“. . . painted overmy face.”
“It was necessary,” Adalbrecht rumbles as a halo of candelabra light waxes across the carpet. I hear the scrape of a key in a lock, then the door hinges, and the light moves out of the hall, into the study.
I take my hand off Emeric’s mouth before it gets distracting. Not that it would. It’s just that I feel it every time he exhales, and that’s . . .
Distracting, a pesky voice says. I shove the idea away and let the closet door ease open a little farther.
“That was supposed to beourportrait,” Irmgard whines from inside the study. “When you fix it, everyone’s going to think it was just redone for me.”
“I need to keep up appearances. Now, do you actually have an update from your father, or are you here to complain about a painting?”
I hear Irmgard huff. “We’re a little confused, and hoping you can clarify: Are you going to kill Gisele or not?”
“I’ll remind you, our original timeline . . .concludessometime the week after the wedding. I won’t have the von Falbirgs trying to contest the legitimacy.”
Emeric shifts beside me, and I can nearly hear him silently cursing that there isn’t enough room to dig out his notes.
“You were willing to kill her Thursday.”
Ire pushes more thorns through Adalbrecht’s voice. “Don’t try your games with me, girl. You told me yourself Gisele’s wearing some kind of illusion. A stand-in could play her part through the wedding easily enough.”
Now I’m the one silently cursing. At least it hasn’t occurred to them that it already happened a year ago.
“I acted because her behavior was growing erratic,” Adalbrecht continues. “She’s course-corrected since. We’ll go back to the original plan.”
There’s a tense little pause. I can hear the honeyed bite in Irmgard’s voice. “I hope you aren’t growing soft on her,Markgraf.”
She’s baiting him, as deranged an idea as that may be. But Adalbrecht knows better, or he doesn’t care, because his answer is a cold, flat, “I am not.”
“Then I really don’t understand the delay. The decree’s already signed, and my father—”
“The damnedkoboldis protecting her, or she’d already be dead. Every hearth in the castle may as well be her guard dog.”
(I owe Poldi an entire cellar of mead, apparently.)
Irmgard’s voice rises. “I’m sorry, I thought we were in CastleReigenbach. The little goblin should answer to you.”
An uncomfortable silence. Then Adalbrecht says shortly, “She formally acknowledged thekoboldbefore I did.”
Too close to me, Emeric breathes, “Oh,awkward.”
“Then fix it,” Irmgard sniffs. “My father is not in the business of investments that don’t pay out.”
“It’s going to be resolved after I deal with the prefects.” Adalbrecht sounds like his patience is running perilously low. “I have no desire to keep her alive past the wedding night, and the Wolfhünden are standing by if opportunity arises in the next week.”
There’s a flicker of shadow in the narrow strip of visible hallway.
Then, to my surprise, I see a sleeve inch into sight—the sleeve of a servant uniform.
Barthl is creeping close to the study door. I think he came from the servant corridor.
What ishedoing here?
“Do you absolutely need the wedding night?” Irmgard pries.
“I won’t have another for a while,” Adalbrecht answers. “You’ll have to forgive me my indulgences.”
Saints and martyrs, of all the things to listen to a few yards away while I’m jammed in a cramped linen closet with a boy who smells— ugh,yes, distractingly—of juniper. It doesn’t help that he makes the exact same muffled noise of disgust I do at “indulgences.”
