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The bottom fell out of Lore’s empty stomach. She hadn’t thought of Bellegarde in weeks, confined out of sight and out of mind, a problem to be dealt with some other time. “Why in all the hells are we going to see Bellegarde? And just Bastian and me?”
With an imperious wave, Juliette motioned her over to the vanity. Lore went. “His Majesty says he believes Bellegarde might have some insight into the attacks by the Kirythean spies,” she said as she pulled a brush through Lore’s hair. “It is… unusual… for such matters of state to be taken care of during progress, but since we are close to Courdigne, the King thought it expedient.”
Lore wondered which person in Bastian’s head had made that particular decision. Thus far, Apollius had seemed uninterested in the Kirytheans—that was the only explanation she could come up with for why Bastian seemed content to let them rot in the holding cells. But if it was Apollius making that call, maybe this was a good sign. Maybe Bastian was wresting back control. Then he could force Apollius into a relationship like the one Lore and Nyxara had. Distant, only speaking occasionally, with Lore in full authority.
They could live with that, couldn’t they? If there was no other way forward?
“Where is the King this morning?” Lore asked.
“Already downstairs and ready to go. You’re late.”
Figures.
Lore riffled through her mental catalog of what she knew about Bellegarde as Juliette continued to draw and quarter her scalp into an acceptable coiffure. Alienor’s father, though they had an estranged relationship, even before he’d been confined to his estate for treason. He disliked the Church, but not because he didn’t like religion—it was because he liked religion too much, thought that the Church should be the governing body of Auverraine rather than the Sainted King. He’d allied with Anton, who thought the same thing, and as the leader of the Church in Auverraine was in the unique position to do something about it. That something being killing August so that Bastian could take the crown.
Juliette tugged at the loose hair she’d left down Lore’s back, threading pearls through the strands with the deftness of a spider spinning a web.
“Is there a reason I need to look nice?” Lore asked, tilting her head obediently when Juliette gave her hair another tug. “If we’re just traveling to see a prisoner?”
“You’re the future Queen.” Juliette tilted her head up again, then turned it left and right as if Lore were a doll. “You must look the part, regardless of where you’re going.”
Despite Juliette saying he was downstairs, Bastian was waiting in the hallway when Lore finally emerged, her hair suitably ornate, her gown a flowy, floor-brushing number in summery green, with large sleeves that gathered at the wrist and a golden belt around her waist. He smiled as she approached, holding out his hand. “That’s a lovely color on you.”
He looked like himself, this morning, his hair slightly mussed, his eyes dark. There was a tiny tremble in his hand. That was a tell, she was learning. A sign that he was holding on to himself as tightly as he could.
She took his hand. “Should hide grass stains better than some of my gowns have in the past.”
“That day in the forest,” he said quickly, as if he wanted her to know he remembered. “When you first arrived.”
Everything had been complicated then—things between them always had been—but in comparison with now, that time seemed almost idyllic.
He raised her hand to his lips, tapping the diamond in her ring with his thumbnail. A servant in the hallway opened the curtains, and the sunlight through the window sliced across Bastian’s face. A barely perceptible shudder ran through him, and when he looked up from her ring, his eyes glinted golden.
“We’ve come a long way since then,” he murmured.
They proceeded down the hall, down the stairs. It was early, and most of the courtiers were asleep. So seeing Alie in the foyer was a surprise.
Seeing the packed traveling trunk next to her was another.
“Alie?” Lore passed Bastian, who’d stopped in the center of the floor with a bemused expression, going to her friend’s side. They hadn’t seen much of each other during the progress, both preoccupied with other things. Lore with her betrothed’s apparent possession, Alie with diplomacy and catching up with friends. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Alie’s face was drawn into resolute lines, her delicate chin tilted up. She didn’t look at Lore, though she briefly reached out and squeezed her arm. All her attention was fixed on Bastian. “I heard where you’re going. I’m coming with you.”
The Sainted King arched a brow. “Why would you want to do that, Alie?” A flinty tone to his voice, almost suspicious. The sun climbed in the windows, bright and unencumbered by clouds. “I didn’t think there was much love lost between you and Severin.”
“There isn’t, but he’s my father,” she replied. There was no real emotion in the emphasis; it was there for its own sake, underpinning her argument.
Bastian’s brow rose farther, picking up on the lack of warmth in her tone. “A fact that has not engendered in you any deep emotion before.” He placed his own meticulous emphasis there. Fact came out like it should be part of a question.
“And it doesn’t now.” Alie crossed her arms, sighed. “But the man is useless with the actual running of an estate. I don’t have high hopes that the paperwork at Courdigne has been kept in order as it should be, and since it will someday be my estate, I have an interest in making sure such things are seen to.”
“You know I’d take care of that.”
“Yes, but I’d really like to see it done myself.” Alie straightened her shoulders, prepared for war. “I was planning to visit soon anyway; I simply thought traveling together would be more efficient.”
Bastian’s lip quirked; then his eyes closed, as if stricken with a sudden pain. When they opened, they were softer.
Softer, and maybe a little bit afraid.
