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—Caldienan proverb
The tour took most of the day, because Lore was very, very good at being annoying. After the gardens it was the mews, not empty like Lore had anticipated, but full of livestock that, apparently, Severin Bellegarde was taking care of on his own. She felt a surge of begrudging respect, but it was snuffed out when he kicked aside a goat who’d come to investigate the newcomers. The goat didn’t seem fazed, but Lore made a show of petting it anyway, even though the poor thing smelled awful. She made Bellegarde tell her the name of every single goat, and tell her which ones had sired them, tracing out little goat family trees until the man’s face was nearly purple with rage. Through it all, Apollius lounged in Bastian’s body, a small, knowing smile playing around his mouth.
After the mews, the stables, where Bellegarde seemed less resentful of his new animal husbandry duties. Only three horses remained there, though there was room for four times that many. Bastian petted one of them gently, and it made Lore think of Horse, of Bastian’s strange tenderness for the not-dead beast.
Apollius wouldn’t give a shit about an undead horse.
When the shadows grew long—when some of the tension in Bastian’s shoulders eased—Lore finally excused herself from the tour, claiming tiredness and wanting to clean up before dinner. Bellegarde grumbled that dinner would be no fine affair, but she gave him some inane response about tradition anyway, and pulled at Bastian’s arm as she moved toward the manor house. He followed easily behind.
When they were inside and safely in their rooms, she turned to him with her hands on her hips. “Bed. Sleep.”
“Can’t.” But he sat on the end of the bed anyway, sinking into its softness. “Gotta talk to Bellegarde tonight.”
“You have all night for that—you’re his King, you can summon him whenever.” She pointed imperiously to a pillow. “Take some time to rest first, Bastian.”
He looked at the bed. He looked at her. “Are you coming?”
And she was tempted, thinking of the garden, the arbor, what came before Apollius did. But she shook her head. “I should go find Alie. Make sure she’s doing as well as she can.”
“Where’s she been all day?” Despite his protestations that he shouldn’t waste this time when his mind was mostly his own, Bastian eased back onto the bed, his eyes fluttering closed and then open again, as if he had to fight against the pull of sleep. “Haven’t seen her.”
Even when the tour had diverted from the grounds and into the manor, the last hour before the sun began to blessedly set, they hadn’t run into Alie. Lore wasn’t sure if that was by the other woman’s design, or if maybe Bellegarde had purposefully bypassed the places he thought she might be. Father and daughter had barely spoken to each other since they arrived.
“The reason she came was to put the estate’s matters in order,” Lore said, “so I assume she’s found a study somewhere. It seems Bellegarde has been content to let this place rot.”
“All that business with Lise.” Bastian nodded sleepily, fighting back a yawn. “Gods, my father was a prick.”
Lore wasn’t sure how that thought followed, but it certainly wasn’t a false one.
This time, when Bastian’s eyes flickered closed, they stayed that way. It didn’t take long for his breathing to even. Fighting against the god in your head was tiring work.
For him, at least.
It’s because He and I want different things.
Nyxara, Her voice still faint as the last dregs of sunlight faded from the sky.
Our methods are the same, She continued. But Our goals are not.
And I don’t suppose You’re allowed to come right out and tell me what those goals are? Lore asked, making her interior voice as irritable as possible.
Unfortunately not.
Lore rolled her eyes.
With a sigh, she started toward the door, resigned to opening every gloomy room in the damn house in order to find Alie. She had maybe an hour before dinner, and she supposed she could wait to see if Alie showed up then, but she wouldn’t bet on it. Far more likely for her friend to go to the kitchens for a plate of leftovers late in the night, when her mind swam up from whatever work she’d found long enough to realize she was hungry.
Her hand landed on the door handle, cold against her scarred palm. But then Lore turned, walked back to the bed and the sleeping King sprawled across it. She bent, kissed his forehead.
“For what it’s worth,” she whispered, as though he’d just said the words moments ago instead of last night, “I love you, too.”
Part of her wondered if he could hear, deep in his dreaming, if he’d give her the corner of a smile that let her know her voice had landed home. But when Bastian’s mouth moved, it was in a snore, and he turned away from her to burrow into a pillow.
Lore rolled her eyes again and went to find Alie.
She assumed the rooms on their floor were all bedrooms, so Lore grabbed a candelabra from its place on the wall—shaped like the Bleeding God’s Heart, of course—and started up the side staircase. Night had fallen with unseasonable haste, coating the sparse windows in darkness, and Lore moved slowly so that the candles wouldn’t burn out. Hot wax dropped onto the back of her hand; she cursed and wiped it on her skirt.
“Would it kill the man to light some of these damn lamps?” she muttered to herself, knowing even as she did that Bellegarde probably couldn’t afford the fuel. She couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him. That’s what happened when you were a seditious theocrat.
