Page 145 of A Sea of Fate and Starfire

His mouth clamped tight enough it may as well have been sewn shut. He was fighting his blood, battling the compulsion to answer me.

“Never mind,” I said, tossing my pen on the table with a sigh, my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. Whether Kazimir was in love or not wouldn’t get me any further to Selena and Thaan.

He released a gush of air, his heel relaxing to the floor. “Are we finished for the day?”

“Yes.” I felt like I was circling an answer I couldn’t see. Like tracks in the snow that ended without reason. Like someone had lifted the answer off its feet and thrown it across the world before I could reach the end of the trail.

“Selena,” he echoed. “Like a moon.”

“Yes.” I kneaded my brows, suddenly tired. A snore divided the room; Leal’s mouth now hung open, the rim of his teeth visible.

“What does she look like?”

I clicked my tongue. “Dark hair, blue eyes. She was with us in Rivea.”

“Among a thousand others.”

“And with the dozen of us that traveled back.”

“The miles in which I was dragged behind a horse and then stuffed into a prisoner cart?” He scoffed. “I wasn’t looking at anyone’s faces.”

“There’s a painting of her in her quarters,” I said, the image flashing into my mind. A small portrait, perhaps the size of a book, lines creased in the canvas as if it had been folded and handled often. It had appeared after Thaan had locked me in my glass box and then fled the palace. I harbored a small suspicion it had belonged to Pheolix, that he’d kept it close during his years as a blood servant. “She’s much younger in it, I think, but she still looks the same. All Naiads look young.”

I glanced up to find him looking at me oddly, as if I’d just asked him to describe his appearance, and he’d suddenly realized he didn’t know. His brows furrowed softly, his gaze shifting left and right like he was reading the room as a letter, though I don’t think he saw the room at all.

“Do you think you might recognize her?” I asked. It seemed unlikely. So much so, I hadn’t even thought to ask until now. Kazimir was Rivean, born and raised in the far north, and Selena had spent the last thirty-five years here in Calder.

“I’m not sure,” he said, almost in a whisper.

A throaty snore rattled from Leal. He twisted in the chair, rolling onto his side, legs haphazard over the armrest. Then settled again.

I stole a glance at the sky.

Everyone would be returning soon. But for now, Selena’s apartment was empty. Kye would grumble if he knew I’d left this apartment with the Rivean prisoner.

But Kye wasn’t here, and we would be fast.

I stood, Kazimir tracking the movement like a hound. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to see it,” I answered, voice soft to avoid waking Leal. “Come with me.”

“Turn around.”

I waited until Kazimir’s back aimed at me before fishing Selena’s key from the dancing crane. Then leaned into the door, listening for the scuff of feet or the ventilation of lungs or the beating of any hearts. But only silence unfolded from the gap over the threshold. Empty, muted silence.

The iron lock gulped the blade of the key, my wrist twisting it open. It gave a small jump as it unlatched, the door swinging in without my pushing it. I pursed my lips, releasing a small wind.

It was dark. The apartment had been empty all day, the sconces unlit. I reached for the nearest one, striking flint into flame, waiting for the dancing glow to light the room and hoping we wouldn’t have to turn over the entire apartment to find the small painting. But it only took a few seconds before my eyes caught the shadow of a pleated canvas on Selena’s oak table.

“Here,” I said, unfolding it with care. Cracks in the oil paint lined the creases like gossamer strands. Faint fingerprints gilded the edges of the frayed canvas, locked inside the tiny bumps and grooves of the fabric. I waved Kazimir back to the sconce light, offering the portrait out to him.

“Oh,” he breathed, the tick of his heart staggering a beat. His mouth lingered open, and a long pause stretched between us before he closed it and swallowed. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” I agreed, studying him.

His hands held the portrait with something close to awe, and he swallowed a second time, blinking hard against the flood of buttery light. “And this painting belongs to?”

“Pheolix.” I gestured to Thaan’s old apartment through the adjoining office before remembering he didn’t even sleep there anymore. “Her cordae. He’s a drone.”