Barthl is standing outside, thin lips pinched like he’s stepped in something ripe. “I am to escort you to the lesser reception gallery,” he sniffs. “Asexpedientlyas possible.”
When I arrive, Adalbrecht is pacing outside the doors. He all but winches my arm around his and throws the doors open, marching us inside.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he thunders. “My littlesnowdrophasn’t been feeling well.”
There are murmurs of sympathy from the nobles crowded into the claustrophobic little gallery. It was already overstuffed with tempera portraits of the Reigenbachs clustered on the walls, and statues of them jammed into every corner and alcove, as if we might have forgotten who owns Minkja; now there are even more bodies packed in here.
I recognize most of the faces from the von Eisendorf party. There’s also a face I know too well: Irmgard von Hirsching, still precious and hollow as a porcelain doll.
“Oh, dearest Gisele, how dreadful,” she simpers, bustling over to us in a gown of wildly ostentatious gold satin. “Isoadmire your courage, coming to greet us in such a state.”
For absolutely no reason whatsoever, I think about the knife in my boot. And the bottle of arsenic in my vanity. And the golden chain she’s wearing around her neck—if you don’t have your own garotte, you can always borrow a friend’s.
“Anything for you, Irmgard,” I say.
Adalbrecht abruptly drags me toward the wall of official portraits. There’s a plain sheet draped over a frame on the wall, obscuring a painting I haven’t seen before. It is . . . conspicuously larger than the portrait of Adalbrecht’s parents. “I have another surprise for you,pet. Everyone! Your attention!”
He alreadywasthe center of attention, so there’s an awkward little shuffle as everyone tries to look even more interested somehow.
“My loyal subjects, you have the honor of being the first to see our official portrait.”
I have just enough time to think,I don’t remember sitting for a portrait, before Adalbrecht whips away the sheet. My jaw drops. A collective uncomfortable inhalation whiffs through the room.
Certain artistic liberties have been taken. For one, I sincerely doubt Adalbrecht actually posed on a pile of dead enemy soldiers with three howling wolves against the full moon; for another, the painter has beenextremelygenerous with Adalbrecht’s breeches, particularly the suggestion of his, er,weysserwurst. The most prominent dead soldier at Adalbrecht’s feet also bears an uncanny resemblance to the portrait of his father a foot away.
You know,subtle.
The crowning glory is that thereisa platinum blonde clinging to Adalbrecht’s arm, but it very clearly isn’t me. Or, rather, not the image of theprinzessin. The body is detailed enough, outrageous curves in gauzy white silk that borders on indecently translucent. The face, though . . . to call it a rush job would require more charity than I dispensed in Lähl yesterday. It looks closer to the self-portraits Gisele tried to draw as a child, a nose like an anemic carrot pressed against
her face, lumpy folded ham slices for lips, the eyes positively crooked.
“Incredible,” I breathe, with complete and perfect sincerity.
But when I look out to the assembled guests, I find Irmgard’s face twisted with pure, seething fury. Then it’s sucked under like a spider drowned in icing.
Adalbrecht makes me stand around while he extracts admiration from his audience, arm linked through mine like a bolt in a shackle. All I have to do is smile vacantly while he prattles on to some count or other, so I let my eyes wander.
They land on a painting from Adalbrecht’s childhood. He stands between his two older brothers, looking remarkably sullen for a boy of seven. It’s downright inspirational, the way the artist has managed to capture his blend of entitlement and constipation at such a tender age.
Something seems off, though. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Once we have a break in fawning vassals, I say under my breath, “Darling, do the von Hirschingsreallyhave to stay until the wedding? Irmgard is such a tiresome little gossip.”
Adalbrecht’s mouth pinches. “Yes, they’re staying. They’re guests in my castle. Don’t let me hear you speak ill of them again.”
Then he marches me over to a knot of women clustered around Irmgard, all perched on settees and ottomans, and discards me like a soiled napkin.
Ugh. Well, if I have to put up with Irmgard, at least I don’t have to be sober for it. I lift a goblet ofglohweinfrom a passing tray and sink onto the only open settee, which is unfortunately beside Irmgard.
“So,” I say in tones of utmost scandal, “whatwas Anna von Morz even doing in that hat last week?”
“Exactly what I want to know.” Irmgard launches into a spirited condemnation. I’m barely listening, only offering an occasional nod.
Why does Adalbrecht care about the von Hirschings? For the von Falbirgs, the answer was simple: They needed the trade route that passes first through Hirsching territory, then through Sovabin. But the von Hirschings and the von Reigenbachs have a mutually parasitic relationship. Very few goods come through Hirsching territory without stopping in Minkja first. There’s no need to suck up to them.
And if I’m being honest . . . well, it’s not that Emeric’s words stuck with me, so much as one very outlandish theory of his: whynachtmärenare suddenly sprouting in Minkja like daisies.
“Where did you get it, Gisele?” Irmgard’s voice barges into my thoughts.
