel her emotions, then touched the painting.
Mist clung to my cheeks and gathered at the curve of my neck where Dhalia’s hair was curled in small ringlets. I’d been wrong, Morten wasn’t pressed against her. He braced a pace behind, only hovering over my shoulder.
“It will be fine,” he said.
Dhalia shifted, and he flew back.
“If this doesn’t work?”
Morten’s exhale was like a breeze stoking embers of anxiety within Dhalia, and they stirred inside me. I tried to send my own feelings to soothe her, even knowing it couldn’t help.
“It will work. Just keep your gloves on until he touches you.”
Tight, cream gloves adorned her hands, stretching up to her elbow. How had I not seen them earlier? Now I searched for other details I might have missed, anything that could be useful. A half empty glass of wine sat next to an entirely empty bottle. Every surface was covered in candles, the edge of the bed, the table, the desk, the shelves over the mantle. A pot of roses marked the entryway so it was the first thing someone would smell when coming in.
